A Song for the Road

by Kathleen Basi

  Voices approached, a man and woman walking hand in hand. They fell silent, nodding and smiling at Miriam and Dicey as they passed.

  Dicey waited until they were out of earshot. “So Teo … knew?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about the kids?”

  Miriam’s throat closed up. “No,” she said softly. “I was too scared.”

  The moment lengthened, the sun warming the top of her head. She’d been angry so much the past year—the inside of her chest like a volcano under pressure, waiting to blow. But shame was different. Shame felt cold. Cold and hard, and capable of binding her heart so tightly, she struggled to breathe.

  “Wow,” Dicey said. “You really do understand what I’m going through, don’t you?” She made a face and shrugged. “Some of it anyway.”

  They stood awkwardly, looking at each other, not sure what to say. Miriam had never told anyone: not Becky, not her family, not her kids. From day one, she and Teo had conspired to keep it secret. Yet it seemed right, somehow, to tell this young woman who stood now where she’d once been. Maybe now, Dicey would let her help. Who could say? Maybe Dicey could help her.

  Her phone rang again. She slipped it out of her back pocket, her finger moving toward “Silence,” but when she saw who it was, she knew she couldn’t ignore it. “It’s my mom,” she said apologetically.

  “I’ll … um …” Dicey pointed down the stairs. “I’ll just wait for you at the car.” She headed on down the windswept stairs and left Miriam alone.

  * * *

  When Miriam was little, she loved spending time with her mom.

  Maybe it was because her parents worked, and she spent so much time under Jo’s supervision, but she craved her mother’s attention and approval. Mom gave her little jobs to do, like dusting, which morphed into bigger jobs as she proved herself capable. Eventually, Mom taught her to cook the family recipes handed down through generations of Polish women: pierogi and cabbage rolls and paczki.

  She learned not to talk about music; Mom’s eyes always glazed over. Mom liked it better when she talked about what she was learning in math or science. Sometimes they’d stop working so Miriam could write things out on paper and teach them to her mother.

  Mom’s antipathy toward music never made sense to Miriam. Mom had a beautiful voice. She’d pull out two ironing boards and let Miriam help her wash, starch, and iron the altar linens for church. They’d sing and sing: old Latin hymns, Glory and Praise, gospel music.

  It wasn’t that Mom and Dad ever forbade her from pursuing music. It was just that little hesitation every time she talked about it. The deep consideration before they agreed to let her enter a competition, whereas approval for any academic event seemed automatic.

  Miriam tried to find something else. She really did. But nothing set her on fire the way music did. Kept her up nights with anticipation and the glow of creation.

  And the deeper she went into music, the more the low-grade patina of unspoken disappointment seemed to color her relationship with her parents. By the time she realized that said more about their own unhappiness than anything they felt about her, she no longer felt safe opening her heart to them.

  Which didn’t mean they never talked. One of the surprises of adulthood was that families could be perfectly cordial while withholding what mattered most. For years, the long drive to Detroit after Christmas was a ritual of family life, like Sunday afternoon phone calls. But since Teo and Talia’s voices had begun reminding her of the ways she’d failed them, Miriam had managed to limit most contact with her family to e-mail, where a degree of distance made avoiding the hard topics easier.

  Now, standing on the steps of Monks Mound, her secret exposed to the universe, Miriam held her vibrating phone and wondered if she was poised to blow the lid off the fragile equilibrium she’d clung to for so long.

  She breathed deep and swiped “Answer.” “Hi, Mom.” The words came out bright and brittle.

  “Mira! Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Jo said you’d been arrested?”

  “I hope she also said I was released, and it was all a big misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, yes, but are you all right? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” Miriam suppressed a sigh. As vehement as Jo had been about keeping their mother calm, she seemed to have done a pretty good job of winding her up instead. “I don’t know what Jo told you, but I was never in any danger. No charges, no nothing.”

  “Well, thank God for that. But you never know. I hope this doesn’t cause you problems down the line. Did you check to make sure it’s not on your record?”

