by Pratt, Lulu
Trying to make sure I’d grasped the situation, I replied, “So if he signs tomorrow, that’s it? No chance of him, err, changing his mind?”
His mom looked at me, eyes partially lidded. “No. He couldn’t if he wanted to.” But then, as if to drive home the point, she added, “And he’s not gonna want to, anyways. That’s the kind of guy he is.”
But maybe not the kind of guy he was with me. Maybe this old, stubborn Cash who was honor-bound and a little reckless could change with the right person in his life. Hint — me. He just had to be given the chance.
His mother’s eye twinkled. “What have you got up yer sleeve?” she asked.
I held out my bare arms with a laugh. “Do you see a sleeve? No sleeves.”
She nodded tentatively, but I could tell from the way she licked her lips that Momma Cash knew that I was up to something, and wasn’t about to stop me. Maybe she wanted him in the service even less than I did. Maybe, just maybe, she’d let me get him home by whatever means necessary. I thought briefly of how hard those four years must have been for her, and knew I could never understand even a fraction of her pain. Of course she’d want me to do this.
I looked directly at her, foregoing Cash’s dad. It was clear who ran this show.
“Do I have your blessing?” I asked, knowing that she’d understand my meaning.
His dad began, “What—”
“Quiet, chickadee,” she interrupted, shushing him. Then to me, a moment later, “Girl, do what you gotta do. Get us our son, and hell, you can marry the bastard.”
Okay. The plan had revved up a lot faster than I would’ve imagined, but hey, I was on a clock. A day, to make it to Northern California? Easy.
“Can you give me the address?” I asked.
A flurry of activity flew up around me. She raced behind the desk, throwing papers left and right, covering the floor. His dad stood by, confused.
While she dug for the address, he turned to me and asked, “Whatcha doin’?”
“Thought I’d go stop Cash from making the worst mistake of his life. Sound good?”
He grinned. “Hell yeah.”
Within seconds, Cash’s mom had returned with a slip of paper, an address and a stack of bills.
“This is all we got in the register,” she explained as she held out the money. “But you’ll need gas and some food.”
“Oh, I can’t possibly—”
She shoved it into my hand. “You’re going to get my son, it’s the least I can do.”
There was no getting around a mother’s love, so I just gave her a small smile and replied, “Okay. Thank you.”
“We believe in you, li’l girl,” she said, a fire burning in her eyes. “Bring Cash home.”
I was out the door moments later, waving them goodbye and starting on the wildest, craziest, most hopeful wild-goose chase of my life.
Chapter 19
Cybil
I WAS TEARING off in that car as soon as my butt hit the seat, burning rubber across hot road, the gears squealing as I forced them into motion.
Mama Cash had given me the address, and I plugged it quickly into my GPS. It looked like it would take me about fifteen hours. I was driving from the bottom quarter of California to the very tip, a trip which, without stops, would be about twelve hours. Factor in gas time and the fact that I’d definitely hit traffic somewhere, it was close to fifteen. Which meant that I’d still arrive well before Cash was set to sign those damn papers.
I careened onto the freeway, and felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest. I’d never so freely and fully followed my heart. Listening to myself was… awesome. It was like this voice I’d been shushing my whole life was finally taking the steering wheel, and that inner voice was an awesome girl who just wanted to experience all the joy in the universe. She was a hedonist, a surfer chick, a foodie, a lover. She knew what was best for me. And now she was in control.
I turned on the radio, and the station switched to old country tunes. This seemed like a definite sign. I remembered my original thought about the tattoo, that it’d been in honor of Johnny Cash. Was the universe just perfectly aligning, sending me signal after signal, to urge me forward to the love of my life?
Tim McGraw came on, and I only needed two lines to identify the song as “Live Like You Were Dying.”
“I’m gonna, Tim,” I whispered to my radio. Do people whisper to their radios? Did this make me a bona fide crazy woman? Possibly. But I was so, so far past caring about anything besides getting to the edge of California and telling Cash everything. That he couldn’t leave, that we had to pursue what we had. That I’d never felt like this before. That I loved every inch of him, his hair, his grin, those eyes, that dick.
I should’ve said it earlier, the minute I’d thought of it in fact. Now, my reticence had come home to roost, and I was dearly paying the price of playing it cool, of trying to be that girl who doesn’t give a shit about anything, who just coasts through life without getting hurt. Turns out, that strategy only works for so long. Even the good times stop rolling when you become too afraid of the bad times. It’s like there are never stakes, so you never feel like what’s happening is real. Like you’re just playing a simulation of life.
“Don’t you worry,” I said aloud. Then once more, shouting through my open window, “Baby, I’m coming for you!”
I slid my sunglasses low over my eyes and grinned.
The hours moved across the horizon, the sun sinking lower as I covered terrain at a remarkable clip. Once the L.A. traffic was behind me, the road was open and empty, a line into the sunset. It’s easy to forget how big California is, to assume that it’s a couple of big cities tightly clustered together. The reality is that the state is huge, but long and thin. That is to say, there are vast expanses of unoccupied, undeveloped land, boasting just a few trailers and maybe a rest stop to their name.
