I figured I might as well help

"Okay kids we're going to drive until we hit snow," he said in his Dick Van Dyke radio voice. He leaned out of the ancient powder-blue Oldsmobile. My mother never said anything good about him and we had no idea when he would show up and claim us. There were never any goodbyes when he picked us up.

We got into the car and he drove. We couldn't hear anything but the roar of exhaust coming out of the hole in the muffler. There was no heat. I was in the back seat under a quilt. His third wife was in the front seat wearing pink lipstick, hair-sprayed into a beehive. Her sunglasses squeezed her head rather than wrapping around her ears. She looked like a brunette Brigitte Bardot on vacation. My sister was under the quilt too, hugging the opposite door. I was sure daddy-Tom was going to kill me so he'd be rid of having to pay child support. I contemplated this as we were driving down the highway. I figured my sister was in on it - she never liked me anyway. It was hours of bare trees and snow, bare trees and snow, under the old quilt listening to the engine. I kicked off my snow boots and curled up on the seat. Finally we stopped at a scenic overlook; steep cliffs, distant mountains. My father, his wife, and my sister all got out to look at the view. I stayed in the car in my stocking feet. I asked my father to lift me up. I figured I might as well help him toss me over the cliff.