by Gaby Triana
Mom wipes her face and looks straight ahead, a slight smile at her lips. “I can’t believe he missed seeing the babies. He would’ve loved them.” She turns to me and smiles.
I nod.
I would do anything to clear this up with a long ride on Lolita. I want to laugh, cry, scream out loud. But I stand, letting my arms drop at my side. “Well, unless you have more shockers for me, I’ll be going.”
Where, I have no idea.
“Honey, don’t be angry.”
“I’m not.”
“You started researching and becoming more curious.”
“I know.”
“And he always wanted you to know one day. Sometimes, I used to watch you two together and feel like I should’ve convinced him to keep you. To be a father. To work it out. But I knew him, Chloé. My little brother didn’t have two ounces of responsibility in him. The most responsible thing he ever did was hand you over.”
She covers her face with her hands. I know I should console her in some way. This couldn’t have been easy on her, either. I go over to her and sit next to her, leaning my head onto her shoulder. She puts an arm around me and touches my head with hers. This doesn’t mean I’m fine with everything, because I’m not.
“Can I take the bike now?” I know it’s so beside the point, but it’s all I can ask.
She laughs, pretends like she is pushing me away. “Augh, you and that bike.” She gets up and heads for the kitchen, wiping her face with a dish towel. She doesn’t answer my question.
“Can I?” I ask again.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” I think she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t. That wasn’t a yes.
It wasn’t a no, either.
Twenty-eight
For hours, I sit in the dark garage, surrounded by the mixed scents of motor oil and fishing tackle. I feel like I should cry or something, but who can shed tears when surrounded by such loveliness? I cradle my helmet in my lap and watch Lolita.
Seth was my dad.
Of course he was.
Why didn’t I listen to my instincts and figure it out sooner?
Now I can’t get him back, can’t run to him, can’t tell him that I know his secret, can’t ask him all the questions burning inside my head—like how am I supposed to see my baby brothers as brothers now, and not cousins? Should I keep the secret going just for them?
Life sucks. But it could always be worse. Still, it sucks.
And I can’t control it any more than an electron can. Because that’s all I am. A tiny particle trying to reckon with the universe’s larger plan. A chip of ice caught in a massive planet’s orbiting current, along for the ride.
The only light in the garage is the tiny orange circle of the door opener. I stare at it. Open. And since I’m newly dedicated to listening to my heart more, and since maybe Gordon was right when he said I’m a rebel without a cause, unable to stay home while vortices of thoughts spin around in my head—I stand and press it.
The metal garage door springs to life, slowly sliding open like the giant shutter of a weather observatory, exposing the spreading sheets of gray rain clouds dominating the sky. I can’t control my life any more than I can control how I feel. And right now, all I want is to fly.
Down the open road.
With the wind and water.
Under piercing bullets of rain.
I set my helmet down on a storage box. Won’t be needing it. What’s the worst that could happen? I die in an accident and join Seth in heaven the way it should’ve been all along? No braid, no restraints. Nobody telling me what I can and cannot do. Today, I’m my father’s daughter. Today, I’m Motor Girl.
I insert the key and wake Lolita.
We ride through the slicing downpour.
Past cars going too slow, with passengers who gawk at me as I speed by. Past highway patrol cars, officers shaking their heads, as if they know anything about me. How many of them have just discovered their life has been a lie, I wonder. A beautiful lie that will now change their emotional landscape forever?
The heat from Lolita warms my bones, her vibrations making the hundreds of water droplets on her smooth frame and on my jeans disappear into thousands of tiny droplets in the air.
I head up the Turnpike into Miami, where Seth is buried. The rain dies down to a soft patter. I pull into the cemetery and round the curvy road that tries to make people feel at peace about where they are, that fools them into thinking that their loved ones are in a better place. But I’m sorry, there’s no way underground is better than on an open road, wind blasting your face.
