Part of the thrill of vacation is that you get to temporarily step away from the real-life shit that continuously drags you down. But what happens when despair and misery crawl into your suitcase next to your sunscreen and contact solution? Those last two will be callously discarded by TSA agents as your heart breaks because you just bought them and thought you’d finally grasped how many ounces you could bring onboard without being considered a threat to national security. But your negative emotions? They will remain with you all the way to your final destination and beyond. 

When we arrived in Florida, the Spring Break capital of the world, my husband, Rich, went in search of our luggage while our sons Sam, 12, Ben, 9, and Charlie, 7, and I picked up the rental car. The rep tried to upsell me on insurance and a convertible. I turned him down and he took pity on me when he saw that I was surrounded by whining, hungry children and offered me a minivan at the same price. At least we wouldn’t be forced to pull into Universal Studios like circus clowns in a two-door Ford Focus. 

Rich had been out of work for almost fourteen months so a flashy ride was out of the question. It was almost a year since I’d lost my job. Though I’d been at my new one for nearly six months, the pay wasn’t substantial enough to justify a multi-day theme park adventure, complete with character breakfast meet-and-greets. But this one-day visit to Universal Studios, followed by a cost-effective short stay with my parents, had been the boys’ big Christmas gift. 

I was desperate to try to offer our sons some semblance of normal, childhood fun, especially as the pressures of adult life threatened to topple me.

We had flown into Fort Lauderdale and would drive straight to Orlando. Then we’d get back on the road to spend the next three days in Fort Lauderdale with my parents. This complicated itinerary was inconvenient but much less expensive. 

Hours later when we finally drove up to the Portofino Bay Hotel, my jaw dropped. It was beautiful. I felt like Guy Fieri arriving at Buckingham Palace. It was well beyond our budget, but I justified it because the complimentary water taxi would save us a fortune on parking. We’d also be allowed to enter the park before the rest of humanity. Most people would have to stand in line at Harry Potter World for more time than it took to read JK Rowling’s entire series including spinoffs, but we’d be ushered through in the mere moments required to slam back a Butterbeer. 

Once we’d checked in and gawked at the majestic lobby decked out in burgundy velvet, we took a water taxi over to CityWalk. This mecca teemed with light, music, bars, and the smell of sizzling fajitas. With so many tempting choices, it hit me anew just how much I’d missed dining out. But when I scanned the menus for kid’s sections, all I saw were dollar signs and phrases like Beverages not included. Sam was just days away from turning thirteen, yet I wondered if he could still pass for ten to the untrained eye and order a kid’s meal. Meanwhile, Ben inspected the offerings over my shoulder. “Lamb chop appetizers?” he shrieked. “Definitely this place! Please, Mom!” 

Once we’d finally settled on a restaurant, I asked if anyone would split something with me. They all declined. “We’re on vacation, Liz,” Rich said, as if to imply that I should stop worrying about money. “Just enjoy yourself!” he continued and raised a seven dollar bottle of Heineken to his lips. 

I tried but I couldn’t. That night, I tossed and turned in our magnificent king-sized feather bed, having a delayed panic attack over the $400 I’d coughed up for tickets to Universal Studios. As my eye twitched and my right arm throbbed, I realized that we were what was wrong with America. We’d splurged on things we couldn’t afford just to be happy in the moment, all because we didn’t want to delay gratification and disappoint ourselves and our children. Isn’t this whole ‘buy now, pay later’ mentality exactly what brought on the housing crisis? I wondered as I watched the minutes slowly slip into one another on the clock the same way I did at home. 

I fell asleep just as the sun rose behind thick golden drapes. 

# 

A foggy gray dawn welcomed us when we arrived at the theme park with the rest of the early birds. Everything felt surreal. Enormous movie characters and garish superheroes lurked around every building. Sensory overload bombarded us from all directions. I handed the park map over to Sam and he immediately directed us toward Harry Potter World. 

I thought about how Rowling had written the novel that would eventually bring her fame and fortune while she was virtually penniless and jobless. It should’ve been inspiring. Here was a woman who’d changed her trajectory through her creativity and determination. I stood gobsmacked as I took in the faux London high street that was an exact replica of the fictional Diagon Alley that had sprung solely from her imagination. I wanted to soak in the idea that someone could be on the brink of utter failure yet so close to transforming their destiny. 

“When can we have lunch?” Ben whined as he yanked me out of my reverie. 