  Miriam tried to swallow her impatience. Probably it wasn’t Jo’s fault. Mom always gravitated toward alarmism. Most likely, her attention had shut down at the word “arrested.” Miriam supposed if she’d ever heard Blaise or Talia had been arrested, her attention might have gotten stuck there too.

  Exhaustion caught up with her all at once. “Everything’s fine, Mom,” she said, sliding to a seat on the stairs. “I promise. I’m already two states down the road.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Near St. Louis.” She leaned her head against the railing and gazed across the huge lawn that had once been a busy plaza. At the far end, two smaller mounds stood side by side. One for each of her children. “I’m sitting on a Native American mound, actually.”

  “Is that legal?” Her mother sounded shocked.

  “It’s a park, Mom!”

  “I wish you’d called me. I could have flown out and driven with you. I could still come out and meet you. It would be safer than traveling by yourself.”

  “I’m not by myself. I’m traveling with a young woman now. Her name is Dicey.”

  “Yes, Jo said you’d picked up a hitchhiker. That’s at least as dangerous. And what kind of name is that, anyway—‘Dicey’?”

  “The name her parents gave her, I presume. Anyway, there’s nothing to worry about. She’s hardly in any condition to beat me up and rob me. She’s pregnant.”

  “She’s pregnant? That’s even worse. Do you really want to be responsible for her health and safety?”

  The phone case bit into Miriam’s hand. She forced herself to relax. “What do you want me to do, drop her off on the side of the road and say, ‘Good luck’? At eight months pregnant? That’s a real Christian attitude.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. That’s not what I’m saying at all. Buy her a bus ticket to wherever she’s going.”

  “Look, Mom. We’re headed in the same direction. Why not carpool? At least this way, if something happens, she’s with someone who cares about her.”

  A moment of silence, while it registered to both women what Miriam had just admitted.

  I am not replacing my daughter. I’m not.

  Her mother spoke again, her voice lower, more gentle. “But there’s no one to look after you.”

  Miriam bowed her head. For a moment, she let herself sink back through layers of memory, to a time when a hug from her mother had been the safest feeling in the world. Daughters grew and changed, and they found embraces stifling instead of comforting. Did that pendulum swing only once, from dependence to resentment? Or did it eventually reach equilibrium?

  She would never know. At least, not from the perspective of a mother.

  All the more reason to mend fences with her own mother. Miriam rubbed her forehead. “Listen, Mom, I know you don’t approve of all this, but … I’m a mess right now. I need this. Once I get done with this trip, let’s talk. Okay? I just need … I need to focus on me right now.”

  For a moment, Miriam heard only the low hiss of static on the connection. Then her mother cleared her throat. “All right, Mira. Just don’t forget you still have a family.”

  When they’d said their goodbyes, Miriam laid her phone beside her on the steps. At the base of Monks Mound, Dicey, now a tiny figure far below, walked slowly toward the parking lot. Miriam watched her and wondered if ther
e really was such a thing as a second chance for mothers.

  Part 5

  Near Des Moines, Iowa

  Life is about surviving loss.

  —Mary Steenburgen

  Blaise’s intro to the High Trestle Trail Bridge

  The High Trestle Trail Bridge goes across the Des Moines River Valley. It’s one of the longest trail bridges in the world—almost half a mile. It’s part of a biking trail that connects two towns called Ankeny and Woodward. I know, you’re thinking, “A bridge? Really?” But just wait till you see it. It’s a work of art. Like, these things they call “cribbings”—I guess that’s in reference to the structural braces they used to use inside coal mines. And it’s thirteen stories tall! Enjoy!

  21

  Sunday, May 1

  Hannibal, Missouri

  FOR THE REST OF the day, Dicey didn’t mention Miriam’s revelation. She campaigned for and then planned a stop in Hannibal, Missouri, boyhood home of Mark Twain. But on the subject foremost on Miriam’s mind, Dicey remained silent.

