The Mor Road

by Jennifer AlLee

  My grandmother had Alzheimer's, and that picture always made me suspect my great-grandmother had it too, even though she was never diagnosed. Still, despite the family history, I never considered it might also happen to my mother. When she was diagnosed, I refused to believe it. To acknowledge that it really was happening to her made it more real that, one day, it might also happen to me. But it looks like I can't deny it anymore.

  "I really think you should visit her soon."

  While she still remembers who you are. He doesn't have to say it for me to get the message. "You're right. This is the perfect time for me to come."

  "Wonderful. If only I could convince your sister."

  "You've talked to Lindsay?" Not only have I not seen my sister in years, I don't even know where she lives. For reasons I've never understood, Lindsay does not like me. But when she stopped communicating with me, I just assumed it extended to the whole family.

  "She calls every now and then. I spoke to her a few weeks ago."

  Apparently, I was wrong. "Oh."

  "I told her what was going on with your mother, but she won't come."

  "Why?"

  "She absolutely refuses to get on a plane."

  I snort into the phone. "She's probably just afraid of running into me."

  "Now, Natalie." His voice is reproachful, but in a kind way. "You know your sister loves you."

  No, I really don't. But there's no use making Dad feel worse. "I'm sorry she won't come. If I knew where she was, I'd get her myself and bring her to you."

  "You would?" Dad's voice goes up a decibel. "Sugar Plum, that would be wonderful."

  What is he talking about? I was just making a grandiose gesture, something to make him feel better. Like saying, "I'd give you the moon on a silver platter." No one really expects you to do that, but they're awfully happy when you say it.

  "Well, if I could, sure. But I don't even know where she's living now."

  "I do. In fact, she doesn't live far from you. Hold on." I hear papers rustling in the background, the muffled scrape of the mouthpiece rubbing against his chin. "Ah, here we go. She lives in Santa Monica."

  After my fiasco at Mt. Olive Community Church, I doubt the wisdom of venturing back into Santa Monica, especially to retrieve my prodigal sister. But Dad is so excited. How am I going to get out of this?

  "Wow, that is close. But if she won't fly, how am I supposed to get her home?"

  "Well," he pulls the word back like a rubber band before it's shot, "you could drive."

  "Drive? All the way to Illinois?"

  He laughs. "It could be fun. There's nothing like a road trip to give you lots of time to clear the cobwebs from your mind. You said yourself, you've got the time."

  Zap! His words sail at me, landing square between my eyes. Talk about a sneak attack. I've just been cornered into taking a road trip with my sister.

  Either God has a twisted sense of humor, or I've been cursed. Possibly both.

  10

  Wendy Willows is, thankfully, nothing like her strippersounding name. She's probably in her fifties, although she could pass for mid-forties. Her wheat-colored hair is pulled back into a neat chignon, not severe enough to be scary, but practical enough to inspire confidence. And her navy blue, impeccably tailored suit probably cost more than all the clothes in my closet combined.

  I sit on the other side of her desk, watching her skim the divorce papers from Tony. She holds a gold Cross pen, and alternates from running the end of it down the document to pressing it against the corner of her mouth. I wonder if, in the days before she became the high-powered attorney she is, she would have chewed on the end of her plastic stick pen.

  "There's no mention of children." Her statement intrudes on my daydreaming. "I take it you don't have any."

  "No. We don't. But not for lack of trying." The laugh that comes out of me is so fake, it makes me cringe.

  Wendy flashes me a quick, sympathetic smile. "At a time like this, it's actually a blessing. Makes it much easier for us to work out a settlement."

  Of course, if we'd had children, there might not be a time like this. But why argue?

  "Have you read over this yourself?"

  I shake my head. "No. I started to, but it didn't make much sense. I was hoping you would break it down into simple English."

  "That's what I'm here for." She pushes her glasses higher up on her nose and leans back in her chair. "It's pretty straightforward. He's not asking for anything crazy, like spousal support. Essentially, he wants a clean split of the assets."

  "That sounds . . . fair." Funny how I can't say the word fair without it sticking in my throat.

  "What about alimony?"

  "I don't want it."

  Her pen hovers over a notepad on her desk. "Are you sure?"

  "Positive." This is something I've already thought about. Over the years, Tony and I both contributed financially to our household. For a while, he made more money than I did. Then, after my books took off, I made more than him. Then, when he became a partner in the architecture firm, we were about even. So a half-and-half split of our current savings and retirement accounts is only right. But I certainly don't want to be tied to Tony after this fiasco is over, even if it's only through a monthly alimony payment. What I'm not sure about is how I'm going to earn a living going forward. But that's a whole other issue.

  "Okay." Wendy's pen glides smoothly across the paper. "Then the only major hurdle will be selling the house. After that—"

  "The house? I don't want to sell the house."

  "But he does. It's right here." She flips a few pages and starts reading. "Both parties agree to sell the property located at 529 West Oak. Profits to be split evenly."

  "But it's my house."

  Wendy's eyebrows lift. "Is the deed in your name alone?"

  "No. It's in both our names, but . . ." But he's the one who left. "It's my home."

  "I'm sorry. But if you own the home jointly, he has every right to make this request."

