Copyright © Daisy Prescott 2018, All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978–1-7321330–0-6
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic methods, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design:
©By Hang Le
Editing:
There for You Editing
Interior Design & Formatting:
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
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Contents
TINFOIL HEART
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
A Note about the Epilogues
Epilogue for Skeptics
Epilogue for Believers
Note to the Reader
More Books by Daisy
Acknowledgements
About Daisy
To RH, I still see the moon.
“GO WEST.”
I reread the note from my dead mother for the millionth time.
Grease and dirt stain the edges of the single piece of notepad paper. Other than the messy scrawl of my mother’s attempt at cursive writing, the page is blank. Two words. Six letters. Not enough to make an interesting anagram or a code to help me decipher a hidden meaning. Stew go. Got sew. Wet Gos, could be short for Wet Gosling. That one is my favorite, but I doubt Mom had Ryan on her mind when she wrote it.
The paper is from a notepad that hung on our fridge for years. Decorated with red chili peppers around the edges and “New Mexico” written along the top, it’s hokey and unremarkable.
Maybe it’s an old joke. Pioneers trudged west in the hope of a better life. Freedom and opportunity waited in the land of big sky. The great West of legends, full of promise only empty, uncharted land can have.
Or a nod to her favorite book, The Great Gatsby, where a group of Midwesterners get sucked into the glamor and razzle-dazzle of the big city. Spoiler alert, it doesn’t end well for most of them. At least that’s what I remember about what I read in high school.
Folding the paper along the dark lines, I tuck it back inside of my wallet before pulling out two twenty dollar bills to tip the men from the junk removal company.
“That’s the last of it, miss,” the bulkier of the men says, smearing droplets of sweat on his forehead with the thick hair on his forearm. “Glad we got it done before this heat gets worse.”
Seems there’s always a bulkier man and a taller man in these types of scenarios. Straight from a Hollywood casting office for a buddy movie.
His thinner, taller colleague shifts his weight from foot to foot, pretending not to stare at my breasts where the August humidity glues the thin cotton of my dress to my bra.
Without glancing down, I peel away the fabric and use it to create a light breeze over my damp skin. One of the joys of being short and curvy is taller men have a direct view of my cleavage unless I wear a crewneck, or even better, a turtleneck. Loose curls escape my ponytail and cling to my neck like sticky noodles to a wall. The thick, gray sky teases rain, a promise of a storm to break through the humidity.
Taller of the two licks his lips and blatantly shifts his personal junk around in his shorts using the palm of his hand. With a lazy smile, he asks, “You staying in town?”
He’s familiar, but I don’t know his name. Don’t remember it from when they showed up an hour ago, and I won’t bother to learn it now. There’s no point in gathering more useless information like names of men I’ll never see again.
I’m never coming back here.
“Well, thanks for taking everything.” I wipe my hands on my skirt and try to put them in the dress’s pockets, only remembering too late this dress doesn’t have them.
What a waste of a nice blue floral summer dress. Every dress should have pockets. So should cardigans. This is why I buy mine in the men’s section of thrift stores. Old man cardigans always have pockets for candy or rubber bands, or whatever old men need to carry in their sweater pockets. My own grandfather put butterscotch and star mints in his. At his funeral a few years ago, I snuck a couple pieces of each into his casket.
Full of rejects from the garage sale, the big truck drives away. I stand alone in the driveway. The desire to wave good-bye hits me in the center of my chest, and I realize it’s not the stuff I’m going to miss, it’s my life.
Behind me, my grandparents’ house, the only home I’ve ever known, is an empty shell. Shadows of old frames and mirrors fill the walls, revealing the true colors of the Laura Ashley floral wallpaper my grandmother installed in the eighties. Sunlight faded carpet darkens where the sofa and Grandpa’s favorite recliner once sat. Upstairs, the bathroom sink still drips, unaware no one is here to curse at the incessant tap, tap, tap against the pink porcelain.
Let the new owners deal with the unreliable plumbing.
The closing is tomorrow. A new family will move in and fill this house with their own memories. I hope they replace the carpet—it’s seen some shit. Literally.
I’m alone.
Single.
No living family.
Can an adult be an orphan? Sure feels that way.
An orphan at twenty-seven. Too old for Daddy Warbucks to swoop in and adopt me into a life of wealth. No adorable mutt by my side to listen to my sad story.
I don’t even have cats.
The last pet I had was a depressed goldfish. He could barely muster up the interest to do laps around his bowl. I could totally relate to him feeling trapped, living a monotonous existence without purpose or passion.
My entire life has been spent in this faded upstate town, long past its prime. Whatever good or interesting that could happen here, already has. Tethered here by my family and small town expectations, I’ve tried to make the most of growing up in a place where success is an echo and hope is a memory.
