So…where was I? Ah, yes. In Grants Pass in the driveway of the Annabelle Lane house of my grandparents in the backseat of a police cruiser. Face red. Pulse racing. My face still flushes as I remember getting out of that cruiser as my grandfather came out to see about the policeman in his driveway.
The officer verified that Grandpa knew who we were and then left us to go back out on patrol. Meanwhile my mind is scrambling to pull a story together to tell my grandparents and trying to figure out how we will get back on the highway.
Of course it would have made sense to simply come clean, confess the ill-conceived adventure, and then let them help us get safely back to my car in Eugene. They would have done it. The worst that would have happened is that I would have disappointed my grandparents and we would have had to endure a lecture. That would have been too easy. Instead, I told them we were being picked up by some friends up the road on I-5.
Meanwhile I could hear my dad’s voice whispering gently, “Every time you tell a lie, you have to tell three more to cover it.” That is no exaggeration! To make the lie work, I had to fabricate a meeting point, time, friends’ names, the why and wherefore, etc., etc., etc. Each lie made me feel worse about the whole thing.
Brenda and I followed Grandpa into the house, exchanging desperate looks between us. Grandma had the table set for lunch — for four people as I recall — and we all sat down to eat. Except that I couldn’t. I was miserable; wanting to be far, far away. I stared out the window at the Rogue River flowing past and wished I was on a boat.
