Just then the young waitress arrived.
“Saved by the pizza,” Reid said.
“Thank God,” I agreed. “Excuse me, could I get a cup of coffee with cream and sugar?” I asked the waitress.
“Can’t do coffee. Our water is really limited. In fact, we may be closing tomorrow. Another soda?”
I grimaced. “Sure.”
She nodded and returned to the counter.
“Will!” I called, but he had already swooped in, lured by the sweet aroma of oregano, sauce, and cheese. He slid beside me in the booth.
“That one,” he said, pointing to the largest piece. “And that one.”
I placed a slice onto his plate. “Start with one.”
He adjusted his collar yet again. Tucked it under his chin.
After waiting a moment for the slice to cool, Will proceeded with removing all the cheese first, setting it aside, and eating the bottom layer of crust. He would then eat the cheese last. Many kids did that sort of thing. Even Finn had adopted this habit. At least Will didn’t ask me to cut it into “two big pieces and ten little pieces” anymore…those were the fun preschool days of autism. I distinctly remembered Sarah criticizing me for giving in to his quirky demands. “I would never do that for the girls!” she had said. Everything—sandwiches, pizza, cheese slices—had to be cut a certain way for Will.
“Oklahoma may be a boring state, but they do make delicious pizza,” Reid said, devouring his piece.
I bit into mine and moaned. “Heck, yeah.”
“Good job, Mom,” Will said at my lack of swear word usage.
I patted his head. “You keep me accountable, honey.” At least aloud.
“Can I have a soda?”
“Yup. A special treat for today.” I handed him a cup and straw. It was lemon-lime.
Reid snatched the straw. “Want to see something cool, Will?”
“Okay,” he said, half-interested as he picked the rest of the cheese off his slice.
“Check this out.” Reid partly removed the straw wrapper, blew air in the straw, and shot the piece across the table like a rocket.
“Cool! Can I try?” Will took the other straw that lay on the table and did the same. He whooped with joy.
Just then, the second song came on the jukebox. I recognized it immediately.
Delight spread Will’s face. “Oh, good! The weather song is on!”
“No Rain” by Blind Melon, a nineties song, played its upbeat tune, with lyrics entrenched with meanings of loneliness, depression, and acceptance-seeking. I’d always thought of Will when I heard this tune, which made it to my playlist a few years ago. It was both bitter and sweet. He was my nontypical sweetheart, who loved puddles and rain—the simple things in life—and he only sought acceptance and love of his unique traits. A weather song. Of course. He was such a sweet child. Lord, he elevated my heart to a new level.
Reid shared a jovial smile with me. “Ah, a classic!”
“A what?” Will asked, his focus on the straws. “It’s about rain.”
“Shh…classic? Now that truly ages us!” I said.
Reid smirked.
We ate in silence as the tune played. Memories tumbled around in my mind.
The next song came on.
“Mom, I picked this one for you.” Will licked his fingers as he finished his second slice of pizza.
Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.” “Now this is an oldie but a goodie!” I said cheerfully. “Will, you’re a fabulous choice-maker with the songs. Something unique, something weather, and something for me.” I kissed his cheek, and he smiled. Its buoyant tune belted from the jukebox. I relished the respite even if just for three minutes.
****
Will held my hand on our way to the hotel room. To hell with camping. I didn’t care how much it cost me. I was staying in hotels from here on if I could. If they were still available.
“Love you, Mom,” he said.
I squeezed his hand. “Love you, too.”
He yawned. “Can I play before bed?”
“Sure, honey.”
Pain slid up my back from yet another day of long driving. I yearned for a nice stroll to stretch my muscles, followed by a warm bubbly bath. But given the water situation—we were sternly warned at the front desk to only use the toilet and the sink—the bath would have to wait.
“You two go ahead. Left something in the car. Mind if I use the keys?” Reid asked, pressing a casual hand on my midback. I didn’t mind. I liked his nearness. Strangely, wanted more of it.
“I thought you lugged your life around in that.” I hitched a thumb toward his heavy pack.