Now there’s no reason to stay.
A strange sense of freedom expands my ribcage as I inhale the thick, humid air of the New York August day.
Now I can go anywhere. Adventure and the open road await.
Go west.
I stayed because of her.
Mom left once. Right out of high school. She packed up, impatient to put miles between her and this forgotten place. When she came home six months later, pregnant and married, her adventure became an example of why it’s better to accept our place in the world than expose ourselves to unknown disappointments.
At least that’s what the locals like to remind me.
The grass is never greener.
What about my father?
He followed her home and stayed. For a while.
Until he left in the middle of the night.
At first mom said he was away on a business trip.
Then the story changed to caring for a sick re
lative out of state.
Eventually, she told me the truth.
He’d been abducted.
By aliens.
Ten months later . . .
“HE’S HERE AGAIN. Table five,” Wanda whispers conspiratorially, jabbing her pen in the air behind us.
Ignoring her, I finish filling a glass with Coke and set it on the tray next to the other two pops. I continue to ignore her and her pointing pen while I add ice to a fourth red plastic cup before squeezing the soda stream and repeating the process.
“Oh, look, a family just sat in my section. Guess you’ll have to take over table five.” She tucks her pen into her teased, brassy blond hair and grins at me. Today’s lipstick is the frosted peach. Against her deeply tan skin, it reminds me of orange sherbet melting in the blaze of the New Mexico sun.
“I’m busy.” I lift the tray and balance it on the open palm of my left hand.
Delaying the moment until I’ll see him, I pretend I don’t know where table five is located. I even take the long way around the small space to avoid putting him in my sight line.
After setting the drinks on the table, I smile at the tops of the men’s heads as they stare down at their screens. They’re regulars and I’m used to them finding their phones more interesting than the humans around them.
Going rogue, my traitor eyes search the sun-filled dining area for a familiar trucker cap squashing a cyclone of dark hair.
“Ready?” I ask, attempting to sound chipper and happy to be taking their breakfast order in a diner inside a convenience store where the faint scent of gasoline mixes with maple syrup.
Just west of this truck stop, the Pecos River snakes through a narrow channel full of shallow muddy water through flat scrubland. Color me unimpressed. Like most things in my life, the reality far underwhelms expectations. I know there are other more scenic sections of the mighty river, but my illusion is still destroyed.
In my head I always imagined the Pecos to be a majestic river winding through the high desert of New Mexico and the far edges of Texas. A deep blue line through the dusty rose and pale silver green banks like a painting.
I blame my dad.
His well-loved copy of Zane Grey’s West of the Pecos sat in the bookcase like a mystical text. The brown lettering on the cream-colored spine barely visible from years of being cracked open for yet another read. My doodles from childhood decorate the title page. It’s one of the few possessions I took with me from my old life.
After I scribble down four breakfast orders, I pick up the drinks tray and follow the same path back to the waitress station next to the kitchen.
Only then, from the safety of distance, do I allow myself to peek at the two-top table in the corner next to the window.
Table five.
First thing I notice is the boring, off-white coffee mug flipped right side up to indicate he’d like coffee. Next to the mug is a neat pyramid of three individual half and half containers. He’s placed the thin paper napkin in his lap, betraying good manners despite his elbows on the table. The sugar canister remains untouched because he doesn’t like his coffee sweet.
Once I’ve itemized everything on the table, I let my eyes wander to him. Today’s trucker hat is from the Albuquerque Isotopes, a minor league baseball team. Below the rim, his dark brows are drawn together as he studies his phone. I’m too far away to see if his irises are gold or green, or some combination of both, today.
Straight nose, slightly too long for his face, but not sharp. High, wide cheekbones create harsh angles on his cheeks where most people are soft. They’re offset by a ridiculous mustache he likes to chew on when he’s thinking. Sometimes he brushes his finger over the absurd facial hair.
I wonder if the texture is like a rough bottle brush or soft like a makeup brush. Running my finger across my upper lip, I fantasize about what it would feel like against my skin.
This is my life now. Daydreaming about kissing some random man’s mustache.
A man who regularly eats at a restaurant inside a gas station convenience store with a gravel parking lot.
A man who wears trucker hats indoors.
A man who has never spoken to me beyond ordering his food or thanking me for bringing said food or the check. Most of the time he doesn’t even do the last two. I could be a robot for all he’s noticed me.
He’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Not that it matters.
I’m not looking to fall in love.
There isn’t much of a dating market around here. Majority of our customers are passing here through on their way to somewhere more exciting. Most local men work in the local oil fields, at the border patrol academy, or for one of the big agro businesses. Those guys are the eligible bachelors of the bunch.