  It was unnerving. Miriam had held her secret so long, she scarcely knew who she was without it. There was a giddy yet terrifying weightlessness, merely knowing another living soul knew it now too. She hadn’t realized what a difference it had made, having Teo to share the burden. Now, she waited in agony for the moment Dicey would ask more questions … an agony of simultaneous dread and longing.

  Touring the cave made famous by Tom Sawyer took her mind off it for a while. So did setting up the tent and air mattress at the adjacent campground. But when she left Dicey to go find a grocery store, it came rushing back.

  Miriam returned to find Dicey perched on top of the picnic table, trying to take a selfie while holding a piece of paper that read “Love you forever” in bright pink, outlined in brown. “You want me to do that?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  Miriam snapped several pictures and then handed the phone back. Dicey continued working on her scrapbook while Miriam started cooking. But still not a word about Miriam’s big secret.

  Maybe she should take heart from that. If Dicey accepted the truth so casually, maybe everyone else would too.

  Not Gus, though.

  Miriam closed her eyes and breathed long and slow and deep, a singer’s breath, then exhaled even more slowly, listening to the sound of insects in the trees and squirrels darting around in the undergrowth.

  “This is so much work,” Dicey said. “It’d be easier to go grab fast food.”

  Miriam opened her eyes. Dicey had set her phone aside and was watching her cook. The look on her face made Miriam smile. The kids used to say the same thing, in the same tone of voice, wearing that same look. “Everything about camping requires more effort. That’s kind of the point. To focus on the moment. On the doing.”

  Dicey rolled her eyes. “Did you guys camp a lot?”

  “Had to. We didn’t have money to take big trips.” Miriam turned back to her work. “I remember this one time, Teo set the fire up on the side of a hill. We didn’t realize it until the sausages started rolling off the grate into the fire. He couldn’t stop it. The kids were thrilled because we had to go to Dairy Queen for dinner. It was a huge treat.”

  She rolled the sausages onto plates. “Ready to eat?” She turned to find Dicey munching on root vegetable chips. “Clearly.”

  “Sorry. Got hungry. Needed salt.”

  “You and salt. Is this, like, a medical condition or something?”

  “It’s a none-of-your-damn-business condition.”

  The words were spoken with Dicey’s characteristic biting humor, but they hit Miriam like a physical blow. She turned away.

  Dicey wiggled off the table and came over to embrace her. “I’m sorry. That was bitchy. I know I’m kind of sensitive.”

  Miriam managed a little smile. “You’re right, it’s not my business.” Although the more defensive Dicey got about it, the more suspicious Miriam became. Coughing, salt, and mechanical equipment in the bathroom. It added up to something. She just didn’t know what.

  But Dicey was already moving on. “I don’t suppose you bought ketchup and mustard, did you?”

  Miriam groaned. “No, I didn’t even think of it.”

  “Hmm. Well, lucky for you, I keep all my fast-food packets. Here.” Dicey opened another zipper on her apparently limitless backpack and grabbed a handful.

  “Teo was the one who was good at that kind of stuff,” Miriam said as she doctored her bun. She dropped her voice. “One more thing I never appreciated.”

  Dicey chewed her sausage thoughtfully, swallowing before she spoke again. “You’re awfully hard on yourself. Your family died. It sucks. It’s not fair. But how is it your fault?”

  Miriam’s throat sent up a sudden revolt at the taste of the sausage. With effort, she swallowed, then set the rest aside. “It’s not my fault that they died. It’s my fault that—” A hot wave rushed over her. She focused on the roughness of weathered wood beneath her palms to tether her to reality. “I never told them about …”

  “Their real father.”

  Miriam’s jaw muscles clenched against that phrase, but it was such a relief to have the subject open at last, she let it go.

  Dicey scooted her chips around her paper plate. “I’m sure you had a reason.”

