“We need some napkins or something,” he says.
“Here.” I pass up the gauze and some tape, noticing the smears of crimson on Brecken’s hand, too. It’s vibrant, shocking red—or maybe it just looks that way because their skin is so pale.
Then there’s nothing to see but the sides of their bodies, legs close together and arms and hands out of view. I hear the door’s soft alarm. Brecken’s muffled voice. Harper’s small, mousy sounds.
I turn my attention to the windshield. On the glass, her blood is almost gone, only the faintest trail of scarlet left in one corner of the windshield.
“Make sure you have her put some pressure on it,” Josh says.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“I think she’s—” Brecken cuts himself off with a gasp.
And everything happens at once.
Headlights glare from the wrong angle. Not behind us or on the other side of the road. I realize the danger just before I spot the Mustang cutting the wrong way across the lanes. Over the snow-covered median that separates the opposing lanes of traffic.
My lungs freeze over when the speeding car barrels across the snowy divider, sliding into our lanes. It’s coming right at us.
Someone screams. That stupid alarm dings away. Harper and Brecken are diving into the driver’s seat, headfirst. But I’m frozen like the chunks of snow Brecken knocked off the windshield wiper. All I can do is watch as the Mustang’s back end slides left. Swings wide. The car spins, and it’s still coming.
It’s going to hit us. I can see it—the image of it painted in clean, bold strokes in my mind—Brecken and Harper’s legs pinned between the white leather seat and that wide metal fender. There will be so much blood then.
I close my eyes, waiting for the impact. Any second now.
Any second.
December 26
Mira,
Do you know that your name means wonder? I looked it up after we met yesterday. But even if it meant something else, I knew in that moment that’s what I was seeing. I think you might be a true wonder. Living proof that the universe is good and right.
That day in the hospital coffee shop—I thought it would be a nothing day standing in line for overpriced coffee with a bunch of gossiping nurses. But it wasn’t nothing for us, was it? Do you believe in fate? I suppose I don’t even have to ask. After the connection between us, I know you must. I felt it the moment our eyes met. Did you know even sooner? Did you feel it when you heard my voice, offering to pay for your coffee?
You were so sad, eyes red and swollen. You had that crumpled tissue in your hand, and the clerk had to ask you for payment three times before you realized she was speaking to you. Before you checked your pockets and realized you didn’t have money.
It was nothing to pay for your coffee, sweetheart. I would have paid for much more. But you treated it like the most wonderful gift. I felt like an angel, the way you looked at me, with tears welled up in your beautiful, dark eyes.
I don’t think it’s an accident that we met in a hospital, a place where lives begin and end. It all happens so fast, doesn’t it? First, I’m just going along, and then, you were there. It was like the sun coming out after a long rain.
I’ll never forget anything about that day, Mira.
I’ll never let you forget, either.
Yours
Chapter Four
Instead of the crunch I expect, the soft sound of Harper crying cuts through the roar of blood behind my ears. Kayla is dead quiet now, but Josh breathes in and out loudly. My heart thumps hard and fast, a strange contrast to Harper’s slow, steady sobs.
I open my eyes. The Mustang is nestled against the concrete highway divider. It isn’t even bad. It looks like a gentle bump against the wall.
And we’re okay.
We’re okay.
We’re okay.
“We’re okay,” Brecken echoes my thoughts aloud, the same words in a soothing loop, like you’d use with a frightened child. He sounds certain of it. Then he takes a deep breath. “We’re completely safe. It’s over.”
I swallow hard, my whole body shaking. Maybe we’re okay for now. But there are a whole lot of miles left before I’d call us safe. And this sure the hell isn’t over.
Things change after the Mustang incident. I guess it’s hard to laugh it all off after something like that. Brecken checks the driver who wrecked—he’s fine—and then checks Harper’s finger. It isn’t too bad, now that the bleeding has stopped. So, we settle back into driving mode, buckling belts and zipping bags. Harper quietly asks Brecken to drive and he agrees.
