Backseat By Judy Nyairo

 A bump, and my sister’s leg hits mine.

“Move your leg,” I tell her. Mary ignores me, instead staring out the window and at the countryside that surrounds us on all sides. In all fairness, it really is a breath-taking view – closer to us, grass that surely must be fake it is so vivid rushes by us, occasionally dotted with black-and-white cows gnawing on it or the odd chicken. They all appear almost to be a blur. Farther into the distance, mountains reach into the sky, breaking through the clouds like a fist smashing through a barrier. The sun peers down through the gap, casting its heavenly light on all blessed enough to receive it. Houses dot the lush environment, little cottages either white and pristine or covered in sprawling ivy.

Tranquility radiates from this place, but I feel none of it. Instead of frolicking about in the shining sun and languishing in the rushing river, I am squashed into the backseat of a small car with my sister and my parents. Whatever possessed them to drag us into a road trip across the country, I have no idea, but even though we fought tooth and nail to be spared of this torture, we were obviously unsuccessful. So now, here we are, two constantly bickering children in the back and two weary parents in the front.

“I said, move your leg,” I tell Mary, and this time, I kick at her. She whips around from the window, glaring, and kicks back before ramming her foot into her earlier position. We devolve into an all-out war, jabbing and hitting any part of each other we could reach. I’m ready to throw myself at her, and I’m sure she is too, but our father turns and we stop in our tracks.

“Do you want this car to crash?” He asks menacingly, and we both shake our heads silently. Now is when I notice our mother, who is sitting at the wheel. She’s never seemed so harried in her life, and I think I see a bead of sweat trickle its way down her forehead and onto the black seat underneath her. I swear I see her eye twitch. I’d say I don’t blame her – I wouldn’t want to be trapped in a hot, cramped car with me and my sister, either – but then again, she was the one to suggest this, so all the blame really is on her.

After the small fight, we all fall into a tense silence. Meanwhile, the scenery outside is as quaint as ever, with rolling hills and fresh flowers aplenty. The calm and peacefulness of the quickly passing countryside is a stark contrast to the tension in the car. I pull my legs into my chest and try to stare at Mary without her noticing.

Thankfully, it isn’t very hard. Mary, who is two years younger than I am, can be very oblivious at times. Her arm shifts and her sleeve rides up, revealing a sliver of untanned skin. We have the same pale complexion, but that is where our similarities end. I like to think that we are complete opposites – where my hair is dark and curly, hers is pin-straight and the kind of

blonde you think you would only see in American high school movies. As I watch, she bats some of it out of her face as the wind blows it back in front of her eyes, which are a dark brown and fixed on the shifting environment outside. She doesn't wear glasses like I do, a fact she teases me about constantly.

Our personalities couldn’t be more different, either. I tend to keep to myself, especially at school. I stick with my one or two friends, and when I get home, I immediately lock myself in my room and burrow underneath the covers. Mary, meanwhile, is a complete social butterfly, able to make connections with anyone if she puts her mind to it. The teachers love her so much, and in the same breath, they relegate me to only ‘Mary’s sister’.

It’s like Mary is the sun, and I’m the moon, doomed to forever bask in the light she gives me.

It’s a little dramatic, but it’s true. Those mountains, standing so tall, but are cast into darkness? They are like me, jagged and rough, while Mary is like the gentle, sloping hills that are bathed in sunlight and teeming with life.

Unable to look at her anymore, I break my gaze away from her and find my next target, my mother. She has the same golden locks as my sister, though they are much more well-kept. In the afternoon light, her hair glows, and she looks like an angel for all of three seconds before the light moves off her, and she returns to being just my mother, in all of her worn-out glory.

It’s kind of a new thing, the constant state of stress my mother’s been living in. Before, she smiled big and laughed even bigger, her guffaws reverberating around the house. She always came into our rooms just before we went to bed, hugging and kissing us before shutting the door quietly behind her. She was a very physical person, loving to give out affection as much as she loved to receive it.

But all these things about her, all these things that make her my mom, disappeared at some point in the last few months without a trace. Her smile that once split her face from ear to ear now looks so brittle it might break at the slightest inconvenience, and her laughs are quick and fleeting and it takes twice as much effort to coax one out of her. She’s been absent from my room for weeks now, but I’ve never brought it up, even though I miss her warm hand on my cheek and her soft kiss on my forehead. She just looks sad, and I have no idea why or what I can do to make it better.

I do have a theory of what’s causing it, though. Our walls aren’t the thickest, so though my parents strive to keep the volume low, I can still hear their agitated voices until well into the night. Sometimes I hear a door slam, but those moments are few and far in between. Still, I always notice the absence of my father at breakfast the next morning, and I know my mother or Mary don’t miss it either. We always eat in silence when he’s gone.

Whatever is going on between them, it’s affecting my father too. His hair, dark like mine, is becoming increasingly streaked with silver, and the wrinkles around his eyes and forehead have become more pronounced. His temper has been unusually short lately, snapping at either Mary

or I at the drop of a hat. It’s tiring, having to walk on eggshells around him. It’s tiring having to walk on eggshells around every member of my family, really.

My parents probably suggested this road trip to bring us all closer together. It was obviously failing – we were all packed into our little corners of the car, ignoring each other as if we were strangers, my mother and father trying to be the perfect textbook couple. I know it’s all an act.

They might try to pretend, but I’m not stupid. I know they’ll probably get a divorce soon.

Suddenly overcome by emotion, I turn my head to the window I’ve been leaning against for nearly four hours. At some point, the sun withdrew behind the clouds, covering us all in their shadow. There’s no light to set my mother’s hair ablaze, no light for Mary to project onto me. All that’s left is the melancholy remains of a beautiful day coming to an end.

I may not want to admit it, but I’m scared. I don’t know when, but in the next week, month or year, my family may become unrecognizable. I may be jealous of my little sister, I may hold a grudge against my father and I may feel bottomless pity for my mother, but they’re all still my family. I can’t part with them, no matter how much I tell myself that I want to.

As the first droplets of rain hit the window and drip down to the bottom, I pull myself even closer together and lay my head onto my arms. Even by the end of this road trip, we may not be the same as when we left.