Five Total Strangers

by Natalie D. Richards

  I cover my free ear, sure I heard him wrong. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Your mother and I are getting a divorce. I moved out two weeks ago.”

  His sentence feels like a terrible joke. Bits and pieces of questions swirl in the corners of my mind, but I can’t catch hold of anything. Someone pushes past me with a suitcase, and the bang into my knee kicks my words loose.

  “What are—I don’t—a divorce?”

  “I’m so sorry.” He sounds like he is. But it doesn’t matter.

  My words vanish again. It’s too sudden and weird. Was there anything—any clue that this was coming? I’ve only lived with Dad in San Diego for eighteen months, and I was back for six weeks when Phoebe died. And I’ve visited! Nothing has seemed different. Nothing.

  I start forward, suddenly desperate to be in motion. I march without direction, past Arrivals, the Information Desk, the suitcases, cots, and families. Daniel is telling me that he still cares about me and of course my mother, too, and he never meant to hurt anyone, and I’m down the escalator and halfway through the lower level, past baggage claim carousels and rows of plastic chairs in a random curving path to nowhere.

  “Mira?” Daniel’s voice cuts through the fog of my brain. “Are you all right?”

  Funny that he’d ask, but I don’t laugh. “I’m… I’ve got to call my mom.”

  “I really am sorry. I’m surprised that she didn’t talk to you about this.”

  “Yeah. That makes two of us.”

  We hang up with him making promises to stay in touch and me agreeing that of course I’ll reach out if I need him. And yes, Merry Christmas. And a Happy New Year. My hands are so shaky I can barely press the button to end the call. I stop walking just short of smacking into a concrete pillar, my body thrumming with a strange electric buzz. Energy with nowhere to go.

  Daniel is leaving my mother.

  Correction. Daniel left my mother. Past tense. Old news. But not old news to me.

  The world feels sideways, but nothing is different. Passengers pace. Dire weather warnings continue to scroll across every screen in sight. I check through the last three weeks of my mother’s texts, a blathering collection of love you, honey and can’t wait to see you and do you think a ham will be okay instead of a turkey this year? Why the hell would she not tell me something like this?

  Unless she can’t tell me. She could be in that place where she shuts down. Like when Aunt Phoebe was sick. At the end.

  Except that time Daniel was there, making her soup and toast. And I was there, holding her hand and forcing her to talk. What is this going to look like when she wakes up alone on Christmas day? Christmas, which was the ultimate holiday in our family—not because of presents, but because we had a list of traditions that we added to and laughed about every year. Mom had to start taking time off work to fit in all the ice skating and cookie decorating and hikes through evergreen forests. We were a ridiculous trio.

  And now we are a duo.

  Except we aren’t even that, are we? I’m here and she’s there, completely one hundred percent alone.

  Something rattles softly behind me, and I turn to see Harper with something held high in her hands. Her eyes look red and her face is pale, but she’s grinning. “Hey stranger. Change your mind?”

  She did it. She has keys to a car.

  “I thought you had to be twenty-five to rent one,” I say.

  “There are a couple of places that let you do it at twenty-one. If you pay practically double,” she says, checking her phone with a frown. She pockets it decisively. “So, are you coming with us?”

  “Us?”

  “Meet my friends, the fellow castaways from Flight 3694.” She looks back at three people behind her. They’re around her age, and they’re all looking glazed over and rumpled with that shitty-travel-day expression I’m sure I’m wearing, too. Harper, however, is still perfectly put together, a little twitchy and tense maybe, but unwrinkled.

  She turns for introductions like we’re meeting at a fancy lunch and not at ground zero of a travel nightmare come to life.

  “This is Josh.” A blond with sleepy eyes and some kind of injury—guessing from the intense-looking brace on his knee and the crutches he’s using—meets my eyes and gives me a slight nod.

  “Kayla.” A willowy girl waves. Her hair as pale as mine is dark. I think I saw her on the plane. She boarded near me.

