Road and Beyond: The Expanded Book-Club Edition of The Road to You

by Brant, Marilyn

  “If? Donovan, of course there are more—”

  “Then the police can be the ones to find them,” he said. “We’ve got something legitimate that we can give them now. A solid starting point. There’s a storage facility with pipe bombs near Crescent Cove. There’s probably a trucking connection with this Hal guy. Maybe that’s how boxes of explosives were brought to Amarillo. These details ought to give some weight to our claims. And once they’ve cleared up that whole bomb mess, then maybe Jeremy and Gideon’s story will naturally emerge. If they’re dead—” He paused to gulp a few lungfuls of air and fight for his usual sense of control. “Then...then, I guess, they’re dead. But, if not, they could safely come out of hiding then.”

  I chose to ignore Donovan’s attempt at a dispassionate speech. Why the hell did I still have to struggle to get his help despite all of the evidence I’d gathered?

  I gritted my teeth in frustration and returned my focus to the phonebook and the name while Donovan blathered on. Why wasn’t Andy Reggio in there? I glanced again at the journal: Andy Reggio is OK, OK.

  It was written under Tulsa but what if my brother meant that Andy wasn’t only “okay,” as in a person we could trust, but also that he was in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma…which would be the next big stop on Route 66? Maybe the front desk at our motel had an Oklahoma City phonebook. Or maybe we could contact the telephone operator there…but, if not, we were going to have to drive there so I could look this up in person. And, always, talking to people face to face was a better move.

  Donovan may have set a limit on the amount of ambiguous information he could hold in his head, but I hadn’t. I had to know the answers to these questions, even if they led to a thousand other ones. I had to go to Oklahoma City and Amarillo and maybe even Albuquerque. Following the trail that Gideon laid out for us had stopped being optional for me days ago.

  “…so we’ll leave tomorrow morning and we should be back home by Saturday night. Monday, after we’re both done with work, we can go into the police station, okay?” he said.

  “What? No! That’s not okay.”

  “Fine. We can see if anyone’s around on Sunday and, maybe, we’ll—”

  “I’m not going back with you, Donovan.” I crossed my arms and held my ground as I watched the anger color his face. “If you want to drive home, you can do it. There are buses that go to Oklahoma City and Amarillo, and I can take one of them.”

  “For God’s sake, Aurora! I promised your dad I’d keep you safe. There is no damn way you’re staying down here without me.”

  “I’ll tell him I insisted.” I paused. “That I forced you to go. Or that I ran away from you. Whatever it takes.” I glanced at the door. It wouldn’t be too hard to do that for real. To sneak away in the middle of the night. Scary as hell, sure, but not complicated.

  Donovan saw where I was looking and shook his head. “I won’t let you,” he said hoarsely. The look he gave me was almost as desperate and resolute as the way I felt.

  A combination of emotions welled up deep in my chest. I fought it, or tried, but my heart and lungs were constricting. Breathing became harder and I felt those tears of aggravation—tears I didn’t want to show anyone, to Donovan least of all—gathering behind my eyes, making it too difficult to see him in front of me.

  “C’mon,” I managed to whisper. “You know I’ve been lying to my parents about where we’ve been for the past six days. But what you don’t get is that I’ve really been lying to them for years. Not just about this, not just about the search for our brothers, but about everything.”

  Donovan, of course, didn’t really understand what I meant. He was focused on the trip, on his promise to my dad, on our safety.

  “They’re just lost in their own pain,” he said, trying hard—I could tell—to be empathetic. “I haven’t been able to tell my mom everything either. But whatever worry she’s able to spare, she’s spent it on me anyway. I know your mom and dad have to feel the same way, and I know you don’t want to hurt them by worrying them even more.”

  “Of course I don’t but, Donovan, don’t you need to know where Jeremy is and what happened to him? Don’t you have to find the answer?”

