When we’re together I’m reminded that we are childless parents. It must be the same for Jenna too. Hope is never mentioned by either of us. This is the first time I’ve seen my wife in nearly three months. I understand that the Jenna I’m visiting is a chemically altered version of herself. What saves you changes you. But something seems different today. Is she less tense? The light in her eyes less dimmed? Hard to tell at this point. But something … Or am I just imagining this because I want it to be true?
Dr. Kubrick, Jenna’s staff psychiatrist, has counseled me that, in time, she will want to talk about the reality of our situation, and this will signal substantial progress on the road to healing. But we shouldn’t rush it.
How long will that take? I asked. Dr. Kubrick couldn’t say. Each person is unique. Kind of like being in a coma: sometimes all we can do is wait and hope for the best. Which made me wonder why Jenna couldn’t wait it out at home, seeing her psychiatrist there as an outpatient, instead of here at a cost of ten thousand dollars a month, with insurance covering less than half that amount. But she clearly wants to be here, so we’re making it work. On the one hand, money should be no object. On the other, it will be, if we run out. I’m out of work and soon must pay our health insurance premiums. I don’t know how much longer we can afford for Jenna to be here. Nothing to do now but wait and see.
It’s four o’clock. Jenna is wearing her usual Sanctuary garb: a tennis warm-up suit, this one, pink velour, and running shoes. Exercise is a big part of the treatment here. Jenna does yoga and Pilates, and takes long walks around the grounds.
I’m trying to think of more to report about life at home, anything but the fact that I won’t be returning there when I leave her, at least not directly, when Jenna announces, “They’re serving tea in the conservatory. I love those little cucumber sandwiches, and the pastries. Lately I can’t seem to resist the sweets.”
Another first.
She loops her arm through mine and leads me down a hallway with marble floors and oil paintings on the walls, some by artists whose names I recognize. I can’t help thinking that we’re paying for them. The hallway feeds into a large, sunny room with full-length windows looking out onto the manicured grounds of an English estate garden.
The conservatory has more art on the walls, plus antique furniture—I’m guessing the pieces are not reproductions—and mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookcases. They do not call this the “day room,” I decided during my first visit, because that would bring to mind prisons, nursing homes, and low-rent mental institutions. The Sanctuary is anything but low rent.
Twenty or so other visitors and patients—patients are called “guests” here—are snacking from a long banquet table covered with a white tablecloth. Jenna has put on some weight, I notice, but she still looks beautiful despite this, despite it all.
My lovely, loving, damaged Jenna.
She leads me to the buffet table where we fill our plates with various crustless sandwiches and miniature pastries. Jenna pours tea for herself and coffee for me, remembering my beverage preference, while having suppressed so much else of greater importance.
“This is nice,” Jenna says when we’re seated in upholstered chairs near a window, plates balanced on our knees and our cups on a mahogany butler table with brass hinges. “I’m glad you came.”
She looks at me, seeming concerned.
“You look tired, Jack. I hope you didn’t drive all the way here from Minneapolis without stopping overnight.”
Which would have been more than eighteen hours, straight through. And why does she think I drove instead of flew, which I’ve always done?
“I stayed in Milwaukee and Columbus,” I tell her, not wanting to mention Madison.
I am fatigued, and dinged up like the Harley. I feel as if I’ve ridden here on a horse. I’ve never ridden a horse, but this must be what it feels like when you’re done with a long ride, at least if you’re a tenderfoot like me. The first day on the Harley was exhilarating, adrenaline masking any discomfort. The second day, eight hours in the saddle to Columbus, reminded me why they invented automobiles. Then the accident. And today I rode seven more hours to McLean.
We continue to chat amiably for another half an hour, discussing the pleasant Virginia climate, the new wing under construction at The Sanctuary, where Jenna is in line for a larger suite when it’s completed (at an increased cost), the new chef who has added lighter spa cuisine to the menu, the chaperoned outings you can take to shopping malls and movies and plays, blah blah blah, as we sip our tea and coffee and eat our sandwiches and pastries. Again, I think that Jenna seems more connected than during my previous visits.