  “And Brecken.” Brecken steps forward with an extended hand and a wide and inviting smile. Maybe a little too inviting, but who knows. Maybe that’s just how college guys are.

  I pull my beanie off my head and finger comb my hair back from my eyes.

  Harper gestures at me, her bracelets jangling. “And, everyone, this is Mira. We’re going to drop her in Pittsburgh with you, Brecken. If she agrees to come.”

  I open my mouth to argue, because this is ridiculous. I do not climb into cars with a group of strangers or jaunt off into a snowstorm. The window reveals the same unimpressive flurries. Maybe snowstorm is a stretch.

  Ridiculous is a stretch, too.

  Right now, my mom needs me. This isn’t something I’d normally do, but to get home to Mom? I’ll do whatever it takes.

  Chapter Two

  The airport doors swish closed behind us, and the air outside is all exhaust fumes and smelly engines. Plus, it’s cold. I’m ready to get in the closest car we can find, but Harper has to wait in line for the attendant to do a walk-through or whatever. The line is not short.

  For a minute, the remaining four of us look at each other like maybe we’ll try to chat. I try to imagine this as an adventure, but we don’t look like happy travelers. We’ve got Kayla, pale and limp with a fifty-yard stare; Brecken with his too-tight shirt and nervous hands; and Josh with his pained sighs and sad crutches. And what about me? On the outside, do I look like a girl whose world is smashing to pieces?

  Finally, Brecken says something about calling his mom, and the spell is broken. Obviously relieved, we all nod, wandering in different directions to make calls or look through our bags.

  I dial Mom automatically and remember when her voicemail picks up that she’s at work. I hang up without leaving a message. I don’t even know what I’d say to her. A divorce is not something I can ask about over the phone. Certainly not when I tell her I’m not going to be at the airport as expected and am instead driving through the mountains with total strangers, but hey, enough about that, Mom; tell me about your supersecret divorce!

  I look at Zari’s text instead—When do you land?—and pull up her number.

  I pause before I dial, allowing myself a brief existential crisis over the potential complications here, too. This is hardly the time to worry about our very painful friendship breakup, but it’s also not a great time to miss another one of Zari’s concerts.

  Zari was not a fan of me moving across country. Especially when it meant missing her cello audition for the Pennsylvania Youth Orchestra, a highly selective orchestra she’d been trying to get into for years. She didn’t make it, and, though she didn’t technically blame me, it started a fight. Things were said, and a few months of silent treatment followed. We made a slow, tentative patch-up effort this summer that was supposed to culminate on December 26, when I’d be attending her postholiday breakfast concert.

  Except now I’m not sure I’ll make it. When I do get home—whenever that will be—my mom and I have a lot to talk about. The Phoebe stuff was one thing, but now that I know about Daniel…

  Ugh.

  Zari and I have been best friends since we were kids. And the whole fight was completely dumb and ancient history now. But Zari can be tense about stuff like this and—you know? I probably shouldn’t call her.

  I call her.

  And—dang it, Zari—she answers.

  “Black pants or gray?” she asks instead of saying hello.

&nb
sp; “Gray,” I answer with a grin.

  “Hang on,” she says, covering the mouthpiece and yelling at one of her brothers.

  I missed this. We met when we were nine and our moms started working the same shift at the hospital. Most of those years, we shared what felt like an endless conversation—a rapid-fire back-and-forth with no need for hello or goodbye or small talk. We’d just pick up at whatever random place we’d left off the last time we talked.

  And then I moved, and the long pauses made the conversation weird.

  And then Phoebe got cancer, and there were more pauses than conversation.

  And then there was the missed concert and the fight. She said I was distant, acting like nothing mattered. I said the things that mattered to me were bigger than cello concerts and finding the right New Years’ dress.

  We were probably both a little bitchy and a little right. But that’s what distance does. I didn’t see her in the hallway at school. We didn’t bump into each other at the coffee shop. It was just radio silence until a few texts this summer.

