The last suitcase just wasn’t the right shape. It had soft sides and I squeezed it everywhere, trying to make it fit. Finally, I managed to wedge it between the cooler and the small television my wife insisted on bringing along. I don’t think another thing could have fit; the car was packed to the roof. I dreaded the thought of having to drive with the whole mess starring at me with contempt in the rear-view mirror.

The middle seat of the station wagon was every bit as packed. The girls were snuggled in almost as tightly as that last suitcase. My daughters, Ann and Samantha, sat in the respective places they always chose. Ann behind me and Sam behind her mother, the two children nestled behind their parents just as they should be. Their routines were almost as firmly set as my wife’s and mine. Pillows and blankets, video games, snacks surrounded them—the things they absolutely swore they wouldn’t be able to live without for one single day. I even managed to get them to throw in a few books on top of the enormous pile. “Daddy!” they whined in unison at the suggestion. But, despite the looks of disgust and incomprehension, they managed to bring a few out to the car in their last trip from the house. Anyway, the pair was really quite a sight to behold, buried in those seats the way they were. Caterpillars settling into their cocoons. I couldn’t help letting out a little chuckle.

Of course, my wife wasn’t much better; she was packed into her seat too. Some of the things she brought along were just as ridiculous as the girls—her cookbook, her monthly planner, and of course that stupid TV. I didn’t bother to challenge her choices. There was no point.

She came out of the garage at that very moment carrying an armful of maps and tables that would have made a cartographer proud. Wrapped up and bundled in her arms—a Rand-McNally road atlas was too much ask—she insisted on bringing the maps herself, hand selected and chosen.

I stared at the jumbled mess in disbelief. “Do we really need all those maps?” I made the mistake of asking.

“Better safe than sorry,” she stated and stared at me incredulously. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, do you?”

I rolled my eyes and twisted my face up into one of those human pretzels contortionists are always doing. I needed to make myself laugh.

She just gave me a blank stare in return. “What?”

“Do you always have to answer my question with another question?”

She looked at me for a moment and answered, “If I ask you a question you spend your time figuring out an answer and completely forget about the question you asked me. How’s that for an answer?”

She gave me one of those cutesy little smiles that made her look like she had no lips. I smiled at the fact that that particular argument wouldn’t go any farther than that. Small victories.

“We’re going to the exact same place we’ve always gone, we’re traveling the same roads, we’re stopping at the same places…”

She interrupted me with another one of those smiles, except this time it said, “Yeah, well, I’m bringing them anyway.”

She was absolutely sure I would get us all lost. No, not just lost, but hopelessly lost. It was the little things like this that bothered me the most about our relationship. She was completely ignorant about them. Most of the time she never understood, or ever realized, that I was even the slightest bit offended. We continued on, struggling against the currents of our relationship, hoping all would turn out okay.

I climbed into the station wagon, fastened my seat belt, and backed the car out of the driveway. Another family vacation had arrived, two weeks I always anticipated, but never really looked forward to. Every year, in the middle of June, we loaded up the car and made the trip to our time-share outside Aspen. Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered staying married. But the vacation was two weeks away from home, two weeks to try and recapture that sense of adventure I had lost somewhere in all the traffic.

The headlights reflected off the windows of the garage door as it slowly closed on the spreading darkness. On the western horizon sits a small, thin strip of dazzling orange sky that marks the line of travel to my destination. Aspen lies somewhere between here and there.

My wife had grown up spending her vacations in Colorado with her family. After we were married she simply assumed the tradition would continue. And it did. I had nothing against it. We went, and I did my best to enjoy myself. The first few years were great. But lately it all seems extremely fake to me. We see the exact same things, the same events, the same people. To put it bluntly, I’m bored with the whole damn thing. Every year it’s all the same. The same restaurants, the same shops, the same people. Hell, for that matter, the same mountains, the same trout streams, the same pine trees. All the same.

Those early years in Aspen were fun though. I remember one time in particular. My wife and I ate lunch at a corner bar that served iced tea with orange peels in it. I loved it; she hated it. “It tastes like acid,” she said. I smiled. It was a beautiful day and that had been the only thing my wife and I had disagreed about all morning. She did all her shopping and I tagged along, enjoying her company.

“What do you think of this dress?”

“It’s okay… but it makes you butt look kind of wide.” I smiled when she contorted her face all around to try and humor me. She had her moments when she was almost perfect.

“Well, the dress or the sweater, you choose.” Early in our marriage, she actually cared about my opinion.

“Better go with the sweater,” I said, “besides you look good in green.”

She smiled and bounced off in search of a clerk. The silliest things made her happy. And if she was happy, at that point, I was happy too.

I pulled onto the Interstate and set the cruise at seventy. The sun had set and I was glad I didn’t have to drive straight into the fiery mass. Between our house and our western destination, few things of consequence appear to reside. But the landscape provides an awesome backdrop for a summer sunset.