I’d moved out of the ocean climate zone, and was probably somewhere between the desert and the mountains. There was more wildlife appearing along the side of the road, and the air developed a little nip. Then again, the desert gets cold as shit at night, so it’s entirely possible this was still the desert. What did I know? More importantly, what did I care? But I think my senses were on such high alert that I felt compelled to take in every inch of the state that I crossed, as though it were searing itself into my memories, integrating with the fiber of my being.
About four hours passed before I needed a bathroom break and food. Figuring that this was a little less than a third of the way through my trip, I decided that now was as good a time as ever. Or, rather, my bladder decided. It was full to brimming.
After scanning the freeway for a couple more miles, I spotted a sign for a rest stop, and gratefully veered onto the off-ramp. Before long, the gas station was appearing before me in all its washed-out, faded glory, a relic from the ‘60s that had somehow, miraculously survived the decades.
I parked in front of the nearest pumping station and hot-footed it for the bathroom, just barely making it in time to slam the door shut, hastily take down my pants and fall onto the toilet. Reminding myself that I was on a schedule, I finished as quickly as possible, washed my hands and exited.
But I would need snacks, right? After all, this was a sizable trip. I checked my phone — still making good time. And food would keep me awake at the wheel. Really, it was a safety precaution more than anything.
So, with that in mind, I went into the attached convenience store and bought up a litany of delicious snacks. It was like I’d completely forgotten my yoga vows of living cleanly, and only putting “beautiful” food in my body. And you know something? It felt good to forget. The same way that inner outlaw had taken over the steering wheel of my car, so too had she apparently taken over the rest of my life.
And Cash had brought her out. His own rebellious, ‘do I look like I give a fuck?’ attitude had trickled down to me, had allowed my hidden badass to bloom in full sight. I thought, for maybe the thirtieth time that hour,
that I couldn’t let him go. If he left now, for good, how much of the rest of myself would I never uncover? I needed to go deeper, to learn more about the woman I could be when I was with him. Because she seemed great. Fun. In charge.
I smiled at the cashier as she rang up my unusual, jumbled order.
“Cravings?” she asked, her eyebrows darting up with curiosity as she gestured to my pile of food.
“Not quite,” I replied with a laugh. “Guy problems.”
“Mmm-mm,” she hummed in agreement. “Say no more.”
Unprompted, but feeling the need to let my excitement spread, I elaborated, “I’m going to get the love of my life back.”
She stared at me, blank-faced.
“If I don’t stop him,” I continued, unable to shut my trap, “he’ll join the military for four years and then I’ll probably never see him again, and I can’t let that happen, because soulmates are kind of a once in a lifetime thing, you know?”
Her expression remained fixed for a long beat, and then without warning, she pushed all the food back across the counter, close to me, her long fingernails scraping over the metal.
“How much is it?” I asked, digging into my pants for my wallet and avoiding her eyes, assuming I’d wildly overshared and made this poor, innocent service worker once again question her career decisions.
Much to my surprise, she shook her head and held up her hands. “Free. You goin’ to do some rom-com shit, and I love rom-coms. I wanna be that friendly stranger who helps the heroine. We always end up looking the best.”
I laughed exuberantly, knowing exactly what she meant. “Well, thanks,” I replied, scooping up the food into my arms. “And you’re right, the friendly strangers are the best parts. They make me the most hopeful, you know?”
“Don’t thank me,” she replied. “Just go get him.”
“Okay,” I grinned, giving her a final nod before striding out the door and into the fading sunlight. I dumped the food in the passenger seat, then refilled the gas, tapping my toe anxiously as I waited for my meter to read ‘full.’ She’d given me my second — or twentieth — wind, and I was readier than ever to hit the road.
Before long, the meter dinged and I was sliding back into the front seat, turning on the radio and driving into the approaching night. By my estimation, I’d arrive sometime in the middle of the night. How would I track down Cash on a military base? Unclear. But love finds a way.
Hours passed. Time on the road is hardly time at all. It’s a thing that happens to someone else, or to the dust on the ground or the lizards on top of the dust. You’re not a part of it at all, just a spectator in the audience wondering what time will do next, if you wonder about it, period. Mostly, you, or I, listen to the radio and try not to get so excited that you, or I, break all speeding laws known in the United States. And then time passes.
I was on something like hour eight, about two-thirds, or maybe more like one half, of the way through the trip. Night had fully descended. It was around seven. There were roughly seventeen hours — did I do that math right? — before Cash would make a decision, maybe fewer, depending on how accurate his mom’s estimation had been.
And that’s when I heard it. Beneath the crunch of tires over gravel, beneath the sound of country stars crooning into the moonlight. That’s when I heard the definitive noise of something in my engine hissing, gurgling and then dying. I felt the car jerk and stutter, as though stumbling through an empty house, desperately trying to find a phone. I’d known I was fucked from the first noise, but the sudden stop-and-start solidified it.
I was in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night, in the middle of trying to win back my soulmate — and my car had just died.
“FUUUUCKKK,” I screamed, pounding the steering wheel and thrashing my feet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
A moment later, I said aloud, “Okay, stay calm. This happens. It happens. Deep breath.”
