1973: Secrets Of Anna Tucker

2 | flat

Sometimes if it's too heavy, we give in and let go.

|♥|

I woke up to my dad's rough driving, leaving a slight bump on my head. It was ridiculous how fast my dad drove. His maximum speed was one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour whenever he'd get the chance. Of course, I trusted my dad, but I also trusted the immutable maximum speed limit as well.

My mother showed otherwise. I could see the anger building up inside her, just waiting to come out if and when my dad makes the slightest mistake. The only thing missing was smoke coming out of her ears. She held a tight grip unto her seat. It was funny to witness the vulnerability my mother had.

I wondered how my siblings were doing, glancing over them. Still sound asleep. Incredible.

"Take it easy, racecar driver," I said, holding onto my seat as my dad overtook another car, "we have all day."

I hadn't noticed that my earphones had fallen out of my ears, which was probably a result of my dad's driving too.

"That's what I said," my mom snapped, rolling her eyes at him. Rough driving was something my parents argued about from time to time. It was something my mother really hated.

"Well, if you want to get to Grandma and Grandpa's place, we're going to have to speed it up," he chuckled. My mom kept her mouth shut, but still looking pretty pissed.

"Where are we now anyway?" I asked, hoping to ease the atmosphere. "And how long were we traveling?"

Vertigo started to paralyze my neck, rubbing it with my fingers to ease the pain.

"We've been driving for three hours, and we're at Sta. Fe, Nueva Vizcaya now."

Three hours?! No wonder vertigo hit me.

Not only that, it was hot and humid. It's something my country, the Philippines, brags about in campaign ads for tourism, in which they make it look like hot and humid was fun-which was not. Don't get me wrong–I loved the Philippines–it's just too hot for me sometimes. Sweat was prickling from our skin, making it even more uncomfortable in this crowded vehicle. I carefully pulled the pile of blankets off of my siblings so that they could breathe, putting it behind our seats.

"Well, what time will we arrive there?" I asked, the urgency in my voice evident, "it's getting pretty hot in here."

"In three hours," he smirked, "maybe two if I drive fast enough."

My mother's head shot up, glaring at him. "Oh you better be joking."

|♥|

It was eight-thirty in the morning when we had taken the Drive-Thru service in McDo, buying egg sandwiches and hot chocos for breakfast. We had to wake the heavy sleepers next to me because they would've slept through breakfast as well if we hadn't. The six of us ate while my dad drove. It was nerve-wrecking. Overtaking cars with both hands on the steering wheel was one thing, but overtaking with only one hand–his other hand was occupied by a sandwich–was mad.

My brothers couldn't sleep after that, and so we talked about the things we'd do when we get there.

"I'll probably sing all day once the karaoke machine arrives," I announced, clapping my hands enthusiastically.

"Me too," my sister smiled with heavy eyes, still somnolent from her heavy sleep. Her eyes fluttered shut in seconds, in to which she fully fell asleep in a minute or so.

"Well, I'm going to the river," my younger brother–Aron–bragged, a devilish grin playing across his lips. Andrew, our youngest, repeated what he said.

"We all are Aron," I bantered, smirking. He stuck his tongue out and rolled his eyes at me, which made me retaliate to do the same thing. The discourse with my brothers went on for two hours before we felt lethargic again.

Sleep had almost taken over us when we were jolted awake by a loud noise.

Pop!

My mother shot up, scanning the surroundings for any accidents that may have happened–at this point, we all were. But there was nothing until we passed by an eight-wheeler truck whose windows were open.

That's when we knew what was wrong albeit our windows weren't down, we still understood what the man said and was trying to say.

He mouthed, "Your tire is flat."

"Dad, our tire's flat!" My mother exclaimed in distress.

"What?!" My dad asked in disbelief. Immediately, my dad pushed the hazard button and proceeded to the right lane. He got out of the car to check if it was flat, and unfortunately it was. His fingers ran through his hair and his shoes kicking the ground.

"I told you to slow down!" My mother scolded when my dad got in. Her eyes teared in irritation and her arms crossed in anger. My dad didn't say anything.

For five minutes, we drove slowly (and in silence), hearing dirt and pebbles scrape our tire callously. We could already smell the chemicals of the tire from our seats. By God's grace, we were able to find a vulcanizing shop quickly after that in which they hurriedly aided us in our distress. They eyed us when we got out of the car, sensing that we weren't really native speakers here. My brothers played with the mechanic's dog while the rest of us gaped at the flat tire.

"What happened here?" The mechanic asked, examining the deflated tire. His Filipino accent was thick just like his beard. He had a stout figure and had genuine eyes who looked wiser beyond his years, clearly someone we could trust in a situation like this.

"I'm not exactly sure, but when we drove through the tunnel the wheel just popped," My dad answered in remorse, scratching his head.

A young man, who probably my age, was carrying a small jack; sliding it underneath our car.

"You must've hit a sharp metal there from the canal in the tunnel," he said while his sons–who are also probably his employees–started to work on the wheel, "your car's in full load capacity–you're probably overloaded–that's why the wheel popped open."

"There's also two nails punctured in here," one of his sons–the one with a neatly waxed hair–added.  He glanced at me quickly before returning to wrenching the bolts. The other one, who had a tousled hair, was concentrated with his work. But I did notice they all had brown hair.

"Oh, add two more nails and it was definitely a goner," the mechanic said, scratching his beard. "Don't worry though, this happens to everyone. Sometimes if it's too heavy, it gives in and lets go."

His sons looked at each other and laughed in unison, but faded into melancholy when the mechanic scolded them to get back to work. Sometimes if it's too heavy, it gives in and lets go. It was something that stuck in my head, implying that there must be a deeper meaning to it, but I kept quiet. It was embarrassing to ask any further. I didn't want to be labeled as a meddler.

It's probably nothing anyway. Probably.

•••
a/n:
This incident happened to us two times during winter break. I know. Exhausting. But, yeah, we made it back. Let me know what you guys think on the comments section below. :) Happy reading!