Speed of Life

by J. M. Kelly

  I drive until eight o’clock at night, and as the light starts to fade around me, I realize two things: 1) my eyes are stinging so bad that everything looks a little fuzzy, and 2) if I keep going at this rate, I’ll burn out long before I get to McPherson. I pull into a rest stop north of Sacramento and do the whole routine from earlier all over again, minus the coffee—​​stretch, pee, pizza.

  Then I get a sleeping bag out of the trunk. I don’t bother with the tent—​I’m sleeping in the car. There are signs all over saying NO OVERNIGHT CAMPING, but I’m too tired to worry about whether the back seat counts or not. At a rest stop earlier in the day, I’d moved the cooler to the front, but as I climb into the back of the Mustang I’m faced with Natalie’s car seat. In all the yelling and arguing, I drove off with it, and now it sits there, condemning me. I’m the worst mother in the world. I always knew I would be, though, so nothing about the accusation surprises me.

  I spend a few minutes undoing the buckles with trembling hands, and when the carrier’s finally free, I put it in the trunk, which is practically empty without Natalie’s stroller or Amber’s containers. My whole body’s shaking as I spread out the sleeping bag and climb in the back seat again, using a sweatshirt for a pillow.

  Before I left home, I took the Mustang to the car wash and cleaned out the inside really good, but it still smells like Bonehead, and for some reason that gives me the only comfort I’ve had all day long. But as soon as I shut my eyes I see Amber in the yard picking up a wailing Natalie and walking away from me. I squeeze my eyes tighter, wanting to obliterate this morning from my memory. The seat’s hard against my hips, and I wiggle around, trying to get comfortable. If I thought being away from Natalie all day while I was at school was bad, it’s nothing like my loneliness right now. I haven’t spent a night away from her since she was born, and my arms ache, not knowing what to do without her. I wrap them tightly around myself and I guess I fall asleep. The revving engine of a semi-truck wakes me when the edges of morning are still hovering. For a second, I wonder where I am, and then it all slots together and I know the hollow in my stomach has nothing to do with being hungry.

  I hit the road at dawn, and stop in Sacramento for breakfast, an Egg McMuffin without the meat. I get that weird detached feeling again as soon as I’m on Highway 50 and up to speed. The power of the Mustang’s V8 engine is my power, the mile markers flying past my window are my past, and the road ahead is unknown, like my future.

  But the memories press in on me from every side, surrounding me, making my chest tight and my breathing shallow. I inhale deeply, but it’s like right after I run a mile in PE and can’t catch my breath. Thinking I’m not getting enough air makes my heart race with panic, and I grip the steering wheel tighter. Flashes of the last two years zip through my mind like a slideshow. The memories are trying to overtake me from behind, and I press the gas pedal to outrun them. But then they’re coming at me over the horizon, images thrown at my face like asteroids in a video game. They crowd me from both sides and from above.

  Traffic turns out to be what saves me. The closer I get to Carson City, the more I have to focus on my driving. There are a lot more cars here, and I’m able to shake everything bad that’s been chasing me—​the sense of failure, of shame, of abandoning Amber and Natalie. I stop for gas and coffee, but the whole time the tank is filling, my hands are shaking, and no matter how many times I suck in air, I can’t seem to get that one deep breath that lets me relax.

  David’s promised road is nothing but desert and vast nothingness stretching out before me. It’s when I’m finally free of worrying about traffic that the memories I’ve been fighting all morning catch up. They grab me and don’t let go. I’m still driving, but my soul shrinks and sinks down, down, down, until I’m back in that black day. The wrenching pain, the soft encouraging words from Amber, the bright lights overhead. And then total blackness. And I’m in my bed at home, sore and achy, unable to pull myself out of the darkness.

  “Come on, Crys,” Amber says. “Try to sit up and eat something.” But I can’t. Shame has replaced hunger. Fear chokes thirst away. Apprehension, a word I never knew until now, overwhelms my lungs’ capacity to take a deep breath. And the small bit of self-preservation that my body fights to ignite goes out inside me. All there is is dark. And hopelessness. And disgrace.