I was desperately trying to keep it together, even as every passing moment suggested to me that that was not a realistic goal.
I looked in the rearview mirror, and then over my shoulder, carefully checking the highway for oncoming cars. Nada. On the bright side, that meant I could push my old jalopy to the side of the road without getting run over, but on the considerably less bright side… no one was gonna stop to help me. I know I said this before, but it bears repeating — fuck!
Slowly, I got out of the car, keeping my eyes peeled for oncoming traffic, knowing full well I’d see none. Taking a deep breath, I got behind the bumper, and began to push. One foot, two feet, my heels digging into the ground the entire time. Before long, I’d move the car out of the right-hand lane and off the freeway entirely, onto the desert floor. The air was decidedly cold, and the wind whipped my hair.
Trying very hard to summon up my earlier c’est la vie, anything goes spirit, I took out my phone and my wallet, preparing to get my AAA card and call a tow service. The phone blinked on in response to my touch, and told me something I hadn’t even considered:
No service.
I tried again, holding my phone in the air, running back and forth like a deranged peacock, desperately searching for bars.
Same response.
“Oh… my God,” I said slowly, the truth hitting me. “I’m screwed.”
I sat down numbly on the sand, the gravel biting into my ass, the way Cash’s needle once had. There were insects nearby — I could hear them — but I was too far gone to care.
I’d done everything right in the past eight-odd hours. I’d finally resolved to follow my heart. I’d gotten Cash’s parents’ blessing. I’d embarked on a road trip in the name of love. It was like everything that ought to be, and everyone that I should be, was coalescing into one perfect romantic gesture.
And then the fucking car had broken down.
If I believed in ‘signs from the universe,’ what the hell was I supposed to make of this? Was the universe telling me to quit? Warning me off from certain danger?
Or, was it just may be possible that there was no such thing as a sign from the universe. Maybe everything meant nothing. Maybe we live in a vacuum of coincidences, just being bounced back and forth from one bullshit event to another. Maybe I’d been looking for a greater, fully fleshed plan when there wasn’t even a decently-organized outline.
“Those crystals are crap,” I muttered angrily to myself, picking up a rock between my fingers and throwing it across the desert. “And yoga is crap. It’s all crap.”
Everything I relied on was falling apart before my eyes, painfully and all at once. Is this what love required? If so, it seemed too heavy a price to pay.
But then again… Cash. If I had to go on a spiritual journey to get to him, then maybe anything I learned, or overcame, was worth it. Though I couldn’t say I was exactly in the ‘overcoming’ stages. And besides, the journey would be emphatically not worth it if I missed him or was murdered in the desert by a passing trucker.
Predictably, my fear got the best of me, and by that I mean, finally put some fire in my belly to fix things. I couldn’t give up yet.
With unearned confidence, I jumped to my feet and jogged to the hood of the car. If I could just get in there and figure it out, find the problem, I’d be on my merry little way.
I popped the hood. There was a hiss of steam.
“Oh,” I said bluntly. The entire engine was smoking. This was no simple fix. If I was in regular ol’ automotive class, this car’s problem was in advanced parts auto. That is to say, it was so, so beyond my power of repair, and I knew it.
That was it. I’d exhausted my brilliant ideas. All there was left to do was to hope to grab the attention of a passing driver. Maybe the same passing, theoretical driver who I had, moments ago, conjectured would murder me. At least the coyotes wouldn’t get to me though, right? That’s worth something.
In a huff, I got back into the front seat, putting my feet up on the dashboard. I’d wait here until I saw a light in the rearview, or b
ouncing along the black of the road, and then I’d hop out in a jiffy, flag him or her down, and… and then something else. I hadn’t planned that far. This was all very ‘seat of your pants.’
Like I said, time passes in the desert. One minute, I was awake, looking attentively at the road, waiting like Rapunzel in the tower for a rescue. The next, I was actually awake, and there was a rapping on my window.
I started awake, and caught sight of the analog clock on my dash.
It was seven in the morning.
Cash signed his papers in five hours.
And there was no way I was going to make it.
I almost screamed, but then heard the rapping again. I looked to my left, and there was a man in black sunglasses, built like a Mac truck standing outside my window. Against all good, common sense, I opened the door a crack to talk to him.
“Hey there,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m just here to help. You need a lift?”
Thank God. “Yes,” I replied quickly, and he stepped aside so I could fully open the door and step out.
I didn’t let his sheer size, or harsh buzz cut, intimidate me. I’d apparently just survived a night in the desert. I could handle a bad hairdo.
“Where ya goin’?” he asked me around some gum.
I recited the address, and then explained, “It’s a military base in—”
“I know what it is,” he interrupted with a grin. “And it just so happens that I’m going there.”
“Wh-what?”
“Yup, why else do you think I’d be comin’ through here?” he smiled. “I was just down in these parts doing — well, I can’t tell you what, but military business. Now I’m headed back. Why you goin’?”
I sighed. “Long story. Short version? A guy.” I glanced at the screen of my nearly dead phone. “And I don’t have much time. Like I said, long story.”
