by Jodi Picoult
So you might say that I have betrayed you because I knew all these years that your marriage would not last. I did not tell you because you had no reason to believe me, until now. I also did not tell you the dream that I had over and over every night until the wedding. In it, I saw you and Oliver making love-a very difficult thing for a brother to envision his sister doing, I might add. Your legs were wrapped around Oliver�s lower back, and then suddenly you cracked down the middle like a Russian doll and split into two halves. Inside was another you, a smaller you. Oliver did not seem to notice. He was still thrusting when again you cracked down the middle, splitting to reveal an even smaller person. And so on and so on until you were so tiny that I could barely make out your face. I was terrified to see what would happen, and because of this, maybe, I always woke up. But the night before the wedding the dream continued all the way to the end, and as Oliver finally came, you cracked down the middle and split again and this time there was nothing inside at all; there was just Oliver, exposed.
When I woke up the night before the wedding, I heard you screaming, and you continued to do that until the sun came up.
You are going to be here sooner than you realize-another week at the most. Please wish Rebecca a happy birthday. Head north on Rte. 15 to Rte. 2, and take that east into Towner, North Dakota. It may take you a couple of days but it is a straight shot. There�s only one P.O. in Towner.
God, I can�t wait to see you.
Love,
Joley
29 JANE
After Utah, Rebecca and I rip up a piece of paper Oliver used to track our miles per gallon and write the names of five states on the back: Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico, Wyoming and Idaho. We stuff these in one of Rebecca�s sneakers, and then I give her the honor of choosing our destination. And in Idaho, as I expect, Joley�s letters find us again, guiding us through the plains.
We decide to sell the car in Poplar, Montana. Well, not sell it, really, but trade it in for a less expensive car and get some cash. I have credit cards by I am leery of using them; Oliver must be well on his way, and since the cards are in his name, American Express would gladly give him a record of the last purchases, their dates and locations. The last time I used a credit card was just at the border of California and Arizona, to get gas. And in truth we have stretched our several hundred dollars a third of the way across America, which deserves mention. Why couldn�t we have run out in Palm Springs of Aspen, a town steeped in an inflated economy and populated by the rich? Why Montana?
�Poplar,� Rebecca says. She is in charge of reading the small brown road signs that line Route 2. The Missouri River runs on her side of the car, right alongside the highway. When we were bored earlier we tried to outrace it. She is sitting cross-legged, her hair flying wildly around her face. She hasn�t brushed it yet today-we had to sleep in the car last night since we had no money for a motel, and thank God it was warm enough. We put down the back seat and spread an old blanket across the rusty hinges. We used the spare tire as a pillow. It was nice, actually, the way we could see the stars. �I can�t see the place from here,� Rebecca says. �Maybe we�d better turn off.�
We are looking for a town that seems well populated, which is a fifty-fifty toss-up this far north in Montana. We gave up trying to find a car dealership hours ago. Apparently, many gas stations double as dealerships in Montana.
I�ve promised Rebecca she can pick the car. After all, her birthday is tomorrow and she didn�t even complain about sleeping in the back of the wagon. We had a long discussion about the most practical type of car and our dream cars (Mercedes for me, Miata for her) and the likelihood of finding any vehicle in Montana that will actually start.
I pull off the exit and brake at the end of a dusty dirt road. There is no sign, no more road, nothing. I haven�t any idea which way to turn, so I look at Rebecca. �Looks like Poplar isn�t too pop�lar,� she says, and giggles.
To my left is a heavily wooded area. To my right is a purple mountain. The only place to go would be straight ahead, which means crossing through a field of some sort that is laced with red wildflowers and yellow berries. �Hang on,� I warn Rebecca, and then shifting the station wagon into overdrive, I roll its thick tires over the weeds and tall grass.
The grass is so tall that I cannot see out the windshield. I am afraid of running over a little kid, or a cow, or crashing into a combine. It is a little like driving through a car wash, where those wet cloths massage the surface of your car like a million lapping tongues, except here we are in a tunnel of soft silver brushes. We roll along, five miles per hour, with our fingers crossed.
