The summer following my sophomore year of high school, my grandfather and his wife, Margaret, drove my sister, Lindsey, and me down and up the Atlantic coast.

By then, my mom and dad had been divorced almost as long as they’d been married. My dad had decided to move to Florida, and with that decision came a year without being able to see or be near him.

Yes, of course, there were issues—like a lot of them—but my memory tells me that his moving away at that point in my life ended up giving me a hole. The kind that makes room for eternal missing—no matter what.

When my mom’s parents decided to rent a travel van and make the (very) long ride from New Hampshire (where we all lived) to Florida and then back to their summer home in Maine, they also generously offered to take Lindsey and me along for the whole trip.

To this day, I have no clue if they asked my mom before they asked what I thought about going. I remember crying for all the reasons.

I missed my dad. Immensely. I’d also just had my heart broken for the very first time, and my ex started dating my former best friend. Any place, even a somewhat cramped conversion van with my grandparents, sounded better than sticking around town and feeding my feelings with Prince Mac & Cheese and Dazed and Confused on rewind.

I do, however, remember what my mom said to me right before I got into that van:

“Be good. You’ll go out to eat a lot, remember you don’t need to order a drink every time. And when you get to Maine, you and your sister are NOT allowed to ride in the car if Heather’s driving.”

Heather was Margaret’s youngest daughter. She was only a few years older than me and had recently been given a sports car. Everyone knew she wasn’t the best driver; it was a small town and an even smaller family.

I told my mom I loved her; she said she loved me and was serious about Heather.

I said, “I know.”

There’s a lot of story between that goodbye and our first Saturday morning in Maine when Lindsey and I made our way into Heather’s little two-door red car despite my (and my grandparents’) awareness of my mother’s seriousness. But this is the story of the crash and the hole.

Because obviously, we crashed.

For me, the worst part wasn’t the ambulance ride, the loud sounds, the crowd that gathered, or all the glass and blood. For most of my childhood and pre-driving teen years, I aggressively insisted that I ride shotgun because I was the oldest.

But Heather was older than me (and the younger sister in her own family), so I slumped in the back when she insisted Lindsey ride shotgun. My head hit hard on the side of the car. Lindsey’s spidered the windshield.

When Lindsey leaned back and looked at me stunned and spotted with glass and blood all over her forehead and cheeks, I instinctively hugged her into my chest and said, “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

(Many years later, Lindsey told me even though she knew I reached for her out of love and concern when I pulled her close, she felt the little shards of glass go deeper into her forehead.)

Ultimately, no one involved was seriously physically injured. Everyone did go to the hospital, but everyone also left the hospital that day unassisted and without a cast.

But, there was damage.

The call to my mom (even though I didn’t make it) hurt, and so did her arrival the next day. My mom’s and Lindsey’s and my relationship with that entire side of the family was never the same after that.

That really hurt. Then, less. Occasionally, it would hurt all over again for reasons that did and didn’t make sense. Then, not so much.

For me, they fell into that hole of missing, and while multiple (and good) attempts were made (by everyone), we just never all got out.

It’s unfair, but in this case, my grandparents’ kind and good intention of filling one hole made another.

https://www.fortmyersmemorial.com/obituaries/Robert-Lapointe-21291/#!/Obituary