No one talks anymore about how the roads aren’t that bad. They’re bad enough that Harper and Brecken almost got killed.
I don’t know what it looks like to get hit by a car, but it’s hard not to think about it now that I have a mental image of them diving into the driver’s seat. I can’t shake that image. And I can’t shake that awful feeling from earlier—the creepy-crawly sensation that someone is behind me. It makes zero sense. I’m not walking down a dark street alone, I’m in a car with four people, none of whom are even looking at me.
Still, for the first time since I boarded the plane in San Diego, I feel frightened.
Fortunately, the next few minutes are blissfully quiet. No one speaks or plays music.
Harper pulls out an expensive-looking notebook and beautiful pen and starts writing, holding her book awkwardly with her injured hand. Josh is reading again. Proust now, but he’s still got his brow furrowed and his thumb running under the lines as he reads, like a conscientious student trying to absorb every word. Kayla slumps back against the window and starts to softly snore as Brecken pulls onto the highway.
Harper is in her own universe with her journal. Josh highlights passages here and there in his book. Kayla moans softly in her sleep, caught in dark dreams, I guess. Only Brecken and I seem present, both of our gazes fixed on the road, the view interrupted by the soft shh-thum, shh-thum of the windshield wipers.
Traffic grows heavier, and the three miles to the next exit take fifteen minutes to drive. It’s not a real exit or the travel plaza Brecken wants, but he pulls in anyway. It’s a no-frills rest stop with a dark-windowed building situated at the top of a small hill. Two sidewalks lead up from the different sides of the parking lot, and a smattering of snowy picnic tables sits off to the right. We pass the first section of the lot—for tractor trailers and RVs. There are two tractor trailers there, but our automobile lot is empty.
Brecken parks and Harper closes her book, checking her phone. The dashboard clock says it’s already 1:08 p.m. Great. It’s mid-afternoon and we can’t be more than 75 miles from the airport. Hopefully we’ll pick up some serious time on the next leg.
“We should all try to go,” Harper announces. “To the bathroom, I mean.”
“Thank you, Mommy,” Kayla says.
“Play nice,” Brecken says, but his tone is too flat for teasing.
“Are you doing okay?” Harper asks. She’s looking at me, so I glance around, but her gaze doesn’t shift. She’s not asking anyone else. Just me. And everyone else is watching, too, four sets of eyes pinned on me like it’s the most obvious question in the world. But only for me.
I give an awkward half laugh. “I’m fine.” Then I look around at everyone pointedly. “Do I not look fine?”
“No, no,” Harper says. “You’re just quiet.”
By the time I glance back, everyone is already busy with their own phones or bags or bathroom plans and who knows what else. It’s almost like they weren’t all looking at me just now, but I’m sure they were. I didn’t imagine that.
Stop it. Stop being paranoid.
Josh twists, looking for his crutches, and I squirm, suddenly desperate to get out of this car. This is probably my best chance to find some privacy so I can call my mom in peace. I want to
climb over Josh or Kayla, who are both dragging their feet, but the civilized part of me that actually remembers manners and human decency knows it’s best to help people who are injured.
“I’ll get them,” I tell Josh, twisting to slide the crutches out of the back, where they’re wedged between our bags. Staying with my trend for manners, I ask him if he needs anything else. Then I ask Harper about her finger. I even ask Brecken if he needs anything.
Eventually, we all exit the car, but I’m the first one up the sidewalk, and I take my time. The day is blissfully quiet and still. It’s nice to not be crammed against strangers. There is nothing but me and the cold, clean smell of the air. I take a breath and think, I could be with Mom right now. She loves winter. She used to force Daniel out for a walk every morning. Now, she’s walking alone.
She’s been walking alone for a couple of weeks. If they were having problems, probably a lot longer than that. A twinge pulls at my middle. I should be home with her. I should have ignored her promises that she’d be fine. She wasn’t fine after Phoebe. I was fine; she was too devastated to be fine.