�This is wild,� Rebecca says. �we don�t have towns like this around San Diego.�
�No,� I admit, not quite certain if that is for better or for worse.
�I could get out,� she suggests. �I could scope for you. You know, tell you if you�re about to hit a woodchuck or something.�
�I don�t want you leaving this car. Then there�s the chance I�ll hit you.�
Rebecca sighs and resigns herself to slumping down in her seat again. She starts to French-braid her hair, an incredible feat to me, since she has no mirror for reference. She braids all the way to the bottom but she has lost her ponytail holder. Rummaging through the garbage trapped between the seats she comes up with a trash bag twist-tie, and improvises.
Suddenly the field opens and I am inches away from a Coke machine. I slam my foot on the brake and send Rebecca crashing into the windshield. �Shit,� she says, rubbing her forehead. �What are you trying to do to me?� Then she looks out the windshield. �What is that doing here?�
I back up several feet so that I can maneuver the car around the vending machine. As I break through the last row of reeds, the car rolls, free, onto the blacktop of a gas station. There is only one pump and a small concrete building, not large enough for service. However, at least ten cars are lined up in a row diagonally across from where we are parked, which leads me to believe they may be for sale. An old man with white hair braided down his back is leaning against the pump, doing a crossword puzzle. He looks at us but doesn�t seem surprised that we have driven out of a field. He says, �What�s a five letter word for �irritate�?�
�Annoy.� I step out of the car.
The man makes no effort to look at me. He fills in the word I�ve given him. �It fits. What can I do for you?�
Rebecca gets out of the car and slams the passenger door. She stands back and surveys the station wagon and starts to laugh. It is wreathed with berries and black-eyed Susans, which have become tangled in the overhead rack and the antenna during the journey across the field. It looks as if the car has been at a 1960s commune. Rebecca begins to pull off the long, knotted stems of the plants.
�To tell you the truth, we�re looking to get a new car,� I say. �Something a little flashier.�
The man makes a strange noise through his nose, and then removes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it across his forehead. �Flashy,� he says, circling the car. He makes that noise again. �Won�t be hard to get flashier than this.�
�It�s a very good car. Solid, and reliable, and there�s only thirty thousand miles on it. A cream puff.� I smile at him, but he is inspecting the tires.
�If it�s so damn good, why are you looking to get rid of it?�
I give Rebecca a look that tells her to keep quiet. �May I speak to you alone for a moment, Mr.-?�
�Tall Neck. The name is Joseph Tall Neck.�
Alibis and excuses race through my mind, but when I begin to speak I find that I am telling him the truth.
�. . . So we left my husband in California, and we�re driving across America and quite honestly we need a car and we need cash, which brought us to you.�
This man looks at me with his coal-colored eyes, and he doesn�t believe a word I�ve said. �Tell it to me straight, lady.�
�Okay,� I say. �Okay. This is it: my daughter�s birthday is tomorrow. All her life she�s been taking these tap dancing lessons, and there�s an audition for a movie in L.A., and s
he asked if I would take her to it for her birthday present. Her dream is to be a big star, but frankly we haven�t got the money to spend on a fancy costume or a big car or anything else that will make the bigwigs in Hollywood notice her. So we talked it over and decided we would sell the car and get something a little cheaper, and then with the extra cash we�d buy nice clothes and rent a limo to go to the audition.� I say this all in one breath and then lean against the gas pump, spent. When I look up, the man had walked over to Rebecca. His eyes are glowing.
�Dance,� he commands.
I don�t know where she picked it up, because Rebecca has never taken a tap dancing lesson in her life. But she starts shuffling and doing a soft shoe in the red earth of the field we�ve driven through, using the flattened tire tracks as a makeshift stage. �I can sing, too,� she says, grinning.
Tall Neck is entranced, you can see it in his face. �You are really something. Who knows? You could be the next Shirley Temple.� The man leads Rebecca over to the line of cars in the front corner of the station. �Which one do you like?�
Rebecca bites her lower lip. �Oh, I don�t know. Mama? Come over here. What do you think?�
When I stand next to her, she elbows me gently. �Well, honey,� I say, �I want you to pick. It�s all part of your birthday present.�
Rebecca clasps her hands in front of her. She doesn�t have much of a choice: several beat-up Cadillacs, a blue Jeep, a dusty Chevy Nova.
