Standing in the sunbaked parking lot outside Palm Springs International Airport, the blistering heat is nothing compared to the look of burning scorn my wife, Amber, wears. She stares at the gray Dodge Challenger, then at me, then down at our infant daughter, Charlotte, then back at the Challenger. I don’t yet realize how fitting a name that is.
“Why would you rent something like this knowing we have a baby and a car seat?” Amber asks.
It’s a reasonable question. I quickly realize the answer – because it looked cool – is unreasonable, so I say nothing. We’re surrounded by dozens of other cars for rent, big, roomy ones, but I stand firm in my decision. Beads of sweat run down my forehead. Pride cometh before my family’s comfort.
After stuffing our baby and her various accoutrements into the tiny backseat, I turn on the ignition and the engine roars to life. Instantly, I feel no regret. We speed off toward Joshua Tree. Every few hundred yards, Amber implores me to slow down. She obviously knows something I don’t.
The Joshua Tree Inn is where Gram Parsons died in 1973, and that was reason enough for me to book a room there. Aside from the stone guitar shrine that stands in the courtyard in his honor, it appears very little has changed about it since the Grievous Angel checked out.
We open the door to our room and Amber eyes it the same way she eyed the muscle car an hour earlier. There are two low-slung twin beds, a dirty tile floor and a decrepit bathroom. There are also, as we’ll later come to find out, bed bugs.
“Why would you pick this place for a family vacation?” Amber asks. Again, I say nothing. Wherever Gram is, I want to join him.
Night falls. We eat Mexican takeout from Styrofoam containers on the edge of one of the beds. Charlotte goes to sleep and Amber soon follows. With a can of beer in hand, I quietly leave. Outside, I slip through a fence and walk out into the dark desert.
When I’m far enough away from the motel lights, I sit down in the sand and look up at the brilliant blanket of stars above. A warm tingle runs along my spine. The beer is cold and goes down easy. Once again, all regrets vanish.
At 5 a.m. the next morning, I’m awakened by an ear-piercing scream. It’s time, according to Charlotte, to get up. I strap her into her car seat, struggling mightily while loading her into the Challenger, and drive off aimlessly, still half asleep.
With the car in motion, Charlotte calms down. The Joshua trees we pass, with their bushy arms outstretched, are magnificent silhouettes in the early morning twilight. Dawn breaks over the top of the mountains to the east. Charlotte slumbers peacefully and I drive in circles, drinking in the beauty until the sun is high overhead.
Back at the Joshua Tree Inn, Amber is up. We eat breakfast and drink coffee in deck chairs next to the modest little pool. We feel so good when we finish that we go for a dip. A new day has brought renewed optimism that this vacation wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
We hike through Joshua Tree National Park that afternoon. I wear Charlotte on my back in a baby satchel. I’ve seen it all before, but I am nonetheless mesmerized by my surroundings. I stare at every rock and cactus for a moment longer than feels necessary, taking mental photographs that I hope will stay with me. As we look out over the vast Coachella Valley from a high ridge, Amber holds my hand. The wind nearly blows Charlotte’s hat off; she closes her eyes and squeals with delight.
We leave the park and drive back to Palm Springs, where we check into the Ritz Carlton. I had splurged using airline miles, and it was worth every one of them to be back in Amber’s good graces. I tell the valet to be gentle with the Challenger. Amber and I take advantage of the free candy station in the lobby, then retire to our room.
After being cooped up for two days, Charlotte wants to crawl around on the floor. Even at a fancy hotel, that’s out of the question, as far as Mom and Dad are concerned, so she stays confined to the king bed or the crib shoved into the entry hall.
We wash off the Joshua Tree grit and go to the pool. Amber and I splash around while Charlotte floats in an inflatable ring next to us. I spy a family with two kids and a nanny in tow who is doing all the heavy lifting, parenting wise. For a split second, I’m jealous. Then I look at what I have, who I’m with and where I am. Everything is perfect.
Up in our room, Charlotte refuses to nap; she just lies on the bed and wails. Nothing is perfect. She won’t take a bottle and won’t take being held. It’s getting dark. Through the window, I see happy couples walking the manicured grounds, dressed for dinner and cocktails, no children in sight.
Shirtless, still wearing a damp swimsuit, I plead with Charlotte. Amber steps in. A few minutes later, our little girl is soothed and lying in her crib. Amber and I stare daggers at each other. We’re both exhausted. We might as well be back at the Joshua Tree Inn.
Two hours later, Charlotte is asleep. I have an idea – we’ll hook up the nanny cam, then Amber and I can go downstairs and get a bite to eat while keeping an eye on the baby.
To my surprise, Amber goes for it. We get dressed, aim the camera at the crib, and sneak out. It’s hard to enjoy dinner when you feel like the world’s worst parents, but we trudge through it.
Charlotte wakes up early again the next day, but it’s alright; we have to get to the airport. I hand the valet my claim ticket and a moment later the Challenger appears.
“Nice car,” he says, opening the door for me.
At the airport, Charlotte is restless and fussy. This time, I set her down on the floor and off she crawls. People stare; I shrug.
Since I work as a writer for an airline, we’re flying standby, first to San Francisco, then on to Chicago. After arriving at SFO, we get some food and settle in to wait for our final leg. No luck with the first flight to O’Hare. Or the second one. Everything between San Francisco and Chicago is full. We watch our names roll over again and again on the standby list. Charlotte is crying. When it looks like we won’t make the third flight, I grow delirious.
“Let’s just rent a car and drive all night back to Chicago,” I say, trembling.
Amber shakes her head. “Will you listen to yourself?”
I try to buy a full-fare ticket, but none are available. Desperate, I refresh the airline app on my phone. Still nothing. On the third attempt, I nearly faint when I see that two seats have opened up. Without a second thought, I bite the bullet and purchase them.
When we board our aircraft, our seats aren’t together so Amber and I separate, and Charlotte comes with me. A man in our row makes a comment about babies on planes and waits, smiling, for me to laugh. I pretend I don’t hear him.
It’s not until we’re in the air that I relax a bit. I’m disheveled and sweaty and my nerves are frayed. Charlotte falls asleep in my lap with her head resting on my chest. Everything’s okay; we’re going home. Was the trip really that bad? I argue the point in my head until I finally close my eyes and drift off but, ultimately, it’s a draw.
Back at our apartment that night, I fight the urge to ask Amber how she scored it. I’m afraid I know the answer. Worst of all, I’m afraid I know whose fault it is. We lie in bed and silently agree to never talk about it again.
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