  "Can we contest it?"

  "Yes, of course. But it will slow things down considerably."

  Smug satisfaction coils around me. I'm in no hurry to move on to someone else. He's the one who wants to play house with a new partner. Why should I make this easy on him?

  I lean forward in my seat, feeling in control for the first time in weeks. "Contest it."

  On the way home from Wendy's office, I stop at an Automobile Club office. I haven't talked to Lindsay yet, but I figure it's best to have everything planned out before I tell her what a great idea this trip is.

  When it's finally my turn, a gal named Alice calls me up to the front desk. As soon as I tell her I need road maps to get me to Illinois, she lights up.

  "Oh, do you want to take a trip down the Mother Road?"

  "The what?"

  "The Mother Road. Route 66. Just a sec."

  She scurries away and starts pulling maps and books out of a cubby against the far wall. Of course, I know what Route 66 is. I grew up at one end of it and now live at the other. It just never occurred to me to take the old highway home. I was thinking more along the lines of four-lane freeways with comfy hotels right off the exits.

  Alice comes back and dumps her armload on the counter in front of me. "Now, you can't drive the whole thing from start to finish anymore," she says, barely taking a breath, "but I can help you plot out a trip that will take you along the most interesting parts of what's left of it."

  "That's sweet of you, but I was hoping to take a faster route."

  She deflates a bit. "Oh. Well, of course there are faster ways to get there. But I can promise you won't enjoy it as much. Are you driving alone?"

  I wish. "No. My sister and I are going home to see our parents."

  Alice perks back up. "Oh, that's perfect. Two sisters making a memory together. Think of how much fun you'd have."

  "It's hard to imagine." I have no doubt this trip will be memorable. Whether or not it's a good memory remains to be se
en.

  "You know what else you could do? You could make a video diary of your trip. I'll bet your parents would love that."

  What she's suggesting is insane, the kind of thing I would never come up with on my own in a million years. But when she mentions making a video, something clicks into place and it feels like the right thing to do. If my mother really is starting to slip away, then Lindsay and I have a lot of time to make up for. Taking this trip and sharing it with our mom is a good way to start.

  I smile at Alice, who I'm now certain is an angel sent from God to point me in the right direction. "You sold me."

  The woman is so excited, she actually yelps and claps her hands. You'd think I just invited her to come along.

  Her enthusiasm is contagious and I laugh. "Are you getting some kind of commission for this?"

  Alice covers her mouth with her hand, but she can't hide the grin behind it. "You'd think so. Truth is, I love the Mother Road. My husband and I used to drive it on our vacations. He passed last year, God rest his soul." She glances up at the ceiling as she crosses herself. "We had a lot of good times on that road. So whenever I get the chance, I like to encourage other folks to do the same."

  Tears well up in my eyes as I listen to this woman. It took death to separate her from her husband, yet she remains full of life and enthusiasm. She has no idea how much I envy her.

  "I hope you know I'm counting on you," I say, wagging my finger. "You need to tell me all the best spots to see."

  Her eyes sparkle as she uncaps a highlighter pen. "I'll tell you everything you need to know."

  As Alice draws out a yellow line that stretches from one map to the next, I wish she could tell me the one thing I need to know most of all: if my sister has gone out of her way to avoid me all these years, how will I ever convince her to make this trip with me?

  11

  Maybe showing up on Lindsay's doorstep unannounced wasn't the best plan. But nothing about my sister has ever gone the way any of us expected.

  When I was growing up, my mom and dad talked about having another baby all the time, but it never happened. When I was thirteen, they'd stopped talking about it, and I figured they'd given up on the idea. Perhaps it was because I was such a spectacular daughter. Why mess with a good thing, right? Which is why I was shocked when they sat me down to have the birds-and-the-bees talk and punctuated the whole awkward thing with "And that's why we're having another baby!"

  In an effort to make me feel included, they drug me along to all kinds of things I didn't want to do, like picking out nursery furniture and shopping for baby clothes. But the absolute worst was ultrasound day. Since it was the middle of summer and I was out of school, my parents made an event out of it. First we went shopping (which left me asking how much clothing one little baby needed), then to lunch, and then to the doctor's office. By that time, all I wanted to do was go home and climb up into my favorite tree with a book. Or better yet, with my journal so I could write things like "My parents are acting so lame." Instead, I sat in the waiting room while my mom and dad went in to see the doctor. I was flipping through a twoyear-old copy of Ladies' Home Journal when I heard someone call my name.

  "Natalie?" A nurse held open the door from the waiting room, grinning like she had an orange wedge stuck in her mouth. "We've got something to show you."

  All the other women in the waiting room turned to look at me, wearing the same kind of crazy grins. Even now, just thinking about it, I can feel the hot flush of blood rushing to my cheeks. I did not want to go with the nurse, but I did. I didn't want to have to look interested when they showed me the sonogram picture, which looked nothing like a baby, but I did. And when the nurse asked me, "Do you want to hear the heartbeat?" I wanted to say "No," but I didn't. My mom and dad were so excited, I knew they expected me to be excited too. So I said, "Sure."