She startles me by asking, “Did you also stop in Madison?”
At a loss, I tell her an edited version of the truth.
“I did. I was tired, so I found a hotel …”
“Did you see the campus?”
“I drove through it,” I admit.
“Okay,” Jenna says, and, to my relief, is done with this subject.
When I check my watch, she surprises me again by saying, “Why don’t you come up to my room and rest up a bit before leaving.”
I’ve been to her room only twice before, when she moved in and again when I brought her some things from home she requested: certain clothing, her cosmetics case, her sewing kit (a birthday gift from Hope, which she’s never used) and her laptop computer.
Every other time, we’ve met in the conservatory and then walked the grounds, or had lunch or dinner in the dining room, depending upon the time of day. Maybe Jenna considers her room to be her personal sanctuary. I’ve never asked to go there because I didn’t want to upset whatever delicate balance might be helping her survive.
Jenna is free to leave the hospital grounds whenever she wishes, either on an excursion, or permanently. Once, at her request, I took her to a nearby outlet mall. She bought a hair dryer, some pajamas, and new jogging shoes, and we had lunch. It was nice, but she hasn’t wanted to venture out again, at least not with me.
Her room is actually a spacious and well-appointed apartment, with a living room, bedroom, small kitchen, and a breakfast nook. She leads me into the bedroom, turns down the comforter and sheet on the canopied bed, and says, “I think a shower and a nap before leaving is what you need.”
For me, this is an unexpected but welcome prospect before hitting the road again. I undress as Jenna watches, toss my clothes onto the bed, go into the bathroom, adjust the show-erhead to pulsate, let the hot water massage my neck, shoulders and back, use a loofah sponge for a nice scrub, and then wrap a big terrycloth towel around me and pad back into the bedroom.
Jenna is under the covers, smiling, her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow. I drop the towel, slide under the covers and embrace my beautiful wife, who is also nude. She kisses me and says, “I’ve been missing you.”
I’m overwhelmed with emotion. The old Jenna has reappeared, it seems, at least for this brief time.
The visit becomes conjugal. Lost in the moment, the past is held in abeyance, the future is irrelevant, there is only the sweet present time, a feeling I’d almost forgotten. Later, Jenna lies in bed watching me pull on my shirt, pants, and motorcycle boots. Time to go. She looks happy.
She sits up and shakes a strand of hair from her eyes, a Jenna thing.
“So, cowboy, you just ride into town, steal a lady’s heart, and then ride out again. Is that the deal?”
I study her and decide to go for it.
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“You mean ride to Minnesota on the back of that motorcycle? Like I’m your biker bitch?”
So she saw me arrive. She must be able to see the parking lot from her window. I hadn’t remembered that. I laugh. This really is the Jenna I’ve always known.
“Sure, if you want. Or we can fly, or rent a car, or buy a car, whatever you like.”
She sighs and looks away.
“I can’t do that, Jack. Not yet. But don’t give up
on me. Don’t give up on us.”
OUT IN the parking lot, the night illuminated by sodium-vapor lights, I start up the motorcycle. As I buckle my helmet, I look up at the window of Jenna’s suite. She is standing there, backlit, in a white terrycloth robe, waving at me. I wave back. Then she places her palm upon the window glass, as if touching the night.
I push the Harley off its kickstand, turn my hand on the throttle and cruise away, wondering if Jenna is coming back to me, or if I just took a nap in her room and all the rest was a sweet dream.
11
At seventy miles per hour there is no way for two people on a motorcycle to talk, unless they have helmets with a wireless intercom system. I have just one helmet, and it isn’t rigged like that anyway because I hadn’t planned on a passenger.
All I know about the young, pretty, red-haired, green-eyed girl sitting behind me with her arms around my waist is what she told me when I spotted her hitchhiking at the entrance ramp to I-95 South in Fredericksburg, where I spent the night after leaving Jenna.