I have not been here since the funeral. When there was no stone yet. Only a hole in the ground as we all stood and stared at the sleek brown casket lying inside it.
As my parents drove away, I saw the men come and start filling it.
Now there’s a tombstone. I cut off Lolita’s engine and take slow steps toward it. It’s nice and new, like it was recently put in. It’s not one of those pretty ones that stands up but the kind that lies flat on the ground. It’s covered in freshly cut grass, wet and sticky from the rain. I run my boot over it to uncover the stone:
IN MEMORY OF
DONALD SETH ALLMAN
BELOVED SON AND FATHER
There. Confirmed in all its marble-etched glory.
He always wanted you to know one day.
Father.
To Chloé Lynn Rodriguez. Or is it Chloé Lynn Allman?
The tears fill my eyes so that I can’t see the name anymore anyway. Suddenly, I remember why I haven’t come here since he died. Because I can no-way, no-how handle this.
It’s like a fissure in my chest wall has suddenly cracked open from the pressure. In my mind, I see fragments of someone who could have been more. I see Seth laughing out loud, his carefree look as he takes off on Lolita down the empty street. I see him withering away in his hospital bed, nurses trudging in and out, his silent eyes holding back secrets I could never have imagined.
I see him watching TV in his tiny trailer, smoke curling around his face, having a beer, never caring about anything other than riding, friends, and riding with friends. And me. I see him holding a wrapped bundle of a baby, not knowing what to do with it. Handing her over in such a way that he would always be near.
Cowardly? Or unconditional, unselfish, undying love?
I see him lying in the funeral parlor. It wasn’t him, just wasn’t. There’s no way he would’ve ever done his hair that way. I couldn’t come all the way up to him, although I wanted so much to fix the lacquered locks on his forehead. On some days, I wish I had, just so I could have said goodbye properly to his face.
Suddenly, I see it all, feel it all, everything that’s inside of me, and in one, chest-burning scream, I let it out. I cover my face with my hands. I thought I’d feel closer to him here, but honestly, if I were Sethie, and my spirit could pick one place to be, it wouldn’t be this sad, lonesome place. It’d be where the wind and asphalt were.
I lie down in the grass and press my face against the stone. I know the ground is soaking wet, but so am I. I don’t care. Even if his spirit isn’t here, at least his body is, and that’s something. I imagine he’s listening as I tell him that I know his secret. That I know it must have been hard for him. That he was stupid for not telling me. I tell him about Gordon, losing the bike, the dock, the situation with Rock…and how I feel like I’m on the verge of coming down. Like the Murphy house.
I apologize for having no flowers or offering to leave behind. Not that he would have cared. I let my tears slide down my face and drip into the grass. I imagine them trickling through the earth, past the layers of soil, ants, and chinch bugs…
Down…
Down…
Coming to rest on the smooth, cold metal of his casket. A part of me there to keep him company.
And when I close my eyes, I can almost hear him speak the words I know he would’ve said to me. Cheesy, fortune-cookie clichés from someone who would know.
>
Gotta keep going, Chlo.
Don’t let anything stop you.
You stop, you die.
So just ride, baby.
Ride.
Twenty-nine
Down US-1, through the Keys, against my parents’ wishes. I just ride and ride until the sky turns purple and the watery horizon of the Gulf swallows the sun. The sunset is spectacular, the sky ablaze with orange and yellow clouds. This is what motorcycles were made for. Passing your boundaries. Entering new territory. Throwing it all up in the air to see where it will land.
My cheeks are burned by the wind, and my hair is probably a tangled rats’ nest by now. But I don’t care. It’ll give me something to do later. I’m not worried about my parents. I know my mom’s called twice, but I’ll call her back later. I just need to be alone right now to clear my head.
Downshifting to third, then to second, I stop at a light in Islamorada, trying to ignore the coughs and sputters Lolita’s serving up. Seth would’ve yelled at me by now. He never would’ve let her go this long.
As much as I hate admitting to that.