We decided to try driving at night this year. We thought it would be easier on all of us. I hoped driving would be peaceful with the three of them asleep. All humanity was somehow lost when the four of us were confined in a small space. We got so frustrated with each other that we didn’t care where we were going; we just wanted to get there quickly. The windows became our only means of escape, the only place we could dream. More often than not, all the pillows we always brought along were erected as barriers to keep Ann and Sam from each other’s throats. Their fighting was really no different than ours, simple, ridiculous things blown out of proportion and left in such a way that we prayed for outside intervention.

The other cars on the road all passed me by like I was standing still. I smirked as they went flying passed; my wife didn’t seem to notice. “Daddy, can we stop at McDonald’s and get some fries?”

“Sure Sam, we’re still about a half an hour from McDonald’s though.”

“That’s okay.”

“There’s also a rest area a few miles ahead,” my wife said in a soft voice, “I could use a pit stop.”

“We’re only thirty minutes from McDonald’s,” I told her.

My girls were born seventeen minutes apart on a cold, dark March morning. I remember the way the sky had looked so lonely to me the night before, when I drove my wife to the hospital. The air was dead still and the few stars that were visible from within the city were subdued and vacant. Looking back now, Ann and Sam were the only two things that kept my wife and me together.

A year later my wife had an affair. I caught her in our bed with the TV reporter from down the street. I didn’t really know what to do when I caught them. I just ran out of the house and went back to work, trying to forget the image and the horrible smell.

Later, she apologized—if that’s even possible—and acted embarrassed and regretful. I never have forgiven her for it. I decided that it was in our best interest to just go on with our lives. So we did. Besides, I had to think about my girls. But, I have to say, it makes it harder than hell to watch the 10:00 news at night.

“Steve, I’m so sorry. It’ll never happen again. I don’t know what I was thinking. I got caught up in the moment and forgot about…”

“Forgot?” I interrupted.

She looked at me in despair and started crying.

That night, I went into the girls’ room, lay down on the floor between their cribs, and cried myself to sleep. I’ve often wondered who cried more that night, the girls or me. The funny thing is, I can’t remember either one of them crying ever since.

Our relationship was never quite the same after that. It wasn’t really any worse; it was just different. My wife and I never talked any further about what happened, never spoke about fixing what was wrong: we just went on with our lives. I went back to work like nothing happened and she stayed at home, watched TV, and talked to her friends. It wasn’t worth destroying our lives. The girls deserved better. I guess that was the one thing we agreed on.

After the affair, Ann and Samantha became my life. I focused all my attention on providing for my girls. I fought for promotions, worked extra hours, did my best to make sure my girls had everything they could ever want or need. Not only did it increase my annual salary but it gave me a good excuse to spend more time at work and away from my relationship with my wife. I quickly went from middle management to top-level brass. I didn’t care really, work was work. The only extra pleasure I got from it was the extra respect my wife gave me. She loved to brag to all her friends that her husband was a big-time vice-president downtown.

“Yeah, Steve’s working really hard for the company—they made him a vice-president, you know,” she’d squawk on the phone at night. She managed to squeeze that in every time she got the chance. For those few months, every time she mentioned it to someone I got a small kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t much and it certainly didn’t last long.

I pulled into McDonald’s and my wife beat everyone out of the car. She raced inside so quickly I had to laugh. For some strange reason, I enjoyed her minor suffering.

The girls managed to untangle themselves from their cocoons of blankets and pillows and held my hands as we walked in. The three of us were a happy family.

“It feels funny going to McDonald’s this late!” Sam shrieked. I looked at my watch; it was 9:30.

“What can we get, Dad?”

“Anything you want Ann.”

“Anything?”

“Anything… as long as you eat it all.” The girls’ eyes were almost as big as those golden arches.

My life seemed to be taking a long time in the bathroom. Lord only knows what she might be doing in there. We ordered, got our food, and found a place to sit without her.

“We went ahead and ordered without you. We didn’t know how long you’d be” I said when she finally emerged. “Tell me what you want and I’ll go get the order for you.” I tried to be nice to my wife; I felt a little bit guilty for what I’d done and said earlier.

She looked passed me, sighed, straightened Ann’s hair and said, “No thanks.”

That pissed me off. I finished my hamburger and headed back for the car. I didn’t want to get into another argument with my wife. There was too much drama between us already. It was as if no matter what we did, nothing ever made the other happy. We were two insufferably lonely people, unable to see the loneliness in one another.

I sat there in the car enjoying the quiet for a few minutes. Cars are strange things when you sit in them and they’re not running. All that power and muscle under the hood, quiet and at peace. All that potential movement not being used.

After a few minutes my wife and the girls came out and got in the car. They all laughed and giggled at something that had been said, but didn’t bother letting me in on the joke. I started the station wagon and headed back for the Interstate. My wife’s attitude had sure changed in those few minutes. She seemed to be as happy as the girls.

The highway was somehow soothing. It didn’t argue or throw a temper-tantrum and it certainly didn’t change its attitude at the drop of a hat. I enjoy driving to Aspen every year. Sometimes I think I enjoy the drive more than the vacation.