  Hours later, or maybe days, Amber’s there again, holding the baby’s tiny white body out to me. “Take her for a minute,” she says. And I do. There’s no fight left in me. But the bundle is like a bomb someone has asked me to love.

  “See?” Amber says. “Isn’t she beautiful? She’s perfect.”

  She is perfect. She looks at me with wide blue eyes I don’t recognize and a tiny tuft of strawberry blond curls that I do. But I hand her back as soon as Amber will take her, and I sink into the depths of my mattress.

  “You have to get up, Crystal. This has gone on long enough.” Mom pulls the worn sheet off me, and I try to burrow under my pillow. She yanks that away too. “Grab her arm,” I hear her say. Gil touches me tentatively, and when I don’t fight him, he holds tighter to my elbow and helps Mom lift me out of bed. “Get these disgusting clothes off,” she tells me. “Or we’ll do it for you.”

  “Gil,” I mumble, not wanting to strip in front of him. My voice sounds unfamiliar, cracked and dry. Mom shoos him out of our room, and as I peel off my T-shirt, sticky with sweat, and step out of the leggings I put on at the hospital, I see Amber sitting on her bed holding the baby and watching me.

  “Now,” Mom says, handing me a robe I’ve never seen before, “you’re gonna shower, and then you’re gonna eat something, and then we’re gonna talk.”

  Who is this woman who never said more than “Seriously, Crystal? You? I thought it’d be Amber” when she found out what I’d done? Why does she care now? Why won’t she let me sleep? Why won’t she let me fade into nothing like I want to?

  She marches me to the bathroom and doesn’t leave until I’m standing naked under the shower. I let the water fall on me like sizzling rain until my skin turns pink. Then I shampoo my matted hair. By the time I’ve washed my body, trying to scrub off the shame, the water’s running cold.

  I wonder how long I’ve been in bed. My underarms are hairy, and so are my legs, but it’s been so long since I could reach to shave them they aren’t really indicators of anything. My belly is soft and squishy, instead of flat like it was before the baby, or taut like it was during my pregnancy.

  When I come out of the shower, I pull on the robe and notice for the first time it’s got that weird geometric print of hospital clothing. Probably Mom stuck it in her purse. Or maybe they sent me home in it. When I get back to the bedroom, Amber’s put the baby in a basket propped up on our storage containers, and she’s waiting for me with the special comb we use to untangle our curly hair. She sits me down and starts to work on the mess.

  When she’s done, she leads me out to the kitchen, and I’m shocked to find that Mom’s actually cooked. There’s a mushroom lasagna and one of those salads that come in a bag with a packet of dressing and croutons. Pepperidge Farm garlic bread. All my favorite foods. Amber sits me down, and Gil and Mom take chairs while my sister gets us drinks. We eat a meal together for maybe the first time in my whole life, not counting holidays, which are usually at the Glass Slipper anyway. No one says a word, and the chewing and slurping sounds are magnified by a thousand. Amber puts Jell-O pudding cups in front of us and we peel back the wrappers, all licking the chocolate off the foil at the same time.

  “So,” Mom says, once the little containers are empty. “Are you depressed? Like baby blues? Or are you feeling sorry for yourself because you’re human and you fucked up?”

  I stare at her. “I . . . I’m not sure. Is there a difference?”

  “Amber made you a doctor’s appointment to find out,” she says. “Tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Ahead of me on the highway, lightning flares against the desert sky and the flash
snags my attention, dragging me back to the present and the road. I look at the speedometer, and I’m surprised to see it’s holding steady at eighty-nine miles an hour. I can’t register the speed. It doesn’t feel like anything at all—​even the wind tearing through the open windows means nothing to me—​and I keep my foot down.

  David was right. There’s nothing out here. No one but me, my overwhelming shame, and a couple of birds flying in circles in the hazy sky. I’m surprised by how much darker it’s gotten without me noticing. A storm plays out in front of me, lighting up the clouds like someone striking a match. God . . . I wish I had a smoke. It occurs to me for the first time that if I’m living in Kansas and Nat’s in Oregon, then there’s no reason why I can’t start smoking again. I vow to buy a pack at the next gas station. If there is such a thing. It feels like there’s nothing anymore.