“We just had breakfast!” I growled. I was still smarting from the thirty-seven dollars I’d handed over at the Portofino Bay Starbucks for a few measly egg sandwiches and two cups of coffee an hour earlier. “Let’s go on at least one ride first!” 

We decided on Harry Potter and the Escape from Gringotts and got in a long line to board the attraction. After everything it had taken to get here, I wanted it to be spectacular. But when we got to the front, it turned out to be just a simulator. We sat with a bunch of strangers inside something that resembled the interior of a school bus. Then we looked at a movie screen as we waited for characters to randomly pop out at us. The ride jostled and bounced so much that I tried to remember if I had the name of a good chiropractor so I could make an appointment the moment I returned home. If Universal didn’t already house a Buzz Lightyear-themed spa, surely they would open one soon to alleviate all the sore necks and stiff backs. 

These rides reminded me a bit of our lives now—every time we thought something big was about to happen, we’d just be jerked around and then released back into the wild. It was all a letdown. What I’d really hoped for was to find the steepest roller coaster imaginable. I would gladly wait in line for the front-row seat and relish every second as I dangled at the top. I wanted to release the impassioned scream of a toddler who’d just had her minion stuffie snatched away by the preschool bully. I craved the chance to expel the kind of raw emotional outpouring I often felt tempted to emit at home, if only I could be certain that it wouldn’t compel my neighbors to hop our crumbling fence and have me hauled away. 

As we wandered through the brightly colored landscape, I struggled to find the enjoyment in any of it. Rich was with us physically but had shut down mid-morning shortly after the Revenge of the Mummy ride and seemed to sleepwalk through the rest of the day. The kids weren’t that excited either. Perhaps apathy was just as contagious as its counterpart, enthusiasm. Were we wringing $400 worth of fun out of this experience? It sure didn’t feel like it. How had I not realized that I couldn’t magically alter my mindset just because I’d changed the scenery? I had merely packed up my problems and brought them with me. I tried to banish the thoughts that swirled through my head: What will you do when you get back? How will you keep paying the bills? And why does every attraction spit you out into a fucking gift shop? 

Still, I wanted to savor it when we sat down for lunch at The Leaky Cauldron. The boys’ moods improved with the prospect of the American interpretation of a British-inspired meal. Ben was delighted to sample his first-ever fish and chips while Sam and Charlie salivated as they waited for their Butterbeers. At $6.99 a pop, I fought the urge to make all three of them share one. As I watched them guzzle their golden elixirs, I wondered if the boys would file this day under “happy family memories” or if they would instead remember how their parents had just gone through the motions. I stole a sip of Charlie’s drink and let the overpowering sweetness temporarily distract me from my bitter thoughts. 

The park was virtually empty because it was mid-January, which meant it hadn’t done us much good to pay a premium to stay at one of the theme park’s properties. We’d seen every attraction and ridden every ride by 11:30 am. But we had four more hours to kill before we would get on the road to see my parents, so we made another loop around the park. Sam was too old for most of the attractions but was a good sport and rode alongside Ben and Charlie anyway. 

The water taxi ferried us back to our hotel where the rental van awaited to take us on the next leg of our journey. Surely, the economical visit to my parents’ beachfront condo would prove more pleasant and relaxing, I told myself, until I pictured the five of us piled into the spare bedroom for three long nights. I could already hear the boys arguing over air mattresses and who controlled the ceiling fan. 

Charlie rested his sleepy head on my shoulder as we floated by the other well-manicured properties and Ben quizzed us on the per-night rate at each. 

“We stayed at the nicest one, right?” He wanted to assure himself that he hadn’t missed anything as we glided past the Hard Rock Hotel. 

“It was definitely one of the nicest,” I said as I took a last look at the sun-dappled buildings that mimicked the picturesque harbor of an Italian fishing village. I stopped just short of adding, “Don’t get used to it.” 

Excerpted from SAD SACKED by Liz Alterman. Copyright © 2024 Liz Alterman. Published by Vine Leaves Press. Available now.

Liz Alterman is the author of the memoir Sad Sacked, the young adult thriller He’ll Be Waiting, a finalist for the Dante Rossetti Young Adult Fiction award, and the domestic suspense novels The Perfect Neighborhood and The House on Cold Creek Lane. Her work has been published by The New York Times, The Washington Post, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and numerous other outlets. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, three sons, and two cats, and spends most days microwaving the same cup of coffee and looking up synonyms.