The Middle

By Zach Murphy

Dad’s driving. The 1998 Volvo station wagon. Everything is on his mind but the road. My older sister sits up front. She’s going off to college at the University of Minnesota. I’ve never seen her smile this much. She looks thrilled to be leaving Nebraska. I’m stuck in the backseat between my mom and my younger brother, sitting on the grape juice stain and the potato chip crumbs that no one has ever had the time to clean up. My brother always claims the window seat, otherwise he gets motion sickness. He’s puked on me no less than five times since he’s been on this planet. My mom keeps wiping tears from her eyes before they have the opportunity to traverse the freckles of her cheeks. I think she’s afraid my sister will never come home again.

Mom’s driving. The 2005 Honda Civic. Her jaw is clenched and she’s focused on the road. I’m riding in the passenger seat. My younger brother is in the back. Mom is taking us to my Dad’s apartment for the weekend. My brother doesn’t seem to mind bouncing back and forth between the two places. He’s always in his own universe. I’m having a difficult time picking my frown up from the sandy car mat. My brother points at me and asks, why is he always sad? Mom takes a moment to search for the right response. I can see the wheels spinning. She snaps open her mouth and looks at my brother through the rearview mirror. He’s sad because he’s not happy, she says. It isn’t an inaccurate assessment, I suppose. Mom always does her best. That’s her best quality. Dad? I can’t say the same about him.

I’m driving. The 1998 Volvo station wagon. The rusted vessel was passed on to me. It runs on oil fumes and hope. There’s no one else in the car but my thoughts, a trunk packed with memories, and a hood full of uncertainty. I’m a middle child in the middle lane of a highway in the middle of America, dashing between two jobs because one just isn’t enough, shifting between medications that may or may not work, and being yanked between two parents who wince at the sound of each other’s names. The term “middle-aged” freaks me out. How do you truly know when you’re middle-aged or not? I could be middle-aged right now. I’m twenty years old and this could be the halfway point of my life. Maybe less than half. You never know. I’m drifting somewhere between being awake and being asleep. The Volvo veers into the left lane, and I quickly swerve back into the dotted lines. I pull over to the shoulder of the highway. It’s the only one I have to lean on right now. I turn on the emergency lights. I climb over the tattered console and sit in the middle of the backseat. The grape juice stain is still there. I close my eyes, then fold in on myself. Traffic speeds by, unbothered.