Her name is Hannah. She is from Fargo. She is eighteen, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d said thirteen. She is wearing plastic Minnie Mouse sunglasses, a tight Jonas Brothers tee shirt, skimpy cutoff blue jean shorts called Daisy Dukes, I know from Hope, and pink flip-flops. I’m south of the Mason-Dixon Line now; the temperature is in the low 60s and I’m wearing jeans and a tan poplin golf jacket with an Edina Country Club logo over a blue work shirt. My leathers are rolled in my saddlebags, and I don’t expect to need them again on this trip.
Hannah was riding on the back of her boyfriend’s motorcycle, another Harley, from Fargo to Daytona Beach for Bike Week, she told me when I stopped. She and the boyfriend had a fight over “whatever,” and he dumped her back at a Days Inn. She still wants to get to Daytona. Am I headed that way?
I decided on the spot that I would make an unplanned stop in Daytona. It might be an interesting adventure. At least that’s what I told myself. “Hop aboard, Hannah,” I said, and patted the saddle behind me. “Sorry, I don’t have another helmet.”
“Never wear one,” she answered. “Gives me helmet hair.”
She swung up onto the rear seat and shouted, “Giddyap horsey!” And off we went.
I feel her tapping my shoulder. We’ve been riding for nearly two hours, heading south down I-95 toward Richmond. I swivel my head and see her pointing at a sign announcing a highway rest area coming up in two miles. I nod and give her a thumbs-up, swing into the rest area and park in front of a one-story red brick building that looks like a small elementary school. Semis, pickups, and campers are parked in a designated truck area. As I dismount, I notice a group of motorcycles parked several rows back. I pull off my helmet and jacket as Hannah hops off, grinning.
“Sure has warmed up,” she says, tugging down her tee shirt, which has ridden up to reveal the bottoms of her breasts. The denim Daisy Dukes leave very little to the imagination.
Bad dog (me). But I can’t control what I think, only what I do, and I certainly don’t plan to do anything with this girl except give her a lift to Daytona.
A portly, silver-haired, older woman getting into the passenger side of a Hyundai in the next space over is glaring her disapproval at me, which makes me wonder—theoretically—what the age of consent is in whatever state we’ll end up in tonight. Or maybe the old bat just doesn’t like motorcycles.
Hannah crinkles her nose and says, “Boy, thanks for stopping. I sure gotta pee, don’t you?”
“Morning coffee goes right through me,” I admit.
“You go first and I’ll watch the cycle,” she says. She indicates the saddlebags with a nod. “I mean, these aren’t locked on or anything, are they?”
“Okay,” I tell her.
I had two big mugs of coffee with breakfast at the Fredericksburg Ramada Inn. One of my law partners, discussing the challenges of aging, quipped that you can tell a man has passed a milestone when frequency and urgency refer to urination and not sex. Got that right.
“Hey, I was just thinking,” Hannah calls out as I’m walking toward the building. I stop and look back. “We could save some money if we got just one hotel room tonight.”
Interesting. Of course, I won’t take her up on it; I’ll pay for a second room. But the novel Lolita does come to mind. A sexy young girl like Hannah surely can have any man she wants, so I wonder why she’s flirting with an old coot like me. Maybe she’s just amusing herself.
Inside the building, I pass vending machines and a wall containing a big highway map of Virginia, turn into the men’s room, and find myself standing at a urinal beside a man in his fifties, wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off. The back of the man’s jacket reads “Devil’s Disciples,” with a grinning devil’s head beneath the ornate script. He must be one of the motorcycle gang from the parking lot.
As we’re at the sink washing our hands, I notice in my peripheral vision that he is wearing a golf shirt under the open jacket, jeans with a pressed-in front crease, along with boots like mine. No visible tattoos. He certainly doesn’t fit my idea of an outlaw of the open road. He gives a friendly nod, dries his hands with a blower, and leaves first.
I walk outside and look around. I can’t see Hannah or the Harley. The building has two fronts, each facing a parking lot, so I must have gotten turned around. I walk through the open center atrium of the building and scan the front row on the other side. Still no Hannah or Harley. What’s up with this? I notice that there is no truck-parking area on this side, so it must have been the other side where I parked.
