“Last one,” he said. He glanced at me again and asked, more quietly than ever, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
I’d known this was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear him ask. Because there was a piece of me that wanted to talk about it. Deep down, somewhere, I knew that it would be better in the long run, to face it. That the bone would have to be set in order to heal properly, not weak and crooked. I had seen a flash of the Old me in Bronwyn’s mirror in Colorado. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to try to get back to who I had once been. And the rational piece of me knew that not talking about it was keeping me from sleeping and was probably making my hair fall out.
But there was another piece of me, the part I’d been listening to for the past three months, that told me to turn away, not answer, pull the covers over my head and keep on hiding.
Because Roger didn’t know what had happened. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at me the way he had been. Once he found out, he’d turn away from me, then leave me altogether, just like Mom and Charlie had done. And I didn’t want to have to face the look in his eyes when I stopped being whatever he thought I was and turned into something else. I unclasped my knees, placed my feet on the floor, and looked at him. “No,” I said quietly. But my voice seemed to reverberate in the silent car nonetheless.
Roger looked over at me, then back at the road, pressing his lips together, nodding. Then he brought the iPod to life again and turned up the music, beginning his mix again.
I felt like I’d let him down, but I knew that it was better, in the end, to keep this inside. I’d gotten good at that. And soon he’d stop asking. Soon this would just be who I was. Soon Old me would be dead too. I tipped my head against the cold glass of the window. When I felt myself begin to cry, I didn’t fight against it. And when I caught my reflection in the dark window, I wasn’t able to tell what was tears and what was rain.
I called your line too many times.
—Plushgun
MARCH 8—THREE MONTHS EARLIER
I headed back inside the house, pocketing my cell phone. My mother wasn’t in the kitchen, but I could hear her in the family room, talking on the phone, her words clipped and anxious. “Charlie,” I muttered, hating that my brother was doing this to us.
I took the stairs two at a time up to his room and opened the door, and the strong scent of Glade Plug-Ins hit me. I always thought it might have raised my parents’ suspicions that Charlie’s room consistently smelled like potpourri, but they had never seemed to think anything of it. Or if they had, it was like they didn’t want to deal with it, so they never said anything.
Charlie hadn’t appeared in his room, and it looked just like it always did. His posters of James Blake and Maria Sharapova were tacked to the walls, and the bed, never made, was rumpled as usual. Charlie told me that he’d discovered if you never made your bed, it was harder for people to tell if you’d slept in it the night before. I closed the door and checked my phone again. Charlie was usually good at covering his tracks; it was how he’d been able to get away with things for so long.
I thought back to the conversation I’d had with him on our porch six months ago, my failed attempt at an intervention. When I’d threatened to tell Mom and Dad, I’d also threatened to stop covering for him. But I hadn’t done either, just like he’d said I wouldn’t, and here I was ready to try to fix the situation, if only he would give me some information. I sent him a text—WHERE ARE YOU???—and waited, staring down at my phone. But I didn’t get a reply.
I headed back downstairs and heard my parents’ voices in the kitchen. I sat on the bottom step, partially hidden but able to hear what was being said.
“Who else should we call?” my mother asked, and I could hear the raw worry in her voice. I couldn’t help thinking that if it had been me who had disappeared, she wouldn’t be worried. She’d be furious. But then, Charlie always had been her favorite.
“Maybe we should just hold tight,” said my father. “I mean, he’s sure to turn up….”
The kitchen phone rang, and I stood up and stepped into the kitchen, leaning back against the counter. My father smiled at me when he saw me, but I could see how stressed he was. The whistling figure pushing the lawn mower was gone.
“Hello,” my mother said, grabbing the kitchen phone. Her expression changed as she listened to what was being said on the other end. Genuine fear was now mixed in with the worry. “I don’t understand,” she said. “He’s where?”
I hadn’t been able to sleep. We’d checked into a hotel when it became clear that Roger was hitting his wall. He’d gone right to sleep, but I’d spent three hours lying awake, looking at the space between Roger’s bed and my own, watching the clock. Roger was sleeping peacefully, and as I saw his back rise and fall, I envied him that sense of peace. I had taken my cell phone out and placed it next to me on the bed, and every time I opened it, I saw my voice mail icon illuminated. My sense of dread was growing. I knew I’d have to call my mother soon—in theory, we were supposed to be heading in from Ohio and getting to Connecticut that afternoon. We were not supposed to be in Missouri and heading for Kentucky. We were not supposed to be in a different time zone. When six a.m. rolled around, I gave up on the idea of sleep entirely. I grabbed the purple plastic room key card and my phone and headed out to the hallway, closing the door slowly behind me so it wouldn’t slam and wake Roger.
I walked to the end of the hallway, where a large window overlooked the highway. Then I took a deep breath and pressed the speed dial for my mother’s cell phone.
She answered on the second ring, sounding much more awake than I would have imagined she’d be at seven in the morning, her time. “Amy?” she asked. “Is that you?”
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“Hi, honey,” she said. I felt myself blinking back tears, just hearing her voice. I knew that this was why I had avoided talking to her for as long as possible. Because I was feeling so many things right now, I wasn’t even sure how to process them all. It was like I was in overload. It felt so good to hear her voice, but a second later I was furious, and I wasn’t even sure exactly why.
