Truck, Transit, and Terminal

no. 30

I sat in Leifer’s red truck on one of my last days in California. It’s a 2001 Toyota. He’ll always have it. He’s replaced the brake pads and the radio, worked on the transmission, and touched up the paint that's slowly wearing away from the salty ocean air. There’s a surfboard bumper sticker in the corner of the back window. We’ve taken road trips and gone on dates in that truck. Leifer drove me to the hospital in it when I was pregnant with Enzo, and Enzo took his first ride home in it.

Our family has outgrown the truck, but it’s still very much part of our daily life. Leif was thrilled to ride in Dad’s red truck each morning to school. Leif and Enzo get lifted into the truck bed when Leifer needs to unload tools and materials after work. When they were upset, Leifer would take them out to the truck. They could be in there for hours, pushing buttons and rummaging through its contents. Even now, I look out the window and see his red truck and instinctively think, Leifer is home. I can’t help it. After long days at home with the boys, I would eagerly wait to see that red truck pull into the driveway.

I pick up Home Depot receipts and a contractor’s pencil—flat and rectangular. There are empty water bottles from his crew in the truck bed. Leifer is always cleaning up, but not this time. He left the truck like it was just a brief absence and he’d be back soon. I turn the ignition and let it run for a bit. I think back to a conversation I had with Leif about packing up Dad’s tools.

“We’ll need to take his truck to Peru,” he said. “We can’t bring Dad’s tools on the plane.”

I feel the same. I’d love to have that red truck with us.

Leif tells me about another dream. This time he’s in a car that plunges into the water. He can’t unfasten his seatbelt. An octopus comes and eats him.

“The octopus wouldn’t eat you,” I offer gently, remembering my aunt’s advice to re-interpret the ending. “It was there to help you swim to the surface.”

I steal a quiet moment with Lucca as he settles down for a nap. We leave for Peru tomorrow. I’m not ready to leave home, but I’m eager to return to Leifer. I’m learning to hold two equally strong, opposing feelings. In the kids’ books I read, emotions have simple names and easy explanations. But life laughs at such simplicity.

Photo: Lucca with his bestie Sugar. Carly made a Sugar stuffie for him to take with us back to Peru.

The San Francisco airport is chaos. I can’t use the kiosk to check in since I’m traveling with Lucca on my lap. I’m not worried about missing the flight—I’m hoping to miss it. Carly is with us, and I let her take the lead. I’m so grateful to her and so many others who have stepped in when anxiety freezes my body.

I wonder if I’m doing the right thing going back to Peru. It doesn’t feel right in my body. Enzo woke up crying this morning. He didn’t want to get up. Then he didn’t want to leave the house. I call Leifer.

“Is this the right thing? Am I doing the right thing?”

“Yes,” he says. “Come, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

I drag myself and our bags to the gate. I slow to Enzo’s pace. I won’t rush him. I’ll be with him, and we’ll take the next step together. Leif watches me closely while I’m on the phone. I know he sees the tears streaming down my face. While I never wanted this for my children, I’m glad I’m with them.

Our trip to Peru in March was frantic. We were unpracticed travelers, and I was desperate to get to Leifer.

“It’s such a long trip,” Enzo says now. He knows—this is our third time making it.

The boys dart in and out of the crowds on their scooters. Lucca turns heads as we go by. “Look, a baby on a scooter!” I hear someone say. I feel a flicker of pride as I watch my boys navigate the airport with confidence.

We’re stocked up on Oreos, belVita crackers, gummies, and Cheez-Its. We are all wearing our Better Together shirts like a cohesive unit. We’ve packed a giant black duffel with crane trucks, the Paw Patrol fleet, and Magna-Tiles. When we land in Lima, the boys look for that black bag. They’d be willing to give up everything else—except that.

In the coming days, we’ll be working on our Peruvian papers. We’re eagerly awaiting my niece’s arrival next week, and then together we’ll head up to the mountains.

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