Getaway Girlz (2 page)

Vivian dug around in the bag, and pulled out her latest read, a good one by DeMille. She straightened herself up and flipped it open. She couldn’t concentrate though.

Bump! Vivian felt the plane move. She craned her neck to look out the window and saw the runway zooming past. She decided to close her eyes and lean forward, resting her forehead in her hands, and started perspiring.

No fiery death yet. This is good
.

She hated the feeling of being pressed into her seat. She heard the landing gear retract and listened for any abnormal sounds (like she’d know them if she heard them). She took a deep breath, and flowery seat buddy asked if she was all right. “You look a little pale,” she said.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks,” Vivian answered. Her ears popped.

Seat Buddy dug in her seat-back pocket and found the barf bag.

“Here you go, just in case.”

Vivian took it, opened it, and kept leaning.

She wished she would have arrived at the airport earlier and had a drink
or three
before boarding the plane. Vivian detested flying. She tried to distract herself from images of doom and thought about her friends who put their lives on hold for a week just for her. They were all still close, although they lived in different cities. Vivian moved to Fort Worth after college, Kate Troutman stayed in Austin, Lucy McGuire landed in Boulder and Wendy Schreiber stuck it out in the Get Down.

The four of them grew up in Pasa“Get Down”dena, a suburb southeast of Houston. The Get Down was famous, or was it infamous, for the honky-tonk Gilley’s. “Looking for Love” popped into her head, and she knew it’d be stuck there the whole way to Cancun International. Pasadena also had a propensity for refinery explosions. While the refineries had put the Get Down on the map, one day they could wipe it out completely.

Vivian had known Wendy the longest, since first grade. They lived six streets apart, and their parents had carpooled them to Brownies, dance class, you name it, they were always together. In their neighborhood it took hell (divorce) or high water (usually combined with a hurricane) to dislodge you. Vivian’s parents and Wendy’s mom still lived in the same houses. Because of the tendency to stay put, they had gone all the way through 12th grade together, adding friends along the way. That’s where Kate and Lucy came in.

In junior high Wendy and Vivian joined the band. Vivian played clarinet, and Wendy played flute. Their band director had a Fonzarelli fixation, and tried to look the part. This was inhibited by his wattle that flapped to the beat of the music as he swung his arms around conducting them. Vivian would never be able to hear Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4” and not think of his perfectly puffy hair. He had an earring hole, too, which was far out to the sixth-graders in Pasadena, Texas.

Vivian and Wendy met Lucy in sixth grade. Another band dork, she was in the drum line, which was a fraternity all its own, except she was a girl, and the only girl at that. The guys refused to call her by her first name, so they created a new one for her: Wonkita. No one knows how it came to be, but it stuck like Galveston beach tar to her heel. She was smart, fun and got great grades in science (which helped Vivian in high school!).

Kate turned the trio into a quartet in ninth grade. You know it, in band. A classic overachiever, she dominated first-chair flute, was president of everything and eventually led the band as drum major. She was a total brainiac, but the girls loved her anyway.

That band glue held them together through high school, and then Kate, Lucy and Vivian went off to Austin and the University of Texas. Wendy stayed in the Get Down and attended the community college affectionately known as “Harvard on the Highway,” then moved on to the University of Houston to finish her degree.

The plane shuddered and Vivian sat up as the PA system ding-donged. The pilot went into a spiel about how many gazillions of feet they were above the Earth, what time they should land, etc. He said they could move about the cabin (which Vivian wouldn’t do) and drinks would be served (which she would do). She looked around for the flight attendant and fanned herself with the barf bag.

Might as well use it for something
.

WHILE SHE waited for her first frosty beverage, Vivian thought about college. Life was so much simpler. No kids, no soon-to-be ex-husband, no mortgage. Her biggest worry had been making it to her 9:00 class in semi-clean clothes.

Lucy and she had been roommates in Austin, which worked out great for Vivian since Lucy was an OCD neat freak; and she, a creative mess. Their apartment was always pristine except for Lucy’s cat, Fredericka, who never grasped the litter box concept. Her spastic tail would undo the entire purpose of using the litter box, and she’d sling shit everywhere.

