I remember Vera then. What she said. About the road to hell. And then I sweep her out of my head with the brisk, decisive movements I employ when brushing the kitchen floor and, just like that, she is gone.

I replace her with positives. The fact that it is only Wednesday. We don’t have to be in Zurich until Friday evening. I still have time to turn this around. To turn us around. Facing for home.

And the fact that I have learned the route for the next four hours off by heart. I don’t need to consult the map. That’s a positive. Reading in the car—even road maps—makes me nauseous. I certainly could not be described as a good traveler. I once threw up on an escalator in the shopping center. I take the stairs now.

As the day gains, the light from the sun intensifies, splashing against the windows like soft rain. I pull the visor down.

“Do you need your sunglasses?” asks Iris.

“No, it’s fine,” I say. The glasses are in my handbag, which is on the back seat. Iris would have to lean and stretch, and, after her fall in London and yesterday’s incident on the cliffs, I’d say she’s as stiff as an ironing board.

“Look,” Dad says, pointing out the window at a graveyard. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice them. They appear regularly on both sides of the road. Fields and fields of identical white crosses, stretching towards the horizon in orderly lines. I say nothing, but Dad taps on the window with his finger. “Look,” he says again. “It’s a...a...”

“Oh,” says Iris, peering out her window. “It’s one of those World War I graveyards. We should stop.”

I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to draw this on us. Graveyards. I want to avoid all reminders of...well, death I suppose. Out of sight, out of mind, as my mother used to say.

“Oh dear, I’ve driven past the entrance,” I say, tightening my grip on the wheel in tandem with the acceleration.

“There’s another one up ahead,” says Iris.

And there is. And beyond it, another one. And another after that, I’m sure. There’s no getting away from them.

I check my rearview mirror, slow down, indicate, and drive into a small car park that is surrounded on three sides by the relentless crosses.

“Will I just get out and take a few photographs on your camera for you?” I ask Iris. The graveyard is grassy with no path. Not ideal for crutches, which could sink into the ground. Then there’s the matter of the slope of the hill.

“I want to take a look myself.” Iris opens her door and pushes it wide with the rubbery end of one crutch.

“Do you need a hand?” I say.

She shakes her head, arranges herself between the crutches. “I’m fine. There’s not a bother on me.”

Then why? I want to ask. Why can’t we go home?

“I don’t like it here,” says Dad, staring at the rows and rows of crosses. I get out, open his door, crouch beside him. “You can stay in the car if you like. I’ll stay with you, okay?”