  Just me and the car and this long, flat road with the mountains so far in the distance that they don’t even seem to be getting closer. The storm’s on the horizon, and I keep driving toward it, thinking that maybe when I’m in the middle of it, it will lift me right off the ground and spin me around, dropping me in Kansas like Dorothy. Except I doubt it’s a tornado in Nevada. And that’s not what happened to Dorothy anyway.

  My foot presses harder on the gas pedal and my mind drifts away again. The doctor Mom made me see asks me a lot of questions like “Do you want to kill yourself?” and “Have you considered harming your daughter?” I’m totally shocked. I haven’t had any of these thoughts and I would never hurt her in a million years.

  I’m the one who screwed everything up. She didn’t do anything. My face burns with humiliation at the idea that I would ever injure that helpless little girl. I know I’ve failed everyone—​Amber, my parents, the baby who spent nine months inside of me—​but I’d have to be a monster to want to get rid of her. When the doctor asks me those questions, I know for sure what everyone thinks of me. I’m a horrible, disgusting slut who can’t be trusted to do the right thing.

  The fact that the doctor decides I’m not clinically depressed doesn’t alleviate my disgrace, but it makes Amber and Mom feel better. He tells me I should try to get into a routine and maybe do some exercise, to come see him again if I think I’m going to do anything rash.

  I drive on toward the storm. Overhead the sky is getting darker but no rain falls, and I keep the gas pedal down, trying to outrun all the anxiety fighting for attention in my head. But the rhythm of the tires on the pavement and the repetition of the scenery make it too easy for my mind to drift away from the road, and the demons gain ground again.

  Amber finally gave the baby a name because I wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

  Natalie after a doll we’d had as a kid, Sapphire because everyone in our family would freak if she didn’t have a jewel or precious stone in her name, and Robbins because it was ours, and we had no idea who the father was anyway.

  Amber made all the doctor’s appointments and the ones with social workers to get food stamps for formula. Sometimes she even posed as me, saving me from tough questions. And she found out about daycare at the high school and enrolled Natalie. She acts like she’s not good at organization, but she can totally do it if she doesn’t panic. That’s why Aunt Ruby thinks my sister will be able to run the Glass Slipper someday. Amber arranged our schedules so one of us was always free to watch the baby, and we didn’t have to count on Gil or Mom for anything. She filled out forms, deposited my paycheck once I went back to work, and gave me her tips so I had money to fix up our car. The Mustang was what kept me sane and she knew it. Slowly, methodically, we did what the doctor ordered, and we developed a routine.

  Why did everything have to get all fucked up now? Why did I lie? Why wouldn’t Amber forgive me? Why couldn’t she understand that I knew I was asking a lot of her, but that it was for all of us? The Glass Slipper would be there in four years. We could’ve made a new life for ourselves that was better than anything we’d ever dreamed of. Why did she have to say out loud that I was Natalie’s mother? Why didn’t she stick to our agreement?

  Why, why, why? The words race around in my head, making me dizzy. My foot presses harder on the accelerator. The engine roars. I am so close to flying. That’s what this car was made for, and that’s what I want to do . . . to take flight. If I could go a little faster—​a little bit more gas should do it—​​I’m sure I can get liftoff. So close. I’m so close!

  Ahead of me, lightning flashes like fireworks, ripping apart the sky. Thunder crashes overhead, muffled by the roar of the engine.

  Behind me lights swirl and whirl.

  Red.

  Blue.

  Red.

  Blue.

  Around.

  And around.

  And around.

  The siren rips through the trance I’m locked in, yanking the part of me that is floating over the car back into my body, and I release the gas, pumping my foot on the brake so I won’t go into a skid. After what seems like miles but is probably only a couple hundred feet, the Mustang stops and I turn off the engine. My head falls forward to rest against my hands on the wooden steering wheel.

  I’m so . . . so . . . so tired.

  Chapter 27

  She runs my license and plate number to make sure the car isn’t stolen.

  She examines my insurance.

  She makes me take a Breathalyzer and walk the line.

  Satisfied I’m just an idiot in a powerful car, she writes me the biggest ticket anyone’s ever gotten and tells me to have a nice day.