He grinned and brushed a hand through his hair. “Yeah, most of it. One thing I forgot.”
I nodded and swapped him a set of car keys for his backpack. After the incident in Missouri, he had insisted I keep both sets of keys to my car. I had one set in my pocket and one set in my handbag. He paused. “Want me to ask at the desk if they know of any other pharmacies?”
“Sure, thanks.” There was no need to verbalize my doubt. We’d stopped in all the larger towns on our deviated path south of Wichita, through northern Oklahoma, and now in Dodge City, Kansas, where we were calling it quits for the night. Reid was a determined fella though. It took Will’s whining and my aching feet for us to give up our canvasing here in town.
I had inquired with countless pharmacies and grocery stores. Most were closed, with no indication of when they’d reopen. Two refused to refill anything despite my suggestion to call my doctor. Their phone lines had been on the fritz all week. And one pharmacy had been able to reach my prescription via a website server (after several failed attempts, and one pissed off pharmacy tech) and obtained the prescription, but it was out of stock and they had no suitable substitute. They were also closing their doors as well. We’d tried dialing my doctor’s office from both our cell phones and the store phones, to no avail.
If I was taking stock in fate, I’d say that fate had other plans for my prescription. On the positive side, at least we’d avoided the traffic and ash, for now…though that cloud and distant thunder had loomed all day.
“Mom, you’ve been doing well driving. You’re not scared anymore?” Will said as I helped him button his pajama top. He clicked through the TV channels.
“…in an unexpected turn of events, the direction of the plume has shifted south. Wichita was hit with ash rain this afternoon. Many roads are in poor condition, powerlines and trees are down in this neighborhood with what we think could have been an F2 tornado, and sewers are flooded. Citizens have been ordered to stay in their homes until the National Guard reaches them, and it could be a day or more. Public Works has advised all people in this region on the map to not use running water. Gerard, tell us more about this change in the weather and that reported tornado…”
I ripped my ears from the TV and said belatedly, “No, sweetie, I’m not scared anymore. I’m feeling better now.”
“That’s good, Mom!”
A part of me wondered if I needed the med anymore. After fainting, which may have been exacerbated by the cold, I’d been feeling less woozy. Still woozy, definitely, but less. The tension from all the searching and worrying suddenly released as I sat beside Will. Perhaps I was going to be okay.
“…due to the tsunami and earthquakes, we think the El Niño year is upon us far sooner than we’d expected…”
“Wow, honey, you were right about the clouds,” I said, my fingers shaking as I did the last button on his top. Shivers swept through me. That had been too close. Dammit, we were still too close.
Click.
“Most roads in Colorado are now closed or impassable.”
“A tornado!” he said with glee.
I took the remote and turned off the TV. “Play time for a little?”
After a few minutes of playing with Lego bricks, I tucked him in like I always did, feeling less weighed down by at least one thing.
He began to cough. “My throat tick
les, Mom.”
“I don’t have any honey. Here, drink some water.” I handed him his water bottle. I brought the blanket to his chin, followed by his weighted blanket. I casually felt his forehead; he was tepid, no sign of fever. Feeling the itch in my own throat, I sniffled without thinking.
Having finished the Alaska adventure book, I moved on to book two of the wizard-cat series, albeit reluctantly and with a bittersweet swell forming in my gut as I read. His eyelids fluttered as he fought sleep.
“Do you think Reid plays chess?” he asked, rolling to his side.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe I can teach him, like Dad taught me.”
“Maybe.” I kissed his cheek. “Good night, sweetie. You’re a blessing in my life, Will. Do you know that?”
“Yeah. Love you, Mom. You smiled tonight, Mom. That made me happy. We’ll find Finn, Mom. No need to cry anymore. And I like Reid.”
I swallowed. “I do, too.”
I’d not been pleasant company since…God, since when? Will’s diagnosis? Since Harrison’s death? Did I really cry that much?
