by Wiltz, Jenni
She was always supposed to call if she was going to be late.
Her right hand gripped the fence post while her left snaked inside her pocket. She pulled out her dad’s smart phone and held it up. The battery was dead. Her wrist began to shake and her fingers couldn’t hold onto the phone. The screen shattered on impact when it hit the sidewalk.
I’ll fix it, she thought. She reached into her purse, rummaging for the second phone, the one she’d stolen. It was a flip phone, small and black, with a tiny number pad.
She stared at the numbers, wondering why where were too many. She closed her eyes and counted by feel, sliding her fingernails into the spaces between the numbers as she read them out loud. She pressed all the numbers that meant home and held the box to her ear.
“Hello?” her mother answered. “Em, is that you?”
“Mom.” Her voice sounded strange, like it was rolled up in a carpet.
“Em! Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I think I am.” She tried to move—the sun was so hot—but her shirt was still caught on the fence post.
“Where are you? Tell me where you are.”
“The car’s here. I’m going to find it and then I’m going to come home.”
“Em, tell me where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
A field of purple spots floated over the sidewalk in front of her. She blinked, but they didn’t go away. Not yet, she thought. I’m not ready yet. “Mom, tell Dad everything’s all right now.”
“What are you talking about? Baby, where are you?”
“Tell him he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. He can go see Mattie in her play or when she runs.”
“Em, I’m scared. What are you talking about? Where are you?”
“I did it for you,” she whispered. The sun was too hot. Parts of her felt like they were already burned. She should have worn a hat or put on sunscreen. Her mom was always nagging her to put on sunscreen. “Because I love you.”
“Emma! What did you do? Oh, God, Em, tell me you’re okay.”
“Mom, I have to find the car. I have to go.”
“Emma, don’t you hang up! Where are you? Emma, I need you, baby. Where are you?”
“I’ll be late,” she whispered. “You don’t have to wait for me.”
“Emma Christina,” her mother said. Now her voice was hidden under carpet, too.
“But maybe we could say grace? We always say grace.”
She heard a sob and a crash on the other end of the line.
“Mom?” She wanted to tell her mom to put her lunch in the fridge, but her hand was so slippery it dropped this phone, too. The black box fell to the ground and she couldn’t bend down to get it. Something would hurt if she did that. The sun would burn her back. She’d forgotten her sunscreen.
That was all right.
She hadn’t forgotten what mattered most.
She coughed to clear her throat. Something hot and thick had gotten stuck inside it. Then she recited the Swedish blessing her dad had taught her. “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest. Let these gifts to us be blessed.” She tried to say the last word loud enough so that her mom could hear it, too: Amen.
Author’s Note
Thank you for taking a chance on this book. The Red Road has more real-life elements than I usually incorporate in a story, which made it hard to write and even harder to send out into the world. I have more grey hair than I used to, but it was worth it if you enjoyed the book. I’d love to hear what you thought—you can write to me at [email protected] or use the contact form on my website, JenniWiltz.com. I'll also be posting photos of readers with The Red Road there. Snap a pic while reading the book and send it to me!
I’d also be grateful for your honest review. Even a quick star rating on Goodreads can help get the word out!
Thank you so much for reading The Red Road and spending time with these characters, who are such a big part of me.
About the Author
Author photo by Ryan Donahue
Jenni Wiltz writes fiction and creative nonfiction. She has won national writing awards for romantic suspense and creative nonfiction. Her short stories have appeared in Gargoyle, The Portland Review, and several small-press anthologies. When she’s not writing, she enjoys sewing, running, and genealogical research. She lives in Pilot Hill, California. Visit her online at JenniWiltz.com.