�How about that one?� Rebecca says, pointing to a little MG I hadn�t noticed. I have always steered away from cars that small, because of the safety risk. It is half-hidden behind the gas price sign, red with rust spots over each tire. The interior is ripped in many places.
�The convertible top is automatic,� Tall Neck says, �and still works.� Rebecca jumps over the door of the car and lands in an awkward split on the front seat, one foot wedged into a hole of foam where the vinyl has cracked.
�How much?� I ask, and Rebecca and Tall Neck both jump as if they have forgotten I am there. �And how much will you give me for the wagon?�
Tall Neck gives me a sour smile and walks back to the station wagon. He pulls a wild daisy from the side mirror. �I�ll give you three thousand, although it isn�t worth that much.�
�Are you joking?� I explode. �It�s only four years old! It�s worth twice that!�
�Not here it isn�t,� he says, and he walks back to the MG. �This car here I�ll give you for one thousand.�
Rebecca turns to me with incredibly sad eyes, meant for Tall Neck to see. �It�s too much money, isn�t it, Mama?�
�It�s okay, honey. We can go somewhere else. There�s lots of places to stop on the way to Hollywood.�
�Five hundred,� Tall Neck says, �and that is my last offer.�
A woman drives into the station in a lemon-colored van and pulls in front of the gas pump. Tall Neck excuses himself to fill the tank. Rebecca beckons me closer to the car, and I climb over the door less agilely than she did, and sit in the driver�s seat. �Where did you learn to tap dance?� I asked.
�School. Gym class. I had a choice of tetherball or tap.� She leans against my shoulder. �So you think I�ll make it on Broadway?�
�I don�t know if you�d make it in Poplar, to tell you the truth. But you did a nice job of snowing this guy.� I begin to fiddle with the radio dial (broken) and the shift (sticks on reverse). Rebecca opens up the glove compartment, which is empty, and reaches under the seat to find a lever for moving it back. She pulls out a manila envelope, dusty, which has been wedged into the springs underneath.
�What�s this,� she says, opening the clasp. She pulls out dollar bills-twenties, all of them, and as her eyes grow wide I grab the envelope from her.
I start to count quickly, before Tall Neck finishes his transaction. �There�s over six hundred here,� I tell Rebecca. �That�s what I call cash back financing.� Rebecca, who sees the van pull away, stuffs the envelope back into the springs below the seat. �Is this really the one you want?� I say loudly, as Tall Neck approaches. Rebecca nods. �Well, Happy Birthday then.�
�Oh Mama!� Rebecca squeals, and she throws her arms around me. She breaks away from my embrace to pump Tall Neck�s hand up and down. �Thank you, oh, thank you so much!�
�I�ll get the title,� Tall Neck says, and he limps towards the concrete block building that must serve as an office.
Rebecca smiles until he closes the door behind him and then she turns to me. �Let�s get out of this dump.� She leans her head back against the seat and holds her hand to her throat. �Does anybody tap dance anymore?�
Tall Neck reappears with a manila envelope that looks much like the treasure under the seat, which makes me wonder if this isn�t some stash of his he has forgotten about. I rifle through the cash. �You should really keep your money in a bank,� I tell him. �You never know if you�re going to get held up.�
He laughs, showing spaces where he has no teeth. �Not out here. Tourists don�t come to Poplar. And,� he points to a shotgun propped next to the gas pump, �robbers know better.�
I smile weakly. �Well,� I say, wondering if he�ll shoot at us as we leave, realizing he�s left money in our car, �thanks for your help.�
Rebecca has been moving all our possessions from the back of the station wagon. She takes the duffel bag out of the back seat and the maps from the glove compartment and tosses them in the tiny trunk of the new car. �Look for me in the movies!� Rebecca calls to the man. We pull alongside the station wagon, expecting to feel some sort of remorse, the way you feel like you are leaving a piece of yourself behind whenever you trade in an old car. But this one reminds me of Oliver, and of leaving, and I don�t think I will miss it much at all.