Two old ladies in a Buick pull up next to me. More gawkers.
What?
They look away.
I think of Gordon for some reason. He can go back to Boston, Siberia, or Antarctica, for all I care. It’s only been a week since I spoke to him on his front steps, but I’m already used to him being gone. It was good to hear him say that he’d be there for me if I needed him, though. Unlikely that I’d take him up on it, but good. I try to hold down a tidal wave rising in my chest.
An hour of lonely miles goes by, but I have no intention of stopping. The night is darker than burnt motor oil. Stars flicker like cheap little rhinestones. As much as I try to reach them, they keep eluding me, leading me farther and farther down the highway. Where, I have no idea.
My eyes grow so wet, I can hardly see.
Within another hour, I’m somewhere between Marathon and Key West. I’ve never been this far south without Seth, without a car, without a helmet or riding jacket before. I am so bare right now.
Maybe I’ll ride until I fall off the last key, past the southernmost point, just wade right into the Florida straits, past sharks and stingrays, all the way to Cuba. I’ll wake up and find myself on the white sugary beaches Papi’s grandma always told me about. Nobody would ever know where I escaped to. Nobody would ever find me. Maybe my biological mom is there too. Tina, basking in the sun, avoiding responsibilities, living a life of complete personal freedom.
I think about that.
Tempting.
But my mother—my real mother back home—would never again live in peace, wondering what happened to her child, the one she raised, the one she loved with all her heart, as though she were her own flesh and blood. Gone. Disappeared without a trace like the spoiled, ungrateful brat that she is.
And I know right away that I could never do that. I can fantasize, escape down this way, sulk, cry, and complain all I want, but I could never leave her. In some crazy way, maybe Tina Norris was being responsible by leaving me behind. Like Seth, she knew she couldn’t handle being a parent. But my folks—my folks took over their parental responsibilities like it was their destiny.
That is some shit right there.
A memory flashes through my mind. It’s of me and Seth when I was about nine or ten. We were on the couch, and I was counting the red hairs in his chin versus brown ones while he watched TV. I remember Papi coming in from the garage and stopping when he saw us. He blinked in this slow sort of way, and I thought it was because he liked what he saw: niece and uncle hanging out together.
But now I think it was more.
Was Papi jealous of Seth? Angry at him? Or both? Did he love Seth as much as I did? How weird it must have been for him to always have Seth around, constantly reminding him that he wasn’t my father—not really.
I owe him. Hugely.
Finally, about two and a half hours after leaving the cemetery, I reach Key West, the southernmost point in the continental United States. I break left at the first light and hear Lolita’s cough worsen. Hang in there. I ride to the public beach and pull into a parking lot to give her a much-needed rest. An hour here and hopefully, she’ll be good to go again.
Stretching, my joints crack and my muscles ache, but it’s a good sort of ache. Crossing the street onto the beach, I revel at the fact that I am the only one here at eleven o’clock at night. I have the end of the island chain all to myself. The open sea all for me.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t reply. I just lie back on the sand, staring up at the universe. The skies are even darker here than at the Murphys’. “Orion, Cassiopeia, Gemini, Ursa Minor…” I name the constellations to myself, then I name them again. I name them for an hour, while the waves ebb and flow five hundred times and my phone buzzes twice more. But I can’t look at it.
Seth was my dad.
The obviousity of it kills me. I should’ve held him tighter. Should’ve kissed his cheek a thousand more times. Father. Papi. Seth… I drift away.
A cough startles me out of my half sleep. I lift my head and focus in the dark. There’s a man there. Standing on the beach to my left, about thirty feet away. Wearing a white long-sleeve shirt, baseball cap, and jeans. Fortysomething, paper bag in his hand. Watching me. Either he’s drunk, has lost his ball bearings, or…he’s evil. I had pushed thoughts of getting into an accident out of my head on the way down, but getting murdered on an empty beach had not once crossed my mind.
