The Christmas Joy Ride (2 page)

A
s Miranda shoved some random clothes into a duffle bag, she knew it was insane to take this trip with Joy. Anything could—and probably would—go wrong. For starters it was mid-December, and although the weather was surprisingly mild right now, it could change at any given moment. But even if the weather did cooperate, the image of an elderly woman driving a big old motor home nearly two thousand miles—from Chicago to Phoenix—was almost laughable. Except that it wasn't funny. They could both end up dead.

Perhaps Joy, after eighty-five years of a pretty sweet life, was willing to take this kind of risk—but was Miranda? She zipped her duffle bag shut and dropped it to the floor with a thud. Really, why should she care? After the way life had kicked her in the teeth these past several years, combined with the news
that she was losing her home, well, maybe it didn't really matter if she got snuffed out in a freak motor-home accident along Route 66. She could just imagine it on the late night news—two women found frozen to death alongside Route 66. Or perhaps the out-of-control motor home had barreled over the edge of a cliff. Maybe the newscaster would compare the two women to Thelma and Louise.

As she turned out the lights and checked the thermostat, she felt guilty for imagining their unfortunate demise. When had she gotten so morose? Just last week her sister, Faye, had accused her of turning into a hopeless pessimist. Miranda hadn't even argued the point. But then Faye didn't know how it felt to be almost thirty-seven, divorced, unemployed, childless—not to mention very nearly homeless. Why shouldn't she feel negative? Fortunately, of all the people in Miranda's life, Joy seemed to understand this. And Joy's perennial optimism helped to balance things out in their relationship. Really, despite the almost fifty-year age difference, they made a pretty good pair. Even so, Miranda wasn't sure that was a legitimate excuse for taking this trip with Joy. Because, really, it was crazy.

She carried her bag out to the porch and after locking the door, wondered if she'd forgotten anything. With her mail still being held, there didn't seem much else to tend to. As she went down the front steps, she blinked at the garish-looking motor home occupying Joy's driveway. The RV seemed like a big holiday joke. But that was only because Joy had insisted they “decorate” it for their Christmas Joy Ride yesterday. Miranda had questioned this, but Joy was insistent. And before long, Miranda was scaling up the six-foot stepladder “decorating.” Meanwhile Joy perched in her camp chair, shouting out directions from below.

To the sounds of Christmas music blaring from a boom box
that had to be nearly as old as she was, Miranda had securely taped glittery garlands and strings of battery-operated colored lights around the windows and door and along the roofline. She'd wired a wreath into the grill in front and then, using red and green paint and stencils, she'd plastered the words C
HRISTMAS
J
OY
R
IDE
across the front and back and sides of the RV.

After a couple of hours, the motor home was quite a sight—like something you'd see in an old Chevy Chase holiday movie. And as Miranda stood beside Joy, evaluating the overall effect, she almost wondered if Joy was rethinking the whole thing. But Joy was thrilled. “It's perfect,” she told her.

“You don't think it's a bit much?”

“They will see us coming . . . and going,” she declared. Then she instructed Miranda on how to secure the stepladder to the back of the RV. “We'll need that for the homes we're visiting.” They loaded the plastic boxes and bins into the holds beneath the RV.

“Tomorrow we depart at eight o'clock sharp,” Joy had finally told her, just as it was starting to get dark. “I want to make it to Springfield around one—give us plenty of time to spruce things up and spread some Christmas cheer.”

Tomorrow was here, but Miranda wasn't sure she was ready for it. She looked up at the morning sky, which was still nice and clear, then at her watch. It was a quarter past eight, but Joy was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she'd changed her mind after all—common sense had kicked in, or maybe her sons had gotten wind of this lunatic plan. Not that Miranda had breathed a word to anyone. She plopped her bag next to the RV and went up to knock on Joy's front door.

“Oh, there you are.” Joy opened the door with a big smile. “All ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Miranda nodded, taking in the burgundy velour
warm-ups that Joy was sporting. “Don't you look festive.” She pointed to the sparkling rhinestone trim. “Bedazzled too.”

Joy chuckled. “I have three of these jogging suits. This one, one in emerald green, and one in magenta.” She handed Miranda a basket of what appeared to be old VHS movies.

“What's this?”

“Christmas films for our trip.”

Miranda looked at the faded movie boxes—they all looked to be at least twenty years old. “Does the motor home even have a VHS player?”

“Sure it does. And these will be just the medicine in the evenings. We'll revive our Christmas spirits after a long day on the road.”

Joy had boxes of cookies and other homemade Christmas goodies waiting by the front door, and before long, the RV was fully loaded, the steps were up, and Joy was adjusting the driver's seat and checking the controls on the dashboard. Miranda watched in wonder as Joy pushed various buttons and switches, peering at everything with the intensity of a seasoned airline pilot—a very elderly pilot. Her silvery hair curled gently around her face, giving it a softer, younger appearance, and for a moment Miranda could almost imagine a different Joy—perhaps how she looked twenty years ago when they'd purchased this beast.

“You really think you can do this?” Miranda buckled and then cinched her seat belt.

“Oh, sure.” Joy looked longingly at her house. “I can't believe this is the last time I'll see this place.”

“Are you sad?”

Joy sighed. “Well, I suppose I'm a little sad. But I have such good memories. So many lovely Christmases there. I remember the year that I sewed a Santa suit for George.” She pointed to a
house across the street. “The Armstrongs lived over there and their boy Jamie had attempted to convince my little boys that Santa wasn't real.”

Miranda laughed. “But he's not real.”