  “Not if it’ll hurt someone else too much. I mean, yes, I’m haunted by his disappearance and by whatever the cause of it was, but we know so much more now than we did. After watching that film at Amy Lynn’s that he and your brother made—” He paused and I saw him battle with his own emotions and memories. “I…I felt better, you know? Their intentions weren’t bad. It was just that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had their reasons for what they did.”

  I massaged my forehead with my fingertips. Caught up as he was in preserving his positive mental image of our brothers, he truly wasn’t getting any of this. At least not from my perspective.

  “And that knowledge is enough for you?” I asked. “That feeling of everything being fine because you don’t think Gideon and Jeremy set out to kill anyone or bomb any buildings? You can just stop looking now?”

  “If Jeremy were still alive he would’ve contacted me,” Donovan replied with complete and utter certainty. “So, yes, I found out what I needed to know.”

  I studied his face, realizing how different he and I were in this way. “But it’s not all I need to know. And even if we weren’t talking about a life and death situation involving people we love…even if we weren’t talking about our brothers at all, it still wouldn’t be enough for me.” I bit down on my bottom lip to keep it from quivering. “I can’t keep pretending that my problems are so straightforward, Donovan. Don’t you see? No one understands me. My parents least of all.”

  He shrugged. “Everyone thinks that about their parents when they’re growing up.” He said it gently, softly, not trying to be condescending, but, nevertheless, unable to be anything else.

  But I knew I didn’t have typical teenager issues, like the kind most parents wrote to Ann Landers to ask about. My daughter watches too much TV, Ann. What should I do to encourage her to read books instead? The advice columns were filled with inconsequential crap like that.

  No. As frustrated as I was with Donovan’s overprotectiveness combined with his inability to grasp what I was saying, the problem wasn’t just that he didn’t see the connections I’d been constantly making…or comprehend the sheer need I had to figure out the clues hidden in Gideon’s journal. The problem was my overwhelming helplessness in facing my true self.

  I didn’t know how to stop myself from understanding too much. From perceiving too many signals. From being so aware that it hurt.

  My life was a constant source of painful realizations. I craved an ignorance-is-bliss existence. I was envious of Betsy’s sweet simplemindedness and Donovan’s ability to turn perplexing problems over to others. I wished I could be as easily satisfied and as habitually transparent.

  But, in my reality, I knew that wasn’t anywhere close to the truth. That it might never be. For that to happen, I’d have to trust in another person more than I’d ever been capable of doing. Believe their perceptions were stronger or at least equal to mine.

  And how could I explain to somebody that what gave me my identity was the very thing that kept me from sharing myself with anyone else?

  I couldn’t stop the tears from coming, hard as I tried to hold them back. Even worse, I couldn’t seem to just cry softly, silently. No, I was sobbing. Loud, gasping moans and snivels.

  Donovan looked at me in panic. I could tell he hadn’t expected this. That he wanted to comfort me but didn’t know how. To be honest, I didn’t know how either.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” He gingerly placed his palm on my arm, like a toddler might approach the petting of an unpredictable puppy—one that might nip his hand at any second.

  But it wasn’t okay. Really, how could it ever be okay?

  “S-Sorry,” I whispered between sobs, blindly reaching for the edge of the bed so I could sink onto it and hide my face from his searching expression.

>   I was aware of him moving around the room but, before I could figure out what he was doing, he was back in front of me. He held a box of tissues that he’d found somewhere and pulled a couple of them out for me. I cried even harder into them.

  He sat down next to me and, again, touched my arm with that awkward petting motion. “Aurora, it’s going to be all right. I—I didn’t think you’d get this upset.”

  I knew he didn’t have a clue what had actually set me off, just that he somehow realized there was a much deeper issue at stake. Score one for his insightfulness.

  “Look, if it means that much to you, I guess we can go to Oklahoma City for a day. It won’t take that much time…” He paused. “Would that help? I’m not trying to be unreasonable or to make you mad. It’s just that I think we’re walking into really dangerous territory here and we should go back soon.”

  “I know you do,” I murmured, wiping some of the biggest splotches of wetness away from my cheeks and blowing my nose.