  Here's the thing about hearing the heartbeat of a yet-to-beborn baby: it sounds nothing like a heartbeat. It's more like a series of whooshing sounds, like meteors hurtling through space. So I said the first thing that came to my mind. "Whoa. Sounds like Star Wars."

  All the adults in the room laughed, and I realized with relief that I'd passed the test. They thought I was just as into the whole baby thing as they were, even though nothing was further from the truth. Come to think of it, that may have been the day when I learned the power of a well-placed joke to deflect true emotions.

  By the time my sister was born, I was determined to have as little to do with her as possible. It didn't work out that way, though. In that doctor's office, she had only been an idea. Just a bunch of white squiggles on a monitor and weird whooshing sounds. But when she was right there in front of me, she became an actual person; a little person with lips that exposed toothless gums when she smiled and stubby fingers that reached for anything dangling in front of her, like my hair or earrings. The kid grew on me.

  Lindsay was four when I graduated from high school, so it only makes sense that we wouldn't be as close as your average sisters. But for some reason, when she was in junior high, her whole attitude toward me changed. That year, Tony and I came to my parents' house for Christmas, and Lindsay was like a different person. She was quiet, sullen, and when she did say something, it dripped sarcasm. When I was able to get my mom alone, I asked her about it. She shrugged it off and laughed, "I wouldn't worry about it, dear. I think it's just the age." But the smile on Mom's lips was forced, and I knew Lindsay's attitude bothered her too.

  After that, things just got worse. Lindsay got in trouble at school. Her grades slipped. Worst of all, she was causing a lot of grief for our parents. Still, I thought that being her sister gave me an in of sorts. I figured she'd listen to me. So I made a point of stopping by in the middle of a book tour to talk to her. Big mistake. She ended up screaming at me instead.

  "Did you ever stop to think that maybe I don't want the same things you do? Just because you're the perfect daughter doesn't mean I'm going to be!"

  That was six years ago. I can count on one hand the number of times we've talked since then. So as I park my car in front of the Shangri-La Apartments in Santa Monica, my heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. I don't know what kind of reaction to expect from Lindsay. She's back in touch with our parents now, which is a good thing. But she didn't bother contacting me, even though we live only about an hour away from each other. That's not so good.

  The complex is pretty big, so I have to look at a map posted by the front gate to figure out how to get to Lindsay's unit. After several wrong turns, I stand outside her front door, trying to gather some clues from what I see outside. There's a mat on the ground, but it doesn't say Welcome. Two potted plants sit under the window sill, but they're half dead. I don't know if it's because they're nearly spent annuals, or if they've been neglected. No, there's nothing out here to give me the slightest hint about the kind of woman my sister has become.

  When I can't put it off any longer, I inhale deeply and ring the doorbell. Exhale. Wait for what seems like an eternity. Stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans and shift my weight from one foot to the other. Fight off the urge to press my ear against the door.

  Is she out? Or is she home and ignoring me? Did Dad tell her I was going to stop by? Unlikely, but possible. I purposely came by on a Saturday morning because I figured she'd be home. But I don't know anything about her life now. She could be at work. Or she could be out with friends. Or she could be sleeping in. Maybe I should ring again.

  My finger is halfway to the button when I hear the dead bolt knob being twisted. The door opens, but it's chained, so all I can see is one side of Lindsay's face. But it's enough.

  We stare at each other. She probably wonders if she's hallucinating, and if not, why I'm on her doorstep. And I take in the bit of her hair that I can see peeping through the slit in the door. Blonde hair with burgundy streaks. The same as that lady at the Mt. Olive event.

  It was her. She came to see me, but she left before I started talking. I don't know
what to make of that.

  "Hi, Lindsay," I say. "Can I come in?"

  She sighs, shuts the door, and removes the chain. When she opens it up all the way, I get a good look at her. The part of her face that I couldn't see before sports a nasty bruise on the cheek below her left eye. And her belly protrudes in such a way that I know my sister hasn't just gained weight. She's pregnant.

  Shock takes control of my vocal cords, producing a word I instantly regret.

  Lindsay rolls her eyes and ushers me into the apartment with a wave of her hand. "Nice to see you too, Sis."

  Oh yeah, I definitely should have called first.

  12

  The inside of the apartment tells me a little more about what my sister's life has turned into. It's a dichotomy of thrift store mixed with high-end. A battered coffee table sits in front of a threadbare couch that takes up one wall of the living area. On the opposite wall is a state-of-the-art sound system, complete with speakers that look like they could be used on a concert stage. Propped up in the corner is an electric guitar. Either Lindsay's become a musician, or she lives with one.

  Then I notice the moving boxes. There are about six of them, and the one on the top of the stack is open.

  "What are you doing here?"

  The chill in her voice brings me back to the matter at hand. I did come here for a reason, after all. But now, I've got so many other questions. Are the boxes hers, or someone else's? Moving in, or moving out? Is she married? Most important, how did she get that bruise?

  I turn back. Her crossed arms only emphasize the baby bump beneath her baggy, white T-shirt. And the iciness in her pale, blue eyes is a startling contrast to the purple and blue around the left one. I touch her cheek with my fingertips. "What happened to you?"