  And now…maybe, finally, a reunion.

  The speaker rattles, and Zari huffs into the phone. “Sorry. You said gray?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good, the black pair is too tight.”

  “It’s probably not.” I’m determined to keep us back in this verbal volleyball match.

  “Eh, I don’t know. Wait—are you here? I thought you landed later.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, well, guess whose flight was canceled?”

  “Ouch. Getting rerouted?”

  “Since they’re practically setting up campfires in the terminals, I’m guessing no. But that’s not even the good part.”

  “There’s a good part?”

  “Did you know my mom and Daniel are getting a divorce?”

  “What? A divorce?”

  “Yep.”

  “When? Like now?”

  “Like two weeks ago. It already happened. The moving out at least. Did your mom say anything about it?”

  “No. And God knows she would.” She inhales.

  “It’s not great,” I say.

  There’s an awkward pause “Mira, with your aunt last year…”

  “Yeah, the timing is less than excellent. Plus, she hasn’t said a word to me.”

  “Sounds like you need to get home.”

  “I am. I’m hitching a ride with some college students I met on the plane.” A stretch, since I didn’t meet anyone but Harper, but whatever.

  “You’re getting in a car with a bunch of strangers?”

  “Do I have a choice? Anyway, the girl driving is nice. She sat next to me on the plane for like, six hours.”

  “And the rest of them?”

  “I don’t know, but if they’re Harper’s friends, I’m sure they’re fine. I just have to get home.”

  “Yeah, you do. Unless you want to miss the second most important musical moment of my life.”

  She means it as a joke, but my laugh falls flat, and the stupidity and the fight all bubble up. I feel the simmer of old wounds beneath the silence on the line. It’s ancient history. We talked about it on one awkward phone call at the end of summer. We were going to start fresh this Christmas. Just get back to being friends.

  She sighs. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know, I know,” I say in a rush. I’m cutting her off because I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to think about it. I want to get home, and I want to find out what the hell is going on with my mom.

  “Hey,” I say, jumping on that idea. “Is there any way you can talk to your mom? Ask her if she knows anything about what happened with Mom and Daniel?”

  “Sure, of course,” Zari says. “Hey, Mira? Be safe, okay?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Maybe call me at a gas station. Tell me how weird they are.”

  I laugh. “I will.”

  As soon as I hang up with Zari, Harper waves us over. We follow her around the back of a parking space. A sleek, white SUV lights up as Harper presses the key. I guess that’s our ride.

  We stay back as she pops the trunk, settling a pricey-looking leather duffel inside.

  “Here, let me get that,” Brecken says, taking my giant backpack. I roll my aching shoulder.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Be careful—the latch is all wonky. Sorry.”

  “I totally get it,” Brecken says, but his matching black bags are so pristine they look like they were purchased in the airport, so I doubt he does.

  Josh goes through a miserable-looking process of balancing on one crutch and then the other to remove his cross-body messenger bag. I gesture vaguely in case he’d like help, but he moves faster, his neck flushed. I hope he doesn’t think I was rushing him.

  “They let you rent this?” Kayla asks Harper. Brecken has her frayed floral duffel bag now, too.

  Harper—texting furiously on her phone—doesn’t look up. “For enough money, they’ll let you rent anything.”

  “Miss Chung?”

  Harper glances at the approaching attendant from the rental car company. He’s holding a large black duffel bag and loops of silver chain. Snow chains for the tires. I glance outside of the parking garage, where I can still see flurries. It isn’t even sticking, so this feels like serious overkill, but the attendant is all the-apocalypse-draws-nigh about it.

  He explains how to put them on the tires and then points out a shovel and flares. Where the heck does this guy think we’re going? Northern Siberia? Wherever it is, the dude is quite determined to get us there safely. Plus, he’s fawning in a way that makes me wonder exactly how much money Harper dropped on this rental.

  Still, it looks large and safe and—most importantly—free, so I keep my mouth shut.