  This was hard. I hadn’t been trying to get my way by bawling my eyes out, but Donovan didn’t know that. I hated the thought of being one of those girls who manipulated guys with her tears and, much as I wanted to go (and would go) to Oklahoma City, I didn’t want him agreeing to take me just because I’d turned into a human water faucet. I told him this.

  He leaned in closer to me and smiled. “You’re forgetting that I didn’t just meet you for the first time last week, Aurora. You’ve never been one of those types of girls. If anything—” He abruptly stopped talking, leaned back and fiddled with the corner of the tissue box.

  “If anything what?”

  I saw a fleeting grimace, as though he hadn’t wanted to reveal that much. But, nevertheless, he continued. “If anything, you’ve been too reserved with your emotions. Too careful. You’re always watching people. Hardly ever letting on what you think of them.”

  He put the box down between us on the bed. “I remember how strong you were during the memorial service. You and I were the only ones who didn’t lose it in front of everyone. I kept checking on you. Telling myself that if you could keep it together for an hour that day, so could I.”

  I exhaled and stared at him, not bothering to disguise my curiosity. During the service, I’d caught him watching me a few times, but I’d never had any idea that was what he’d been thinking then.

  He tugged a little at my shirt, a playful maneuver that normally would’ve made me smile. “And remember that barbeque we had at school when Gideon and Jeremy were just starting their freshman year?”

  I nodded. I’d been in junior high then. Donovan had been a high-school senior. But because they’d had a special event at school one night—some sort of “welcome” ceremony for the freshmen—he and I both had to go with our families.

  “I remember the badly charred hotdogs,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

  He laughed a little. “And I remember you with pigtails in your hair, sitting on the bleachers, taking in the whole scene. It wasn’t a good night for me. Lots of stuff going on at home that I didn’t want to think about. I’d thrown my jacket on a bleacher bench near you and just wanted to grab it, yank Jeremy away from there and go to Super-Tastee for burgers or fries or something. Anything edible.”

  In spite of myself, I grinned at that.

  “But, before I left, I asked you a question,” he said.

  “Yeah, you did.” I remembered every time Donovan and I had ever been alone. “You asked me what I knew about that high-school gym teacher, Mr. Morrigan.”

  “Right,” Donovan said. “‘Cause he was a dick. You’d lived in Chameleon Lake for longer than me. I figured you might know what his story was.” He looked at me. “And you did. You knew about his divorce and all the small-town gossip that came with that. You told me as much in a sentence, but you told me something else, too.”

  He moved a little closer in again. “You studied him standing there across the football field, as if you were seeing him for the first time, and you said, ‘He’s trapped. Like a lobster in a boiling pot of water with his pincers rubber-banded shut. He’s dying a slow death here and he knows it.’ And when I really looked at him, I could tell you were right. You were only twelve, but you sensed all of this stuff about him—things I just knew no one had told you—all from a quick glance. And it wasn’t like you had any bones to pick with him. It was pure insight. Amazing. And dead accurate.”

  I sniffled and he handed me another tissue.

  “So, let’s just say, that’s not a quality I’ve seen in a lot of girls I’ve met. Or guys, for that matter.” He pulled me to standing and waited until I met his eye. “We’ll go to Oklahoma City, but not just because you’re crying, okay? You’ve got good instincts and, I gotta admit, I’ve been reluctant to believe them. But I shouldn’t have been. Maybe there’ll be a solid clue over there.”

  He took a step forward and wrapped his arms around me in the first hug he’d given me since our brothers’ graduation party in St. Cloud. It brought back a rush of memories. Some sad, but some pleasurable, too. I held my breath as he pressed his body gently against mine, only long enough to brush my bangs to the side and peck a tiny kiss on my forehead. Then he stepped back really fast.

  “Minnesota is directly north, though, and I’m planning to head home just as soon as you’re done with Oklahoma,” he said. “We need to get back. We said we’d be home this weekend, and we will be.”

