Coming home is one of the best parts of vacation — unless you can’t open the front door.
After 12 hours of traveling, my family arrived home at midnight only to discover that although we could open the garage door, we were locked out of our house.
Does it matter who lost the key? No, not really. (I only say that because it was me.) Pointing fingers doesn’t help anyone when it’s 36 degrees outside and the clock is ticking closer and closer to 1 a.m. Am I right?
At least the garage was warm. Unfortunately, it reeked of garbage. Before we’d left on vacation there was so much snow that the garbage truck hadn’t come for two weeks straight, and we’d been squirreling away the overflow.
“The key’s got to be here somewhere,” said my husband as he ransacked suitcases on the driveway. “Are you sure it’s not in your purse?”
“Positive.” I checked every zippered compartment for the sixth time. “What about shorts? Maybe it’s in someone’s pocket.”
My husband stared down at the mass of dirty laundry he was sorting through in our roller bag. “You keep checking the clothes, I’ll go look for the hide-a-key in the back yard.”
“You’ll never find it!” I wailed. “I hid the spare key in a fake rock 10 years ago. It’s probably buried under three feet of mulch by now.”
“I’ll go check, just in case.” My husband switched on the flashlight app on his phone.
“Mom?” Our 9-year-old daughter poked her head out of the car. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You can pee in the back yard,” said my husband. “Pretend we’re camping.”
My hands were numb with cold as I pawed through dirty clothes. Swimsuits, sundresses, floppy hats — our Hawaii wardrobe mocked me. I looked across the driveway toward our tent trailer and wondered if we should pop it up. But that would take at least 30 minutes, and it would be colder than the garage until we could turn on the heater.
Then I remembered that our camp bedding was stored in the garage. I pulled out two giant comforters. By the time my daughter came back, she and her brother each had a fluffy duvet to snuggle with in the SUV.
My husband returned from the back yard empty handed. “Go climb in the car and stay warm while I keep looking,” he said.
I pulled up the hood of my flimsy windbreaker. “We should call your mom. She has an extra key to our house.”
“Good idea,” said my husband.
“Tell her I’m an idiot,” I added, feeling horrible that my in-laws would have to drive out from Snohomish at 1 a.m. to rescue us.
I gathered the emergency blanket from the back of my car, found a space in the back of my Subaru, and tried to sleep without gagging on the smell of garbage. The sweet scent of Maui was a distant memory.
Aloha, family. Welcome home from vacation.
Jennifer Bardsley publishes books under her own name and the pseudonym Louise Cypress. Find her online on Instagram @the_ya_gal, on Twitter @jennbardsley or on Facebook as The YA Gal. Email her at teachingmybabytoread@gmail.com.
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