The girls were rambunctious in the back seat, bouncing around asking questions, singing, laughing. Even my wife had an adrenaline-like rush of hyperactivity. My patience was worn thin.

[[expand tension in car here]]

“Does this car have to turn into a three-ring circus every time the four of us are packed in here?” My question fell on deaf ears, or maybe I was deaf because they sure didn’t answer. In fact, they didn’t make a sound for a few minutes. But ultimately, that didn’t last long either.

My wife leaned over toward me and whispered, “Relax, we’re on vacation for God’s sake.” I don’t know why she bothered to whisper, the girls heard every word; they thought the whole thing was hilarious.

My vacations had slowly disappeared over the years. After the girls came, our vacations, like the rest of our lives began to change. My wife and I couldn’t spend our evenings out in Aspen anymore; the girls just got too tired too fast. We spent most of our days doing our best to keep Ann and Sam entertained.

Before the girls came along I always found an afternoon or two to escape for a while. I’d go up in the mountains and hike or fish. It was a time for me to do the things I enjoyed. My wife always spent her afternoons watching soap operas on TV anyway. Besides, a little bit of time apart was good for us. We were happy this way.

As the girls got older and no longer needed their afternoon naps, it became more and more difficult for me to find time to do my own thing. No more fishing, or climbing or hiking in the mountains. No more afternoons standing midstream in a mountain river with a fly rod in my hand, searching for salvation. More and more of our attention and time was devoted to them, making sure that the vacation was the very best it could be in their eyes. Perhaps this is where my wife and I started really drifting apart, these times when we devoted all of ourselves and our time to making our children happy.

But, of course, that created even more stresses between me and my wife. We talked even less frequently, did things by ourselves even less frequently, and continued to ignore each other as much as possible. It wasn’t as if that’s what we wanted, but that certainly is what was easiest. Our lives had become much simpler, much less hectic and more focused. We didn’t really care about one another anymore; we just cared about the idea of one another.

In the backseat, I could see Samantha struggling with sleep. She was fighting, but it was winning. Her little head bounced with every crack and pothole in the road. She tried hard to finish her game, but it was no use.

My girls were growing up. I wondered how my relationship with my wife was affecting them. I wanted to explain to each of them how important they were to me. I wanted to have each of them tell me how much they loved me, if at all. I desperately wanted to say something right at that moment, to wake them up and explain how I felt, but I didn’t.

Every vibration and bump in the road was a message. I didn’t understand what exactly it was trying to say, but I did hear it. I wondered if it understood what I thought and felt, if it could sense my mood from the way I drove or from the grip of my wheels.

The pavement beneath me, still warm from the summer sun, still clinging to its sequestered heat. The painted lines guiding the way of weary travelers, channeling and pointing them in the right direction. The open road. Freedom.

I remembered the last conversation I had with my wife that I actually felt was worth a damn. She was understanding and compassionate during that talk. She reminded me so much of the woman she used to be, the woman I fell in love with. That conversation was on one of these trips. Two years ago, I think. It was late in the afternoon and the girls were both asleep.

“I wish you would learn to enjoy these vacations more,” she said. “I worry about you sometimes.”

Instantly, I wondered aloud, “Only sometimes?”

“You know what I mean,” was the only answer she offered. At least she didn’t answer my question with one of her own. “You scare me sometimes; you act like you’re going to do something drastic.”

Drastic. I’ve forgotten what that word even means. It wasn’t a word I could place.

“I hope you know that I love you,” she said rubbing the back of my neck.

“Of course I do,” I said. “Of course I do. I just sometimes wish you’d show me more often.”

She looked at me and did her best to reassure me. And for a while it worked.

A year later she announced that she wasn’t going on vacation with us that year. Vacation was a prison sentence for her. The joy of seeing new people and new places was gone. She was staying at home “because she deserved a vacation too.” I found this all extremely strange at the time; I still do – all she ever does is stay at home.

A day later she changed her mind.

All three of them were asleep. My wife sat there, crumpled to one side, with her head propped against a pillow. She looked tired and bored with the whole ordeal. Even when she slept she looked exhausted. The lines and the wrinkles in her face seemed to show even more in the headlights of the on-coming cars.

At about 4:30 a.m. I stopped at a rest area somewhere in eastern Colorado. My wife shifted in her seat a little, but was never even aware that we stopped. The girls weren’t even aware of it that much. Sometime during the night they managed to cocoon themselves into their blankets and nest into their pillows. I reached behind my wife’s seat and pulled out an extra blanket. I unfolded it and did my best to drape it over her. She would have never been happy with the job, but when was she ever?

I used the restroom and sat on a hard, wood bench in front of the station wagon. I could see my wife asleep inside. She looked cramped and uncomfortable. I felt exactly the same way. The night air was cool on my lungs, but it did little to soothe my exhaustion. I wondered aloud, “Why do you put up with me?”

I sat there for a few minutes longer trying to answer my own question. I couldn’t. I climbed back into the car and made my way back onto the road I knew so well. I wondered where it ended, if it ended at all.

Aspen lies somewhere between here and there.