“I’m so glad you called. I have to say, Amy,” she said, and the sharpness was coming back into her tone, what Charlie called her “professor voice,” even though she had hardly ever used it on him, “I’ve been very disappointed with how out of touch you’ve been during this whole process. I feel like I’ve barely heard from you, I hardly ever know where you are—”
“We’re in Missouri,” I interrupted her, which was something I almost never did, since I always knew her next words would be, Don’t interrupt me, Amy.
“Don’t interrupt me, Amy,” my mother said. “It’s just incredibly irresponsible, and—did you say Missouri?”
“Yes,” I said. I felt my heart hammering again, the same feeling that I always used to get whenever I knew I was going to get in trouble.
“What,” said my mother, her voice low and steady, always a bad sign, “on earth are you doing in Missouri?”
“Just listen for a second, okay?” I asked, swallowing and trying to get my bearings.
“Am I stopping you?”
“No. Okay.” I held the phone away from my ear for a moment and looked out on the highway. I thought I could see a little tiny ribbon of light creeping up on the horizon, bringing the dawn. But it might have just been brake lights. “So Roger and I,” I said, trying not to think about how mad my mother was probably growing on the other end of the phone, “we decided to take a little bit of a scenic route. We’re fine, I promise, he’s driving safely and we’re stopping whenever he gets tired.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Mom?” I asked tentatively.
“Did you just say,” she asked, sounding more incredulous than angry, “that you’re taking the scenic route?”
“Yes,” I said, swallowing. “But I promise we’ll be there before too long. We’re just—”
“What you will do,” she said, the
anger now back in her voice, full force, “is get in the car and drive straight to Connecticut. I will put Roger on a train to Philadelphia, and then you and I will discuss your consequences.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Mom,” I said. The words were out of my mouth before I even registered what I was saying. I held the phone away from my face as I stifled a shocked laugh.
“Amelia Curry,” she said, saying the two words that inevitably meant a serious consequence was coming after them. “You are on very thin ice, young lady. This is not some sort of … pleasure cruise. This is not a vacation. You had one simple task to do. As though we haven’t been through enough, you decide to …” her voice shook, and trailed off for a moment, but a second later she was back, sounding as in control as ever. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “You’re making my life much harder—”
“I’m making your life harder?” I repeated, feeling like I’d lost all sense of perspective, just feeling an overwhelming anger that seemed like it might take me over. “I’m making your life harder?” I could hear my voice coming out, loud and a little uncontrolled, sounding nothing like my normal voice. Tears had sprung to my eyes, and my hand that was holding the phone was shaking. I was furious, and the depth of it was scaring me. “Seriously?” I asked, feeling my voice crack and two tears slide down my cheek.
“Let me talk to Roger,” my mother said. “You’re clearly getting hysterical.”
“He’s sleeping,” I said sharply, a tone I’d almost never used with anyone, and certainly not my mother. “It’s six a.m. here. And I’m not getting hysterical.”
“You will come home right now—”
“I don’t think we will,” I said. The scary, huge anger was beginning to ebb and was being replaced by a kind of recklessness that I hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever. “I’ll be there soon, but there’s some stuff we want to see first.”
“You will not,” said my mother, and she was using the voice that usually ended any discussions. But now it just seemed to be egging me on. “You will come home immediately—”
“Oh, so you want me to turn around and go back to California? Because we can do that.”
“I meant,” she said, “come to Connecticut. You know that.” She now sounded mostly tired and sad, like someone had let all the anger out of her voice. Hearing this shift, I suddenly felt guilty, on top of angry and scared and sad myself.
“We’ll be there soon,” I said quietly. I was crying now, and barely even trying to hide it from her. What was so terrible was that this was my mother, and she was so close, just on the other end of the phone. All I wanted to do was to just open up to her, tell her how I was feeling, and have her tell me it would be all right. Instead of this. Instead of how hard this was. Instead of any of the conversations we’d had over the past few months. Instead of feeling so far away from her. Instead of feeling so alone. “Mom,” I said softly, hoping that maybe she’d feel the same way, and maybe we’d be able to talk about it.
“I am calling Marilyn and letting her know what her son has been up to,” she said, her voice now clipped and cold. Taking care of things. I knew the tone well. “If you want to do this, good luck. Just know that you are totally on your own. And when you do get here, know that there will be serious consequences.”
“Okay,” I said quietly, feeling worn out. “All right.”
“I am very,” my mother said, and I heard her voice shaking a little now. With anger, or suppressed emotion, I had no idea. “Very disappointed in you.” Then the phone went dead, and I realized my mother had just hung up on me.
I stared down at the phone and wondered if I should just call her back and tell her that I was sorry and we’d be there as soon as possible. I’d still get in trouble, but probably less trouble. I didn’t want to do that, but I also didn’t want to go the rest of the trip feeling guilty. I played with the room key, turning it over in my hands. And that’s when I saw the message printed in white on the purple card.
WANDERING IS ENCOURAGED.