Fred was Vivian’s first and last cat.

Though she was still in Houston, Wendy would occasionally get a wild hair and head out for Austin on the spur of the moment. She would call when she was 30 minutes away to make sure Vivian and Lucy were home. If not, she let herself in with the key they left for such occasions.

Kate lived in a dorm her first couple of years at UT, and then took an apartment close to campus. Vivian and Kate’s educational paths rarely crossed, Kate being an architecture major and Vivian journalism. Though studious, Kate did occasionally embrace the party scene. Their junior year they went to a Halloween party together involving the “devil’s cauldron” conveniently full of mushroom tea. Kate adamantly refused to drink the magical brew; Vivian however, was a bit of a wild child and partook freely. The rest of that evening had been in Technicolor and the thunderstorm two hours later felt like a Pink Floyd concert on steroids.

Vivian signaled the flight attendant for a second rum and Coke and adjusted the air vents so all three blew on her. Swirly Head and Seat Buddy either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Vivian was not a good flier. Was it the lack of control over her destiny? Was it the plane crash that nearly took out Lucy’s house in high school? Whatever it was, Vivian couldn’t get on a plane without having a physical response that was quite unpleasant. Maybe she should try hypnosis? For the duration of the flight, alcohol would have to be her personal cure.

The flight attendant arrived with a mini-bottle of rum, a fresh Coke and more ice. She also handed Vivian three snack packets. Vivian ignored the hint and pushed them into the seat pocket and happily cracked open the little bottle.

These are so cute
, she thought. She wouldn’t let the flight attendant collect her empties. She liked to line them up on her tray table.

The last time the girls had been together was at Kate’s wedding, when Vivian was about ready to pop out the twins and she and Rick were doing fine, or so she thought. Lucy and Steve were fine, or so he thought. And Wendy was dating a guy named Jake who had definite potential.

Nine months later, Vivian had doubled her kid count and was on the brink of divorce. Lucy and Steve had separated, with her moving into an apartment. Wendy and Jake had gotten more serious, and Kate and Shaun were still in the lovey-dovey, honeymoon phase.

With the second drink going down Vivian began to ease up. Her knuckles were no longer white, the sweat circles on her blouse were drying, and she could unclench her jaw. She began to look forward to the next week, lying on the beach, relaxing by the pool and drinking her worries away, or at least trying to.

Vivian never expected to be divorced. Did anyone? She certainly didn’t think it would happen after four kids. Rick was an attorney. A criminal defense attorney, but still, he should have known better.

Vivian swirled her ice around, poured in the rest of the rum and added the bottle to her lineup. She let out a big sigh.
My poor kids. Will they be screwed up from this
?
Fuckin’ Rick. What kind of man does this
?
The twins aren’t even a
year
old
. Will I have a nervous breakdown
?
Isn’t that normal after something like this
?

Her mother’s side of the family was prone to the dramatic collapse. They were fainters, too.

Nah, I’m not the breakdown type
, she thought.
But I am definitely pissed
.

Two hours later and shortly after drink three arrived, the descent into Cancun began. An announcement was made about tray tables and whatnot, so she sucked down her drink while the flight attendant stared at her, holding the bag of trash. Vivian gave her the ‘just a sec’ index finger, kicked around her bag and twisted down to dig out her camera. She snapped a quick picture of her bottle collection before it hit the trash.

Vivian leaned forward and glanced out the window. Not a good idea. She needed to stick to staring at the seat back in front of her.

Damn, a landing plane makes a lot of noise
, she thought.

Death could be near
, so she did her usual silent goodbyes and added a new one. Something about various parts of Rick’s anatomy shriveling up and falling off. She then braced for the impact that never was as bad as she anticipated.

“
Bienvenidos a México
,” the flight attendant announced just as the wheels touched down. Welcome to Mexico.
Amen to that
!

The taxi to the gate was nothing, and before Vivian knew it everyone stood and began grabbing their belongings. Swirly head seemed eager to leave so she unbuckled and prepared to get up. Her Mexican vacation had officially begun.