“Well, yes, of course. But the spirit of Santa is real. It's the spirit of love and giving, and I like to think that it's symbolic of God's love and generosity. Sort of like a metaphor for children. Don't you think?”

“When you put it like that, I do.”

“Anyway, my boys were too little to stop believing in Santa. I just couldn't let it happen. So I sewed George the most wonderful Santa suit. Red velvet and faux fur, and all the trimmings. On Christmas Eve, we set it all up for Robbie and Ricky to sneak out of their rooms and discover Santa filling their stockings.” She laughed. “We didn't find out until years later that the boys had seen through our little guise. But we certainly enjoyed it.”

“I'm sure that made a wonderful memory for them too.”

Joy turned the key in the ignition, then looked into a small backup camera attached to the dashboard. “All clear. This yellow lever here is the emergency brake,” she explained as she released it, and—just like that—they were moving.

Miranda stared into the backup camera, holding her breath as Joy eased the motor home backward into the street. But other than driving over the edge of a curb, they seemed okay. No mailboxes, street signs, or small children were injured. And now they were actually driving down the street—right down the middle.

“Uh, it feels like the RV is taking up the whole street,” Miranda said nervously. “Shouldn't you pull over some?”

Joy laughed. “George used to say the very same thing. But it's just an optical illusion because you're so high up. Don't worry, you'll get used to it.”

As Miranda tightened her grip on the armrests, she doubted
that she'd ever get used to this. Really, what had she been thinking? Was it too late to bail on the old lady?

“Now did you bring that electronic device you were telling me about?” Joy asked as she eased up to a stop sign. “The one that navigates?”

“Yes. The GPS. It's in my bag. I already programmed it for Route 66—although I was surprised to learn they don't really call it that anymore. It's more a conglomeration of a bunch of highways.”

“Yes, I've heard that it's not the nice winding road we used to see in old movies. But it's got history just the same.”

“Want me to get my GPS out now?”

“I suppose that's a good idea. I've been studying a Route 66 road map that George got a long time ago, so I think I can find our way. But it might be good to have your device for backup. You never know.”

Miranda pulled out her fully charged GPS. If nothing else it proved a distraction from obsessing over the fact that the motor home seemed to be hogging most of the road. As the GPS powered up, she took in several slow, deep breaths—willing herself to relax, but not feeling any relief. She jumped at the sound of a horn honking, bracing herself for sudden impact. But it was only the driver of a delivery truck, smiling and waving with enthusiasm.

“I think he likes our decorations,” Joy said as she waved back.

“Oh, yeah.” Miranda wished she hadn't had that third cup of coffee this morning.

“So do you want to be the navigator?” Joy got into the lane that went to the freeway.

“Sure.” Miranda looked at the GPS. She'd plugged in Chicago to start from, with Phoenix as the destination, but there were a lot of miles in between. “I think I can get us there okay.”

“Great. Because one thing I learned early on while driving the motor home—learned it the hard way—is that it's not always easy to backtrack in a big rig.” Joy chuckled. “And it's best to avoid dead-end streets whenever possible. True as much in life as with motor homes.” She began to hum “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” as she picked up speed to enter the freeway.

“How fast do you usually drive this thing?” Miranda asked nervously.

“It's best not to go over sixty. Fifty to fifty-five is ideal, but I don't like to impede traffic if I can help it. That in itself can be dangerous.”

“Yes. I can imagine.” Miranda felt her stomach lurch as Joy pulled the big RV into traffic. But Joy didn't even flinch when the driver behind her honked the horn. Maybe she thought that was for the brightly decorated RV too.

“So what kind of gas mileage do you get in this thing?” Miranda stared straight ahead with her fingers wrapped tightly around the armrests.

“About ten miles a gallon.”

“Wowzers.” Miranda watched with wide eyes as a big semi passed them on the left. Was there really enough room on the road for both of them?

“That's when we're not towing.”

“Towing?”

“A tow car. George and I used to pull a little SUV behind the motor home. You know, so we could park it and still have something to drive around in.”

To further distract herself, Miranda started doing mental math. Dividing ten mpg into their total distance, then multiplying that number by the current gas price was a bit staggering. “Do you realize it's going to cost you around a thousand bucks to make this trip?”

“Sure. I have it all figured out. And that's just gas. It'll be about that much again for campsites and food.”

“Two thousand bucks for a road trip?” Miranda shook her head.

“It's worth it, dear. This'll be the trip of a lifetime.” She glanced over with a grin. “Besides, I got a real nice price for my house. I can afford this.”

“Right.” Miranda pointed at the road. “Better keep focused, Joy.”

Joy just laughed. “You're just like George used to be. At first anyway. After a while he'd sit back and relax. That chair reclines. You can even put your feet up if you like.” She pointed to a little quilted basket full of cassette tapes. “Go ahead and put one of those in,” she told Miranda. “I think we have enough Christmas music to get us all the way to Phoenix without even listening to the same album twice.”

Miranda pulled out a tape. “I haven't seen one of these since I was a girl. Do they really still work?”

“For the most part. There might be a couple in there that are stretched and worn in spots.” She chuckled. “A bit like me.”

With Christmas music playing merrily, they continued on down the freeway. Joy kept the speed down and drove in the slow lane, allowing the other lanes of traffic to whiz past her, but Miranda was relieved when they exited onto a highway with fewer lanes.

“This is it.” Joy pointed to a highway sign. “Even though they don't call it Route 66, this is where it begins. They started building this road in the mid-1920s, but it was during the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl that the road really got used. A huge migration of folks looking for better days in California went right through here.”