  “Maybe,” I murmured.

  “Definitely,” he countered. There was an intractable degree of conviction in his voice, but I wasn’t going to fight him tonight. I’d bought myself another full day of investigating, and I planned to use every second of it.

  As he turned the TV on and flipped between stations, finally settling on CBS and a repeat episode of Hawaii Five-O, I wiped away the last of my tears and, admittedly, felt better for having shed them.

  It wasn’t as though I thought Donovan really understood me or that the world suddenly made more sense than it had a half hour before. It didn’t. But I appreciated his efforts to reach out to me and, most of all, I was grateful he wasn’t afraid to try.

  ***

  Turned out, Andy Reggio’s name wasn’t in the Oklahoma City phonebook either—something I discovered about four minutes after we got into town. Fortunately, that hadn’t been the only clue Gideon had given us. Seemed there was a place on 100 North Street that sold bikes. Motorbikes, to be exact. And I made Donovan take me there right away.

  “In the market for a Harley?” a sales guy with a scraggly salt-n-pepper beard asked Donovan when we walked in together. I’d grown accustomed to being overlooked by most salespeople most of the time, either because I was with one of my parents and the store owners were trying to win them over, or because I was with a guy, like my brother or Donovan, and everyone knew they were the ones with the money.

  Not so true in our case, though.

  Donovan hadn’t let me spend much of my own cash since we’d hit the road, so I still had a couple hundred dollars left. I wasn’t planning to use it to buy a motorcycle, but Donovan, of course, looked intrigued by them.

  “Maybe,” he told the guy, skimming his fingers down the body of a sleek red one. “Man, she’s beautiful.”

  The salesman nodded, looking half in love with the gleaming chrome and scarlet body of a motorcycle that was curvy in all the right places.

  I wandered away, hearing them delve into talk of horsepower, paint detailing and bike accessories. Meanwhile, I glanced around the shop, giving measured, deliberate attention to its wares. There were probably eighty-five motorbikes on display in a range of sizes, shapes and styles. All of them Harley Davidsons. The kind of place my brother and his best friend would have liked. It was a Route 66 “freedom on the open road” dream come true.

  I imagined a slew of college guys, perhaps just having read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, bursting into the store and impulsively buying bikes to take the rest of their way westward. Something Gideon and Jeremy
might have done if they’d had the chance.

  And then there was this Andy person. If he was from anywhere in Oklahoma and was someone my brother had trusted, then they had to have crossed paths somewhere. Might have even been here.

  “Excuse me,” I said and, then, repeated it a little louder, having to interrupt Donovan and the salesman in the middle of a clearly life-affirming discussion about performance tires. “Do you know anybody named Andy Reggio? A...friend told us he might live in the area.”

  “Why, sure,” the man said, scratching the bottom of his beard where it connected to his leathered skin. “Everyone knows Andy, but he’s a Texas boy. Used to work here more, but he’s got an elderly momma living in Shamrock, so he’s gone a lot these days. Did see him on Tuesday, though. And he said he’d be in over the weekend.”

  “He’s an employee?” My excitement rose at the thought. “And he’s scheduled to work this weekend? Like, tomorrow?”

  The sales guy shook his head. “Andy’s hours ain’t regular like that. He works on special repair projects mostly, but he’s got a mailbox in the staff room and he checks it every day he’s in town. So, if you wanna leave him a note…”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t entirely sure what to say to Andy, but I figured it ought to be worth a shot trying to contact him. What Donovan and I had learned from Amy Lynn had been tremendous, and I couldn’t help but get my hopes up that a conversation with Andy would be just as helpful.

  The guy handed me a pencil and a slip of cream-colored notepaper. “Put down the number where you’re stayin’ and he’ll for sure get back to you. He’s real responsible that way.”

  I shot a look at Donovan, who said, “Aurora, no. We need to get going. Why don’t we give him our home phone numbers, and he can call us in Minnesota?”

  I crossed my arms, shook my head and prepared for a stare down.