I need to relax and enjoy this
, she thought, as she grabbed her bag from under the seat and pushed it up on her shoulder. She glanced down at her blouse. Vacation or not, the sweat circles were back.

Damn
.

Vivian wished Seat Buddy well at the wedding,
which had a 50 percent chance of failure
, and made her way off the plane. Finally free of the tin death trap, she followed the crowd toward baggage claim and more importantly,
el baño
, which was her first priority. There was a line, of course, and her three-drink bladder was not happy.

She suffered through, washed up and looked at herself in the mirror. She fluffed her hair and noticed that her dent was ultra-shiny so she rifled through her purse for her powder compact.

Vivian’s “dent” was a circular indentation in her forehead. Her friends had affectionately dubbed it her “dent.” It was not really noticeable in person, but in pictures it looked like there was a giant sunshine right in the middle of her forehead. Especially when there was a flash involved. At her wedding, Lucy smacked her dent with powder before each and every picture.

Vivian popped open the compact and bits of broken make-up fell into the sink. “Dammit, I just bought this thing.”

She was about to close it when she noticed that not only was the powder broken into pieces, but the mirror was cracked too.

Thank god Kate’s not here
, Vivian thought.
She’d be freakin’ out, going on about seven years of bad luck. No
way
I’m telling her about this
.

Kate, though smart as a whip, was mega superstitious. Her Taiwanese background lent itself to all sorts of weird good luck/bad luck scenarios and she often confused cultures. It made for an interesting belief system, that was for sure.

Vivian closed the compact and tossed it into the trash.
So much for that $18 bucks
, she thought, and walked out.

She reached the conveyor belt just as a buzzer sounded and bags came out of the shoot. Her super-sized, UT burnt orange suitcase was the last to emerge. Hook ’em! She practically needed a forklift, it was so heavy and she decided the alcohol was playing a role in this. She did tend to over pack though, especially shoes.

Next stop, Immigration. They scanned Vivian’s bag, gave her a stern look and moved her on to Customs. Vivian answered their questions appropriately. She was a U.S. citizen there on vacation. She pressed a button which highlighted a green guy walking with his luggage. Lucky break. The red light would mean an authority figure rifling through her bag looking for no-no’s. She didn’t have any of those, but she was glad to get green.

Vivian had been told on numerous occasions by her father that she had a problem with authority. Didn’t need to test that theory in a foreign country.

Ready to roll, Vivian exited the sliding glass doors and saw Wendy, Kate and Lucy standing just beyond them. Each girl had a free arm (she needed both of hers for the ginormous suitcase), and they all stretched to give her a hug.

Immediately, Vivian’s indestructible walls crumbled and the tears she had been holding back for months spilled over. Her friends circled and squeezed.

Vivian had become an all-or-nothing crier these days. She didn’t cry for a long time and then, when she did, look out! She was a sobbing machine.

This wasn’t always the case. A month ago at a co-worker’s mom’s funeral, the organ music turned on a fountain in her eyeballs. She couldn’t control herself. People turned around in the pews to look at her.

Vivian’s co-workers, who were across the church, said they could hear some poor woman bawling and wondered why she wasn’t sitting with the family. It was Vivian. And she had never met her co-worker’s mother.

In the airport, this manifestation of Vivian’s emotions worked in their favor. It kept the unruly tourist advisors (actually locals trying to get you a cab, book scuba diving, get you to visit a timeshare property), at bay.

Wendy reached into her purse and handed Vivian some tissues. The girls shuffled her to the rental car counter amid a barrage of comments.

“We’re here for you.” “He’s a fool.” “There’s no excuse.”

The rental car lady seemed eager to get them on their way. Sobbing customers were bad for business.

Lucy had reserved a piece-of-crap, economy-sized four-door, and by the time they clamored in Vivian had almost recovered. She had her best friends with her and sunshiny days were in the forecast. They turned the a/c on high (which did no good), tried for tunes on the radio (didn’t work), and pointed the car toward the wild turquoise yonder.