  After the cop leaves, I sit there staring at the paper in my hand but not really seeing it. And then a tear falls onto the citation—​one big splotch. I’m probably not the first person to cry on a ticket. Pretty soon there’s another fat drop. And then another. After a minute, the tears are falling so fast I toss the ticket onto the passenger seat before it disintegrates.

  I slump forward, sobbing. My body shakes and convulses, shuddering, causing my head to bang against the hard wood of the steering wheel. It’s been over a hundred degrees outside all day, probably hotter in my car, and yet I’m shivering. I rock myself back and forth, the shame cascading off me in salty tears, the humiliation pouring out through my sweat glands, self-righteousness dripping under my arms, soaking my tank-top, the smell of failure stinking up the car.

  After years of berating Amber for sleeping around, of threatening to abandon her if she ended up pregnant, of dragging her home screaming when she was too drunk to say no but not too far gone to fight me, of covering her up with my flannel shirt after she’d danced a striptease on a table, after all that, I was the one who messed up our lives. And did she abandon me?

  No.

  Did she let them take Nat away when I said they could?

  No.

  Did I ever thank her for that?

  No.

  And if I hadn’t had Amber that first month, what would’ve happened to Natalie then? Or to me? What no one knew is that while I was in bed refusing to acknowledge my daughter, I was also trying to convince myself she was actually Amber’s child. I was a traitor even back then, and the whole time, my sister took care of the baby anyway. She fed her and changed her and whisked her out of the room when she cried, so I could sleep.

  And then Amber came up with the idea that saved us all. She offered to raise Nat with me. She told me we’d graduate, meet new people, and after a while no one would even remember I was the one who’d given birth. We’d never mention it. Natalie could call us by our first names, as if we were both her aunts or something. For hours, days, weeks, Amber sat by my bed, telling me how we could do this. And slowly, over that summer, we remade our plans. And how did I thank Amber? I applied to McPherson, lied about it, and ran off, leaving them both the first chance I got.

  After a while, I realize my tears are drying up, but I feel like I might barf, so I pull myself out of the car and stumble around to the side of the road. I kneel on the still-hot ground, dry-heaving. When did I last eat? A be
an burrito at Taco Bell this afternoon? Or was that last night?

  The storm is still in the distance when I first collapse in the dust, but after a while I notice the air has gotten cooler and the sky is almost black. I try to stand, but my knees buckle and I have to lean against the fender. There are bits of gravel and glass embedded in my shins, and I gingerly brush them away. Little spurts of blood appear and there are deep, angry imprints in my skin. Nothing less than I deserve.

  Back in the car, I sit there as the rain starts to fall, plopping onto my windshield and leaving streaks through the dust and grime and dead bugs splattered across it. The weather is getting really cold now, and my throat is dry and scratchy. The half bottle of water I have left is tepid, but I drink it anyway. I need to find food and somewhere to sleep. After driving along the deserted road for another hour, I see a roadside motel and pull in. I’ve given up on camping because of the rain. The motel’s like the one in that old movie Psycho. Perfect. Maybe if I’m lucky someone will jump into the shower and stab me to death. I get a room from a woman in the office who never takes her eyes off the TV, which is good because mine are all puffy and red, making me look like I’m stoned.

  There aren’t any restaurants around, so I get a couple of candy bars from a dusty vending machine and two more bottles of water. My room’s actually nicer than I expect—​clean and with a Southwestern theme. Lots of cactuses everywhere . . . on the sheets, the bedspread, the towels, the wallpaper.

  I stretch out on the bed and eat the candy and drink the water. My mind is swirling, a hot mess of emotions and memories. But I can’t take any more tonight. I stare at a black-and-white photo of a cactus silhouetted against the setting sun until I can’t see the picture anymore . . . it’s a blob of blankness and forgetfulness and nothing.

  I’m hot and sweaty, and sometime during the night I’ve gotten under the covers. I kick them off, but they cling to my sticky legs, confusing my dreams. The room is warm and stuffy, and it’s like a drug to my body. I can’t wake up, and I don’t want to anyway, so I roll over, pulling a corner of the sheet over my eyes to block out the light from around the curtains.