I gave Will another kiss and stood upright. The child radiated a serene love. Autism challenges had not hardened him; instead, he had grown into a tough, ever-loving child. No tears tonight. No more perfectionism. My life would never be suburban-soccer-mom perfect or “normal” by societal standards or my own imposed expectations. It was our own perfect. It had to be okay. Or else I would kill myself trying to achieve a preset notion I had for perfection. Finn completed the picture. The three of us would make our home our own again. Screw it all. No more excuses.
I pulled the curtains closed, slipped my feet into the comfort of Harrison’s slippers, and turned off the light beside the bed to darken the room. Heavy legs brought me to the bathroom, and I flipped the light on. Shades of amber crossed the worn hotel carpet and illuminated the mediocre pressed-wood desk. All else in the room was enveloped in the blackness of evening.
“Enough night light, hon?” I asked Will.
“I guess so.”
“Need any glow sticks?”
“No, thanks.”
The scent of dampness and mildew infiltrated my returned sense of smell. We were lucky we had snagged a room. Rain pattered on the locked windows. Tent camping in rain was no fun at all. The car was no better. I was eating my cash, but I had packed plenty, despite the robbery, and we were almost there. Reid had given me some money for this room, too. It was a split room of sorts, with a wall and sliding door dividing the two sleep areas. It even had a mini-kitchen, though we wouldn’t need it.
Gosh, we were so close, I could taste it.
I buzzed from the sugary sodas. I stared at myself in the mirror, scrutinizing my wrinkles, the gray strays within the chestnut brown, and the deep circles beneath my eyes. “Ghastly,” I murmured, touching the soft flesh where the blood had pooled together on my cheek. Reflexively, I grabbed my meager cosmetic bag to reapply concealer, but I stopped. Who cared? I closed the toilet lid, sat, and beheld the haggard Audrey Jane Sinclair reflection. I thought of nothing. Not Harrison. Not Finn. Not my hurt. I zoned out for a few minutes.
I was tempted to disregard the warning and run a bath.
Reid knocked. I opened the room door. He held a foil-covered plate. “Is he asleep?” he whispered.
My love bug beneath the oversized hotel blanket snored lightly. “Yeah.”
“I’ve got something for you,” he said, holding a plate and fork. He motioned to the door. I slipped a key card into my pocket, grabbed my hoodie sweatshirt, and followed him into the hallway. I softly closed the door behind us. My child was nine, and I still tiptoed to avoid waking him. I supposed we could’ve sat in the other room on the other bed, but I liked the hallway better. It was nostalgic.
“I figured it was too late for another dose of caffeinated soda. But it’s never too late for cake.” He removed the foil to reveal a slice of carrot cake on a disposable plate.
“It’s never too late for caffeine,” I corrected. “Or dessert. Got another fork?” I didn’t add that I was wondering where he had wandered off to.
He sat on the carpeted hallway and leaned against the wall. “I’m all set. Here you go,” he said, handing me the plate and then pulling a candy bar from his top pocket.
“Not another lollipop?” I teased.
“Nah, tonight calls for a chocolate bar.”
“Pizza, soda, and cake. Salty and sweet. What else could a woman ask for?” Carrot cake. Harrison’s favorite. “Thanks.” I slid beside him and stretched my legs with a sigh. Reid munched on his nutty chocolate bar. I thought of Harrison and wiggled my oversized slippers.
“The front desk was no help on other pharmacies. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “It’ll be okay.” I hoped. We would see how I fared with the remaining driving. I had done well, to my surprise. Had it been the medicine? Or had I somehow gotten over my mental block, despite a year of working at it and failing? Reid didn’t ask more about it, but this time, I decided transparency would be best. “I have anxiety. I’ve always had it, but once Harrison died, it hit me full blast. I also struggle with driving because of what happened.”
He nodded. “I see. We can keep looking.”
I shook my forked hand. “Nah. Really. Maybe all the mumbo jumbo my therapist has tried on me the past year is working.”
“Maybe it just took the right motivation,” Reid said.
“Yup.” I licked the fork. “But who knows, I may still need the medication. And that’s okay, too. Head stuff is hard to get over.”
“It can be. Your symptoms…do you think—?”
“Yeah, I suspect withdrawal, compounded with a cold, too.”