I’m leaving out the alien hunters, tinfoil hat wearing, UFO obsessed conspiracy lovers, aka my people. I didn’t choose them, or this life, but it’s mine now.
My body shudders at the memory of my last date with a guy who spent dinner telling me how the Kennedys are all aliens. By the end of the hour, he’d only convinced me to remain celibate.
Mr. Mustachioed drums his fingers on the table while staring at his phone’s screen. I notice the absence of a wedding ring on his left ring finger, and note there’s no tan line or permanent indentation either. Not currently or formerly married. Interesting. How does a handsome, apparently healthy specimen remain single around here? Probably his lack of personality.
I swing by the coffee station and pick up the fresh pot. At his table, I pour enough to fill his cup and still leave room for his pyramid of creamers.
“Ready to order?” I ask the top of his lime green hat.
Tilting his head back, his eyes flicker up from the screen. They’re green today.
His gaze settles on my shoulder before focusing on the television mounted across the room. The long, dark lashes around his green eyes beat together as he blinks. Totally and completely unfair that men have naturally thick, pretty lashes.
“Uh, what’s the special?” he asks, staring at the business channel streaming commodity prices along the bottom.
“Chile relleno with your choice of eggs. I think we still have some corned beef hash. And of course we have pecan pancakes.” I don’t bother to fake my usual friendly enthusiasm. It’s Thursday. By now he should know the specials. Like the TV station, they never change.
“I’ll have the pecan pancakes,” he replies, equally as flat.
“Sure.” I don’t bother writing down his order.
Wanda’s at the register and gives me a sly smile when I approach. “Saw you talking to him.”
“He wanted to know the special. He wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. Maybe he’s shy and just wanted to hear your voice.” She digs around in her hair for her pen.
“Not even you could mistake his obvious lack of interest as quiet pining.” I enter table five’s order in the computer.
Humming, she fluffs her hair. “The quiet ones are always the most interesting.”
I know I don’t want her answer, but I don’t stop myself from asking, “Why? Because they don’t speak and can’t ruin the illusion of being a decent human?”
“I was thinking more about in the bedroom. I dated this man once. He barely spoke five words the entire night but the things he could do with his tongue made up for his silence.”
Closing my eyes, I exhale a breath to find my patience for her stories. Wanda shares in an attempt to be friendly. Or at least that’s the nicest excuse I can make for knowing way too much about her life, especially her sex life. Her stories are fascinating and she can make herself laugh over the simplest encounter.
The woman was born to interact with people. Probably why she makes a lot more in tips than I do. Plus, she’s local. Grew up down the road in Artesia. Wanda knows everyone and I’m pretty sure has worked here longer than I’ve been alive.
I’ll be forever grateful she took me under her
wing and showed me around when I first arrived six months ago.
According to her, she knows people who know people who have proof about the infamous alien crash seventy years ago. I’m doubtful. Whenever I’ve asked her to introduce me to these people, it never happens. Instead, I’ve been introduced to more secondary connections who always know someone, but never the actual someone. Frustrated, I’ve given up asking her.
Now I’m another random waitress in a truck stop on a two-lane road in the middle of nowhere USA just east of the not-so-mighty Pecos River.
When I swing through the tables to refill coffee cups and drop off a couple of checks, table five is staring at the TV, furiously typing on his phone. I add coffee to his cup like an invisible ghost. His only acknowledgment is a frown when he lifts the cup and discovers its full.
He makes the same face when I drop off his pancakes and the syrup container. His brow lower as he examines his food that somehow magically appeared in front of him.
A few more regulars arrive, fresh from their early morning rounds of the oil fields. Outside, their white pickup trucks shine like a row of clouds against the bright morning sky. They greet each other, me, Wanda, and even Tony in the kitchen, as if they’ve entered the high school cafeteria.
Loud conversations drown out the droning of the business channel as the guys catch up on gossip.
Only Cranky in his green hat remains silent at his table in the corner.
He folds up his napkin and puts it on his plate, then rests his fork and knife on top. That’s my cue to bring him the check. Knowing he won’t want anything else, I already have it printed and tucked on a black plastic tray in my apron. I don’t bother with the mint we’re supposed to give customers with their bills. He won’t eat it—always leaves them behind.
Silently, I slide the bill on his table and walk away.
He’ll pay in cash and tip twenty-percent.
And never acknowledge my existence.
With a sigh, I plaster on my fake smile and greet my new table.
“What’ll it be, gentlemen?” I ask all friendly and smiley.
As they tell me their orders, I catch movement from the corner.
Tinfoil Heart Page 1