  Brecken adjusts my backpack beside his bags and Kayla’s, and then he shifts Harper’s duffel in for the best fit. And Brecken might have a nice bag, but Harper’s has an emblem that tells me hers cost more than my car. It’s all buttery leather and smooth brass hardware.

  Finally happy with the luggage arrangement, Brecken steps back, but Kayla leans in to shove something in her backpack and make her own rearrangements. I watch, wondering how I’d paint her. She’s like an overexposed photograph: white skin, pale eyes, and hair so blond it looks silvery under the strange gray parking garage lights.

  When she turns around and catches me staring, I offer a brief smile and hope I don’t look embarrassed.

  “You’re from San Diego?” she asks me.

  “Pittsburgh originally. My da—” I cut myself off with a cough. Harper thinks I’m in college. If she finds out I’m not, I don’t know if she’ll keep her offer standing and I’m not taking chances. “Sorry. I’m in school out there. You?”

  She shrugs, looking off to the side. “Something like that.”

  “Where do you live in Pittsburgh?” Brecken asks me once the luggage is all arranged.

  “Beltzhoover. You?”

  “Edgeworth,” he says, which makes sense given his high-end jeans and pristine shoes. But if he’s judging my inferior zip code, he doesn’t show it.

  “Harper said you’re an artist?” Kayla breezes in, pale hair fanned out over her long coat. “Like a sculptor or…”

  I relax. “I’m into painting, mostly. Landscapes and cities.”

  “What’s your inspiration?” Josh asks quietly.

  I shift on my feet, feeling keenly aware of the fact that two attractive college guys are looking at me, waiting for a response. I’m grateful art is the subject. Art, I can talk about. Art is the center of my universe. I know I probably can’t make money creating it, but I want it in my life. I can teach it. Or curate it. Or restore it. Art itself is the thing that inspires everything else. But I know that’s not what he’s looking for.

  “My biggest infl
uences are Gustav Klimt and Jacob Lawrence, but for entirely different reasons. They’re nothing alike, but they both move me.”

  Josh tilts his head. “That’s what moves you? I thought art was inspired by real life, not other artists.”

  I laugh. “Well, yes, but most of the artists I know are inspired by better artists. When we connect with someone else’s work it inspires our own. Those connections are everything.”

  “Connections,” Josh says slowly, smile widening. I can’t decide if it’s cute or if he’s teasing me, and I don’t really care, so I smile back and turn to the car.

  It’s pretty swanky for a rental. Leather seats and cup holders in so many places that we’d probably need three drinks apiece to fill them. We load in without much discussion. Harper fiddles with the emergency kit, unzipping and zipping before she slides into the driver’s seat. Brecken sits beside her in the front, and Kayla gets in the back next to me. Harper’s back to texting, and Brecken pores over a map on his phone. Josh is rearranging his bag in the back, so I could get out and force him to take the middle, but honestly it feels like a crap thing to do to a guy on crutches. When he gets in next to me, I shift over to make a little more room for him.

  It’s weird, being in a car with four strangers. I’m instantly glad Brecken’s up front. He’s all nervous energy, talking fast about alternate routes and weather forecasts. He sounds dire, but honestly the roads are beyond fine. And Brecken strikes me as…intense. Maybe it’s his eyes. Or all the jittering. Either way, I’m glad we’re not rubbing elbows.

  My seatmates are low key in comparison. Kayla’s propped against the window like she’s ready to nap, and Josh is fiddling with his crutches. They’re making the cramped back seat even more cramped.

  “Here, I can take them,” I offer. He fixes me with a long look before reluctantly handing them over. Okay, then. Cute, but a little odd. I stack them on top of one another in the back on top of our luggage.

  “Thank you,” he says, but he looks nervous. Like he thinks maybe I’m trying to flirt with him. Whatever. He probably has a pretentious girlfriend back at college anyway. A poetry and women’s studies double major with tragic bangs and anti-establishment stickers on her laptop.