I go back through the building and over to the place where I think I left Hannah and my cycle. There is one empty space. I get a feeling like you do when you’ve misplaced your wallet or cell phone, or car keys, but worse. I’ve somehow misplaced a girl and a motorcycle. Did I leave the key in the ignition? I pat my pockets. Not there. Maybe Hannah couldn’t wait for me, and went to the ladies room, leaving the key, and someone drove off with my motorcycle. When she comes out, I won’t be angry, it was an honest mistake. Insurance will cover the loss.
I wait five minutes or so, and she doesn’t come out. I go inside to the ladies room entrance, thinking to call out her name. Instead, I stop a middle-aged woman on her way in.
“Excuse me, sorry to bother you,” I tell her. “I’m looking for my daughter. Would you mind seeing if there’s a teenage girl inside with short reddish hair, wearing a tee shirt and denim shorts? Her name’s Hannah.”
The woman looks me over. Maybe she’s suspicious about the intentions of an older guy wanting to extricate a teenage girl from a rest stop bathroom.
“She’s been in there quite a while, and I’m concerned she might be ill,” I explain.
“I suppose I could do that,” she finally says, and enters the ladies room. She reappears a moment later. “No one like that in there. Sorry.”
Maybe Hannah was kidnapped. I go back out to the rest stop parking area. A boy is holding a leash while a golden retriever sniffs around on the lawn; families are picnicking on benches on a concrete pad under a shelter next to the main building; cars and trucks arrive and depart. Over in the truck lot, a big white, yellow, and green Mayflower moving van roars to life and begins pulling out of its double space. Are Hannah and my Harley in that van, with Hannah tied up and gagged?
While I’m considering running after the van, shouting, it moves away and exits the lot, leaving me wondering what a good next move would be for a guy on foot with no ID, cash, credit cards, or cell phone out here in wherever the hell I am in Virginia. I walk back inside the building and use a pay phone—I didn’t know there still were pay phones in this cellular age—to call 911, which doesn’t require any coins, then go outside to wait.
No more than fifteen minutes later, a Virginia State Police cruiser pulls up. I walk over and identify myself to the trooper, who’s just gotten out of the vehicle, putting on his Smokey Bear hat, just like the trooper in Wisconsin. As we stand beside the crui
ser, I tell my sad tale to Sergeant William Bronson, a tall and lean man in his thirties, I’d guess, with a blond crew cut and soft Virginia accent. He listens to the story of a man who should know better than to let himself apparently be scammed by a teenage grifter.
“Need a ride somewhere, Mr. Tanner?” Sergeant Bronson asks after he’s taken down all the relevant information in a notebook, including a description of Hannah, No-Last-Name.
I’m about to accept the offer when I notice someone walking toward us from the truck lot. It’s the Devil’s Disciple guy from the men’s room.
“Excuse me, but I saw a girl riding away on a Harley-Davidson, and she threw these over there by the exit ramp,” the man says, holding up my saddlebags. “I figured this might be yours, because you’re wearing motorcycle boots and talking to the trooper.” He has a New England accent.
I rummage around inside the saddlebags, and find my clothing and toilet kit, but nothing else. Who knows why Hannah tossed the saddlebags. Who knows why she stole my motorcycle. Who knows why I picked her up. Was it because she is a hot young Lolita, and I did have some vague sexual fantasy? If so, this is my punishment. My former law partner Ted Berquist used to say, you’re only as old as the women you date. Did I really think this girl would want anything more from a fifty-two-year-old man than a ride? Well, apparently Hannah did want more. She wanted my cash, credit cards, cell phone, and motorcycle, and she got them.
“Yes, they’re mine, thanks very much,” I tell the man.
“I’m sorry about your Harley,” he says. He offers his hand. “I’m Harold Whittaker. From Boston.”
We shake.
“Jack Tanner, from Minneapolis.”
“Do you want a ride, Mr. Tanner?” Sergeant Bronson says with a bit of annoyance in his voice.
Ride Away Home Page 7