He slid his body closer to mine and tapped my knee. “I’ll help any way I can.”
“Thanks, Reid.” I inhaled, enjoying his nearness. “I used to love to bake cakes. Gosh, this is tasty. The real deal.”
“You have a lot of used to’s.”
“Don’t we all?”
He released a throaty affirmation. “We do.”
“What are some of yours?” I took another forkful of deliciousness.
He chewed and swallowed. “I used to call my mom every day, and she insisted we speak in Spanish only, to improve my fluency. I miss her. My Uncle Jorge taught me the flavorful Spanish swear words whenever he’d visit though.”
“The same uncle that was a Mexican senator?” I raised an eyebrow.
Reid smiled and nodded. “You bet.”
“I used to go on more demanding hikes every year with Harrison.” I wiggled my toes in his fuzzy slippers. “We enjoyed the challenge.”
“You can still do that…well, with your boys, I mean,” Reid offered.
“The boys can’t tackle rugged hikes. We stick to kid-friendly, easy trails…ones with streams, ponds, rivers, or towers. Those are their lures. I haven’t been out much on our local trails with them this year. Yellowstone was the first time that we’d gone on longer hikes. It was amazing.” I thought about the lupine, an annual trip that was no more. Perhaps I’d take them next year. I also thought of Yellowstone, which was no more.
“Pikes Peak is remarkable. Perhaps I can give you a tour if you want to visit?”
“Perhaps. Got kid-friendly trails?”
“Definitely.”
We were silent for a moment as I scraped the last morsel of frosting off my plate.
“I used to play board games with my sister every weekend, at least when I was home. I brought a few with me on my tours.”
“Well, we know you’re not the best at campfire games.” I poked his arm.
He gave a “hrmmphm” and laughed.
“What’s your favorite board game?” I asked.
He scratched at the teeny hairs that had begun to sprout on his clean, round chin. “Lily always liked games with world domination or buying properties. I prefer trivia games.”
“She’d get on well with Will, then. He’s obsessed. I’ve had
to ban some board games from our house a few times. The first time, it didn’t go well.”
He nodded and crinkled his wrapper, tucking it in his pocket.
I eyed him. He laughed. “For future notes.”
“You don’t plan on leaving again?”
“Nah. You just never know.”
“I used to enjoy tending my flower gardens. I have a thing for flowers. Day lilies and lupine are my favorites.”
“You don’t anymore?”
I shrugged. “I do. It’s…I don’t know. Truthfully, I don’t know why I don’t find joy in them as much as I used to. Harrison had helped me dig and get the garden beds started, but that’s not why.” I turned to him. “What made you choose the army? All those choices—your mom wanting you to be a doctor, your senator uncle, your sister in education…was it for your dad?”
A smiled parted his lips. “Actually it was for me. I was a rebellious teen. Thought I had to prove myself…well, and yeah, a smidge for my dad.” He flicked a thumb to my oversized slippers. “Nice kicks.”
“Thanks.”
He shared a tender look with me, and I had an acute sense of my own heartbeat in that moment.
“I remember when Will was a baby, and a few times when we traveled, Harrison and I would sit in the hallway like this while Will fell asleep in his travel play yard. Funny, huh?”
The dark sensitivity in his eyes deepened. Lord, it was like a sea that I wanted to explore more.
Harrison’s voice popped into my head. It’s okay to miss me, honey baby angel, but it’s okay to keep going, too.
I pointed to the artwork before us. It was a painting entitled Ghosts of Santa Fe, a sweeping and peculiar landscape with subtle emphasis on old wagon-wheel ruts and a lone, haggard oak tree. “Interesting stuff.”
Reid scratched his chin. “You got a favorite artist?”
“Well, after my mom, I love Monet and the Impressionists. I used to watch my mom work at her easel. She loved to draw Native American portraits and commissioned portraits.”
“Fascinating. Maybe that’s where you got your creative gene? Writing?”
I nodded. “She was an inspiration. She also favored and incorporated poetry in her art. She died from cancer before I became a mother myself.”
Will Rise from Ashes Page 23