But Phoebe begged me to go back to school before she died.
I pull open the door to the rest area, and it’s like I’ve stumbled onto the set of a dystopian society. Muddy trails of footprints lead across the tile in a dozen directions, ghosts of travelers long past. There’s been a stampede, but now the building is empty and silent.
All the normal rest area staples are here—the giant wall map flanked by bathrooms with wide entrances, the bulletin board with travel notices and traffic laws. I move past a mostly dark alcove with a sign promising VENDING and then past a tiered rack of tourist attraction brochures for things like whitewater rafting and zip-line canopy tours. Every advertisement is summery and bright, a stark contrast to the bleak, gray landscape outside.
If the entrance was dismal, the bathroom is worse. The pale yellow walls and dark brown tile leave the long, narrow room with a jaundiced glow. Past the empty row of sinks, a line of beige toilet stalls flanks the opposite wall. A single fluorescent bulb strobes on and off above the second sink, a rhythmic flicker that sets my teeth on edge.
I have that same feeling I had in the car, but I don’t think anyone could walk into this room and not worry about a serial killer lurking in one of the stalls.
Still, who knows when I’ll have another chance to pee? I march forward, forcing my eyes away from the twitchy light and the dark familiarity of my reflection in each mirror. Even when the stall door is closed, I feel strange and exposed, my arms prickling with goose bumps.
I finish quickly, and the flush diminishes some of the creepy vibes, as does the hiss of surprisingly warm water from the faucet. I shake my head at myself in the mirror. Clearly, I’ve been watching too many horror movies. Usually, I’m mellow like my dad. Mom, on the other hand, is still convinced a kidnapper could come for me at any moment. She’d laugh about it but would actually be totally wigged out in here.
Once upon a time, my mother laughed a lot.
Outside the bathroom, I pick my way back across the dirty wet floor. I’m still alone in the rest stop, but Josh is approaching the door. I push it open for him, careful to leave him space for his crutches.
“Watch all that water,” I say, gesturing at the floor.
He nods, but doesn’t really look at me. “Are we the only ones in here?”
“Yes. It’s completely creepy. Where’s everyone else?”
“Checking the forecast and looking over the emergency kit. Brecken wants to put on the snow chains.”
I frown. “He can’t. There isn’t anywhere near enough snow.”
“Yeah, I tried to explain that.”
Maybe I’m imagining the superior edge to Josh’s voice, but I don’t think so. He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just moves on slowly toward the bathroom. Yeah, I’m not imagining it. He’s cute, but he’s nowhere near cute enough to be this big of an ass.
I look out the windows where I can see the SUV trunk popped open. Harper, Brecken, and Kayla are beside it. I’m not ready to deal with the cold just yet, so I call my mom. She picks up quickly enough to tell me she was holding her phone, waiting on me to call.
“Mira.” Mom pauses after my name like she’s trying to hide her worry. “I’m so glad you called. Where are you?”
“At a rest stop,” I say, keeping my own voice as cheery as possible. “Merry Christmas Eve!”
“Merry Christmas, honey. Where are you exactly?”
I laugh a little but it’s forced and tight coming out. She’s stressed and sad and is probably staring at a map of Pennsylvania, plotting a way to rescue me from the big, bad blizzard. I wish I wasn’t causing this drama. Because I don’t want her worried. I want to show her some of my newest work—I’ve been experimenting a lot with shadow and light—and drink hot cocoa and ask her why the hell she kept the divorce from me.
But I don’t go into any of that. “We are at a rest stop on I-78. The roads aren’t too bad, but it’s very slow going. I think I’ll be later than I thought.”
“They’re not bad?” She doesn’t sound like she believes me.
“It’s weird. There’s not much snow,” I say. “I think the forecasters overdid it.”
“Mira, the storm is probably just starting to hit you. It’s a mess here. We probably got ten inches.”
“Well, it’s less than an inch here. Maybe it petered out.”