“Checking out?” the girl behind the front desk asked cheerfully. Roger and I nodded at her, both of us a little blearily. After I’d returned to the room, I’d gone back to bed but hadn’t slept much at all, just staring at the gradually lightening ceiling and replaying the conversation with my mother. I must have drifted off a little, though, because the wake-up call at nine—the one I’d forgotten I’d left the night before—had startled me from sleep. When I had started to get dressed in the bathroom after a quick shower, I’d remembered that I no longer had my own clothes. I’d stared down at my suitcase, with no idea how to put outfits together like Bronwyn could. I’d finally just grabbed whatever was on top—a long black tank top and gray pants that were like a combination of jeans and leggings.
But it seemed that Bronwyn’s clothes were magic, as I could see in the mirror behind the desk that I somehow managed to look more pulled-together than I had any right to. I yawned, feeling exhausted, and even though I covered my mouth, I saw Roger yawn as well about three seconds later.
“Okay …,” the girl said, typing on her computer. I wondered how many cups of coffee she’d had to be this awake, and this friendly, this early. Her name tag read KIKI … HERE TO HELP. “So no charges except the one night’s stay, is that correct?”
“Right,” I said, stifling another yawn.
“And was everything to your liking?”
“Fine,” I said, figuring I should take this one, since Roger hadn’t been conscious for almost any of the stay.
“All right,” said Kiki, fingers flying over her keyboard. “Excellent. So I’ll just put that on the card I was holding the room on?”
“Yep,” I said, mentally rolling my eyes at myself, but feeling resigned to the fact that I was, apparently, going to occasionally speak like a cowpoke from now on. Kiki nodded, smiled, and headed off to the small room behind the desk. I turned to Roger, leaning my elbows on the counter. “Breakfast?”
“If breakfast involves coffee,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “then yes.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Curry,” Kiki said when she returned, looking a lot less friendly than she had just a minute before. “I’m afraid your card has been declined.”
I blinked at her. “What?” I asked, flummoxed.
“I’ve tried it twice,” she said, sliding the card across the counter at me, touching it with only one finger. “It’s not good. Do you have another card?”
“Well,” I said, looking through my wallet, as though there would magically be another credit card in there. “Um …” I didn’t understand how this could be happening. The card wasn’t even attached to my bank account; it was linked to my mother’s credit card. As soon as I thought this, I knew what had happened. I felt my stomach drop as I realized what my mother had meant when she told me I was now on my own. “Oh God, Roger,” I said, turning to him. “There’s something I should probably tell you.”
Roger pushed our shared side of bacon toward me, and I took a piece. It was extra crispy, extra greasy, and really good. But that wasn’t doing much to help the churning in my stomach. I wasn’t sure we were going to be able to pull this off.
I had the atlas next to me on the table, open to the map of the country. The thought of facing all that road between Missouri and Connecticut—without the safety net of an emergency credit card—was making me feel a little sick. We’d pooled our funds, which left us with $440 to get to the East Coast. I’d provided the lion’s share, thanks to my mother’s drawer egg. When Roger had raised his eyebrows at my cash, I’d mumbled something about my mother giving it to me in case places didn’t accept cards.
“What do you think?” I asked, looking down at the pile of money on the table between us. Our waiter, passing by, must have thought that we were assembling his tip, as he stopped and gave us both water refills, accompanied by a big smile.
Roger rubbed his hand over his forehead, which I now recognized was something he did when he was worried. “I think it might be enough,” h
e said. “Hopefully.” He pulled the plate of bacon back to him, took a piece, and crunched down on it. Then he looked out the window, which provided a beautiful view of the parking lot, for a long moment. “I guess I’m just surprised,” he finally said. “When your mother told you to come back, you said no.” He looked across the table at me and raised his eyebrows.
“I know,” I said. I still couldn’t believe that I’d done it—that we were now cut loose, and on our own in the middle of America. That my mother had basically washed her hands of me. I looked away from his direct gaze and down at the scratched surface of the table. Someone had etched into it RYAN LOVES MEGAN ALWAYS.
“Why?” Roger asked simply.
I glanced up at him. I hadn’t asked myself this yet. Saying no had just been my first response. “Because …” I looked out the window as well, beyond the parking lot to the interstate, where the cars were rushing by, heading home, running away, all of them off to somewhere else. I suddenly had the most overwhelming urge to get into the Liberty and join them. “Because we’re not done yet, right?”
Roger smiled but didn’t say anything, choosing instead to eat a piece of bacon pensively, something I wouldn’t have thought possible without seeing the proof.
“I mean,” I said, watching his face closely, “you haven’t seen Hadley yet.” When he still didn’t respond, I felt a sense of dread creep over me. I suddenly felt chilled in Bronwyn’s tank top, even though sunlight was hitting the table and I had been too warm a moment ago. What if he wanted to end it? I had just assumed Roger would want to keep going. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe we were going to change the route and head directly to Connecticut. The thought of being there, of having to begin my life there with my now furious mother, made me feel panicky. I wasn’t ready to do that yet. “But if you want to stop it,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, like saying this wasn’t completely terrifying, “we can.”
Amy & Roger's Epic Detour Page 16