  Miriam nodded slowly. “Yes. But the longer I didn’t talk about it, the more it—the more I changed.” Why had she never realized that secrets harmed the keeper as much as the one left in the dark? “I used to be a good mother, you know. I was never a great wife, but I was a good mother. When they were little, I made their lunches, took them where they needed to go. Cuddled them, kissed their boo-boos. As long as they were little, I could justify keeping it from them. I was protecting them. They didn’t need to be confused, you know? And we were always so busy. And exhausted. Whole weeks would go by when I didn’t even think about it.”

  Dicey leaned on the heel of her hand, listening.

  “But the older they got, the more I could see Gus in them. I couldn’t forget anymore.” Miriam shook her head. “The talent, the single-mindedness … Talia’s charisma … but they were Teo’s kids, you know? In their character. It was Teo who taught them to be human beings. Good human beings.”

  “And you.”

  Miriam spread her hands. “I don’t know about that. Carrying that secret … it got in the way. It didn’t seem to impact my relationship with Blaise so much …” She trailed off. Maybe Blaise had sensed the weight of her secret, and that was why he hadn’t come to her.

  Or maybe he hadn’t come to her because there was nothing to come to her about. Trying to know the unknowable could make a person crazy.

  Miriam shook her head and continued. “But Talia had a built-in bullshit monitor.”

  “Also like you.”

  Miriam smiled wanly. “She knew all the buttons to push. She’d always had these zingers in her back pocket, but it was like one day, they grew barbs. And they were always aimed at me. It was like she knew I was keeping something from her.”

  Dicey groaned. “Miriam.”

  “What?”

  “Aside from the fact that you’re being completely irrational, you’re forgetting something important.”

  “Which is?”

  “Teo knew too. If there’s fault here, it’s on both of you.”

  Miriam pondered that. “He wanted to tell them. I was too scared. I’d started doing these concerts and masterclasses, and it was stressful on the family. I couldn’t imagine adding to it.”

  Dicey looked skeptical. “So you feel guilty because you didn’t tell your kids who their real dad was, and now you’re torturing yourself because you carved out some time for yourself?”

  She left Miriam to think about that while she pulled open a bag of marshmallows and crouched down to roast one. The sun hadn’t yet set, but it had disappeared behind the hulking hill at their back. The glow of the fire pushed back against the gloom that gathered in the shadow of the Mississippi Ri
ver bluffs.

  Was Dicey right? Miriam wondered. The performance career—such as it was—had started while Teo and the kids were in Argentina. She’d rediscovered how it felt to have time for herself, practicing every day until she got her finger coordination back.

  When they came home, Teo encouraged her to find an outlet, so she gave a recital at St. Greg’s, then reached out to every community concert series within a hundred miles. One of them asked her to do a masterclass for local high schoolers. She enjoyed it so much, she added it to her offerings.

  She enjoyed having something of her own, something she could take pride in. But it made life so much harder. They’d felt stretched thin, those last couple of years.

  Dicey’s voice interrupted her reverie. “So I guess their real dad doesn’t know either,” Dicey added.

  This time, Miriam didn’t let it go. “Teo was their real dad. Teo’s the one who raised them. Changed their diapers, sang them to sleep.”

  “Yeah, yeah, my stepdad is my real dad too. I get it. But you’re ignoring my point.” Dicey looked up at her then. “It’s too late now to tell your kids, and it’s killing you. The question is, are you going to tell Gus?”

  That was the question, wasn’t it? The one that had haunted most of her adult life. “I don’t know,” Miriam said. She could barely hear herself over the crickets. “I was afraid. Of how complicated it might get. Afraid he’d ruin them. They were such good kids, and he was such a … cad.”

  Dicey made a face at the old-fashioned word.

  “What possible good could come of telling him now? He’s missed the chance to have a relationship with them. I just feel like …” She pressed her lips together until the pressure in her throat eased. “I screwed up everything.”

  Dicey started fiddling with packages of crackers and chocolate. “Maybe you were wrong not to tell them. Maybe you were right. You may never know. But you can’t torture yourself about it for the rest of your life. You’re a good person.”