“I really don’t think so. Should I call this family you’re with?” Mom asks. “I could speak to one of the parents.”
“Mom, I’m okay,” I say with a laugh. “I’m technically an adult now, remember? Eighteen since the ninth of August and all. And the parents are super careful. You’d totally approve.”
I should flinch at the lie, but we’re both lying now, aren’t we? How could she not tell me about Daniel? Did she think I’d flip out? Or not come home? Or is she in such a bad state she can’t talk about it? In those first days after Phoebe, she’d stand around with a vacant stare while her cereal went soggy or the eggs in the skillet in front of her smoked and burned.
She sniffs softly and my chest twinges. I can picture her right now, in her faded Mickey Mouse scrubs, her hand at her throat. Like she’s trying to hold in her panic.
“How are things at home?” I ask. A gentle probe.
“Home is fine. I’m worried about you,” she says, not biting.
“I told you, I’m completely okay.” I flinch again, but forge on. “I’ll be home by tonight. Is Daniel working or is he eating with us?”
There’s a catch in her breath before she answers. “We’ll figure it out once you’re home. When you’re safe and sound.”
“Mom, I know you have to be thinking about Aunt Phoebe. I’m worried about you.”
“Mira, we’re both thinking about Phoebe. Sometimes the anniversary of a death can be harder.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure of what she’s getting at.
“But right now, I am concerned about your safety.” Her voice wobbles. “Are you sure you’re okay with these people?”
“One hundred percent.” The lie falls easily from my lips.
“Okay. I trust your judgment. Now, let’s get you home and we’ll talk. Pay attention to where you are. Be smart. Keep your eyes open, right?”
“My eyes are open,” I say softly.
And that’s it. I don’t tell her I know about Daniel. I don’t tell her I can sense she’s upset. I say I’ll be home soon and that I love her, and both of those things are true. But they land in a heap of lies that leaves me queasy when we disconnect.
The second I hang up, I fire texts at Zari.
Me: Did you talk to your mom?
Zari: Where are you? All good?
Me: Somewhere on 78. Roads are fine—this is totally overblown. And my mom STILL hasn’t told me.
&n
bsp; Zari: Mom wouldn’t talk to me about it, but something’s up. I could tell by her face.
Me: Did she say anything?
Zari: Mom’s glad you’re coming home. That’s all she’d say.
Me: Shit. She’s in bad shape again then.
Zari: Don’t know. Maybe she just misses you. How long is it going to take to get here?
Me: Six hours in normal life. God knows in this mess. Also? These people are weird.
Zari: Who are they?
Me: Two guys, two girls from some fancy southern California college.
Zari: USC?
Me: Pomona, I think. It’s a bizarre friend group.
Zari: Are the guys hot?
Me: Not hot enough to be as weird as they are.
Zari: HA! Ok, be careful. I was thinking maybe you could come over. After the concert. You have to make it to the concert, Mira.
Me: I will. See you soon?
Zari: Soon.
I tug my beanie on and decide I’m going to need caffeine to endure the rest of this nightmare. I follow the signs promising refreshments. The lights must be malfunctioning, because the only illumination comes from the panels of the vending machines. I follow the glow and decide immediately that REFRESHMENTS AREA is a stretch, because from what little I can make out, there are a few tables situated in darkness and four sad-looking vending machines. Not exactly a bustling food court.
I fish in my pockets for a few dollars, approaching the blue glow of the soda machine. After the right combination of cash and buttons, a plastic soda bottle tumbles down. I stoop to retrieve the bottle and see something reflected in the plastic door. Something behind me at one of the tables.
No, not something.
Someone.
Chapter Five
I whirl, panic throwing me off balance. My back bumps the machine and my hand presses into my chest. Someone is seated at one of the tables. It’s a man, stooped in the shadows. I can barely make out battered work boots and straight shoulders under a thick flannel coat. I can’t tell where his hands are, and his face is entirely lost under the brim of a battered yellow baseball hat.
Five Total Strangers Page 4