Rock’s voice comes out of nowhere to warn me. How did you know it was me and not some crazy freak here to murder you?
The man keeps watching me. I look away. I may stare back at old ladies on the highway like a bad mofo, but this is different. A silent signal goes off somewhere in my head. Instinct kicks in, and I realize if I don’t leave now, I may end up on the news tomorrow morning. This is not how I want my life to end. If I can help it, I would like to live until I’m nice and old, still riding Lolita with my grown children riding alongside me.
I force myself up, and in one swift move, I’m in a standing position, trying not to stumble on the wavy sand. The man comes closer. I don’t know what his problem is. He could be good or bad, he could need my help, or he could use a dollar, but it does not matter, because I am not going to find out.
Walk, walk, walk, sand flipping left and right, my feet shuffling faster and faster. I look over my shoulder and pray that he’s not following me. He’s still standing there, still watching me but not quite following. I jog the last few feet to where Lolita rests, not giving a shit if I look scared now. I notice a pickup truck in the parking lot that wasn’t there when I arrived. Why did I have to channel Seth and ride all bad-ass by myself to faraway places? Why, why, why, why?
Swiftly, I straddle the leather seat, insert the key and twist.
Lolita doesn’t respond.
“Fuck.”
I turn the key again. “I’m sorry about the leak, just please, please…”
Nothing.
The man on the beach starts heading my way. I mumble under my breath. “What does he want? What the hell does he want? Come on, Lola.”
Don’t wait until you break down.
Yes, Papi.
I try again, but Lolita has had it. I didn’t take care of her properly, and she’s teaching me a lesson. Now, of all possible moments, when there’s a strange man headed this way who probably wants to kill me. I don’t want to leave her here, but I know when to value human life more than machinery. Yesterday I would’ve fought for Lolita, done anything to protect the last living piece of Seth. But today, everything’s changed.
I am the last living piece of Seth.
I jump off the bike and run.
“Where you going?” the man calls in a gravelly voice. A harmless man would not ask where I am fleeing to. His hands are in his pockets, another detail I don’t quite like. I run along the length of the sidewalk under the streetlights. The stupidity of
coming here alone slaps me hard.
I run about fifty or sixty feet before slowing down to look back.
The man has reached Lolita and is running his hands along her body, gripping her handlebars. “Nice bike. ’Sit yours?” He smiles.
“What do you want?” I yell, walking backward now.
I watch in horror as he mounts Lolita and pretends to ride her. “Vrrr, vrrrrruunngg,” he grunts, laughing between fake motor sounds. Yes, he must be drunk. He’s lost it too. This must be the gathering place for all who’ve lost it. But I’ve already had my taste of self-pity, and now I need to get home. My situation, whether I like to admit it or not, is not that bad.
Where do I go? I left without my license, without anything, and I already used my few bucks for gas. Now I’m here with nothing but my phone. I look down at it. Admitting I need help sucks. Especially on the terms we last left off.
But I call and wait. He said he’d always be there for me.
After one ring, his voice comes on the line. “Where are you? Your parents have been looking for you everywhere, and I’ve been calling and calling.”
“In Key West. I need help,” I say, noticing the unsteadiness in my voice.
“What the hell are you doing in Key West, Chloé?”
“It’s a long story.” I keep my eyes fixed on the stranger on my bike. “Can you make it?”
“Of course I can make it. But it’ll take me two hours.”
I knew that, but I still want to cry. “I’ll wait. Call me when you’re closer.”
“Jesus…all right…I’m leaving now, I’ll call you in a little while to check on you. Bye.”
I hang up and press my phone against my forehead. “Bye,” I say to no one.
The man still watches me, his hands all over Lolita. He waves his arms around, all crazy-like, then points to the pick-up truck as if he’s offering me the chance to leave with him. When I respond with a bitter finger salute, he acts surprised, fumbles with his keys, gets off Lolita, and climbs into his truck.