�Mom,� Rebecca urges, �we�re going to miss the audition.� She reaches her arms over her head as we plow back through the field, which is easier this time because we have cleared a path. The weeds climb right inside the car, since we have the top down, and Rebecca picks them as they whip her across the chest and the face, creating a bouquet in shades of purple. �This is some car,� she screams, her words lost in the rush of the wind.
It is a lot of fun. It�s less clunky than the station wagon, that�s for sure-I keep looking in the rearview mirror and expecting to see another half-length of car. There is just enough room for me and Rebecca. �So whose money do you think that is?�
�I think it�s ours now,� Rebecca says. �Some mother you are. Turning me into a liar and a thief.�
�You turned yourself into a liar; I didn�t command you to do a tap recital. And as for being a thief, well, technically we bought the car, including anything that happened to be inside it.� Rebecca looks at me and laughs. �Okay, so it�s a little dishonest.� A runaway reed scratches against my cheek, leaving a raised mark. �I think the money belonged to an heiress who had fallen in love with her groundskeeper.�
Rebecca laughs. �You must write plots for All My Children in your spare time.�
�So the groundskeeper sees the baron approaching with the body of the woman he loves and has to decide whether to take off with the car or to grieve over the woman. And of course he stays-�
�Of course.�
�-and is shot by the baron, who then drives the car to a deserted town in Montana where it is not likely to be found, and moves his estate to Estonia under an assumed identity.� I take a deep breath, proud of my story. �What do you think?�
�Number one, how did the money get into the car, then, if the woman never had a chance to get it before she was knocked off? Number two, no idiot in his right mind would take a bullet just because his girlfriend has been killed too. If he really loved her he�d go off and live the life they�d planned together.� Rebecca shifts in her seat and inadvertently knocks the rearview mirror. �You�re a hopeless romantic, Mom.�
�Well, whose money do you think it is?�
Rebecca starts to throw the flowers from the bouquet she�s collected in the air, one by one. They seem to fly away as if they have lives of their own. �I think that Indian guy put his savings account in the car a long time ago, so long that
he�s completely forgotten. He�s probably after us in the blue Jeep right now.�
�That�s lousy,� I tell her. �That�s hardly a good story at all.�
�If you want to spice it up, then maybe he got the money from robbing a bank. Which would explain why he doesn�t keep his cash there in the first place.� Rebecca cocks her head to one side. �Now that we�re rich, what are we going to do to celebrate?�
�What do you want to do?�
�Take a shower. Get another pair of underwear. And other luxuries like that.�
�We should buy some clothes,� I agree. �Not that the selection around here is going to match our style.� Some style. I�ve been wearing the same dirty shirt of Oliver�s for four days, and Rebecca has been sleeping in the bathing suit she wears all day.
�So we�ll go shopping the next town we find.�
�The next town that looks like a town,� I clarify.
�The next town that has a store .� Rebecca pushes her hands against her stomach. �When did we have breakfast?�
�Two hours ago,� I say. �Why?�
Rebecca curls into a ball, her head on the armrest beside the stick shift. Here she doesn�t have the room for movement the station wagon allowed her. �My stomach hurts. Maybe I�m not hungry. Maybe I ate a bad egg or something.�
�Do you want to stop?� I turn to look at her; she�s a little green.
�No, just keep driving.� Rebecca closes her eyes. �It�s not so bad. It comes and goes.� She kneads her hands in a knot, and presses it against her stomach.
For about half an hour, Rebecca falls asleep, which makes me feel better because I know she is no longer in pain. This is the mark of a mother; I am able to feel what she feels, to hurt when she hurts. Sometimes I believe that in spite of the traditional birth, Rebecca and I were never disconnected.
She has not missed much, being asleep. We have passed the border into North Dakota, and we seem to be leaving the great purple swells of mountains behind us.
�Are we there yet?� Rebecca rolls into a sitting position, pushingher hair away from her face where it has unraveled into thin strings. She folds her legs into her habitual sitting position, and then she screams.
I swerve the car onto the shoulder of the road and brake violently. �What�s the matter?�
Rebecca reaches between her legs and lifts her hand and on it there is blood.
