She backs away, swatting at my hand. "I ran into a door. It's no big deal."
No big deal? She just gave me the universal response of battered women across America, and she's telling me it's no big deal?
"Lindsay," I say as gently as possible, "you can tell me the truth. You don't have to be embarrassed."
"The only thing I have to be embarrassed about is being a klutz. If you came here to call me a liar, you might as well leave."
Obviously, she's not ready to talk about it yet, so I won't push her. "Sorry."
She nods. "Why are you here?"
"Let's sit." We take opposite ends of the couch. "It's about Mom."
"Dad sent you, didn't he?"
I wish I could say, Oh no, I missed you so much that I tracked you down all by myself. But even if I tried, she'd see right through it. "Yes."
"I don't know what he expects me to do. If Mom's getting worse, my being there won't change anything."
I know exactly what she means, because I've thought it too. No matter how much time we spend with Mom now, it won't mean a thing to her after the Alzheimer's takes over. As the disease progresses, it will all slip away. We'll slowly become strangers to her. A big, selfish part of me wants to stay far away, to remember Mom the way she was the last time I saw her: vibrant and connected to her family.
I wish I could squeeze Lindsay's hand and tell her I understand, but the way she's pressed herself into the corner of the couch makes her personal boundaries clear. Instead, I lean in as close as I dare. "It may not change anything for Mom, but it will for Dad."
She looks away. "Poor Dad."
"Yeah," I say with a laugh, realizing how right she is. "All the women in his life are a mess."
Her head whips back in my direction and she shoots me a look that could burn a hole through plaster. "Thanks a lot."
Silly me. I thought I was stating the obvious. "Hey, I included myself. In case you haven't heard, I'm getting a divorce."
Her eyebrows shoot up as her chin drops to her chest. "How would I have heard?"
"Beats me. How did you know I was speaking at that church?"
Her cheeks flush. She must have thought she ducked out before I noticed her. "Someone in the complex put a flyer on the bulletin board. Morbid curiosity drew me there."
So much for my fantasy that she tracked me down out of a yearning to create a sisterly bond. Looks like neither one of us have felt that way. "You left before I started talking."
"Guess I wasn't that curious after all." She looks down at her fingers, picks at one of her cuticles, then looks back up at me. "So why do you want a divorce?"
"I don't. Tony does."
"Oh."
How did this conversation get so far off track? "Look, the reason I'm here is because you and I need to spend some time with Mom and Dad. Are you coming or not?"
"Not."
"Why? Is it your job? Maybe if you tell them it's a family emergency—"
"I don't have a job." At my silence, she makes a face. "Not anymore. I was a waitress in a bar. The boss told me I couldn't work the floor as soon as I started showing, so I quit."
"Sorry."
"Just as well." She puts a hand to her stomach. "The smoke wasn't good for either of us."
Good for her. At least I know she's capable of making rational decisions. "So what's the problem? Why won't you come with me?"
She shakes her head. "I already told Dad. I won't fly."
"How far along are you?"
"Six months."
"I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure it's safe for you to fly."
"Finally, something you're not an expert at." She pushes herself off the couch and walks to the small kitchen. "Look, it has nothing to do with whether some book says it's safe or not." She takes a glass out of the cupboard, opens the fridge, and grabs a bottle of orange juice. "It's my choice. I don't want to get on an airplane right now. I won't do it. End of discussion."
"Okay. I get it. No airplanes." And no juice for me, either. Not that I wanted any, but it would have been nice if she'd offered. "I have a better idea, anyway."
She comes back to the couch, her eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
I pull one of the maps out of my purse and wave it like a fan. "Road trip."
Lindsay flops back against the cushions, nearly spilling her drink. "Shoot me now." She's obviously not thrilled about the idea, but she hasn't said no either. All things considered, this part of the conversation is going much better than I expected.
13
They say God works in mysterious ways. I am living proof of that, because right now, my life has become one long string of those weird, mysterious ways.
Lindsay doesn't fight me much on the road trip idea, but only because she doesn't have a lot of options. Turns out those boxes are hers, and she's moving out.
"Things have been bad with Ben and me ever since I got pregnant," she says. "He doesn't want a baby, and I do. So now we fight all the time. It finally got to be too much for me."
Yeah, getting punched in the face will do that. The bruise on her cheek catches and holds my eyes like Velcro on a knit sweater. "The most important thing is that you and your baby are safe."
A frustrated growl rumbles in her throat. "I told you, he didn't hit me. He's selfish, but he's not violent. He's a musician. He feels things so deeply that—Oh, forget it. You're not going to believe me, anyway."
She's right about that. Sooner or later, I hope she feels she can tell me the truth, but it doesn't matter now. I just need to get her out of this apartment and away from that thug. Thank God I came when she was alone.
"Is there anything else we need to pack?"
"We? Why?" She cocks her head to the side, and for a second, I see the little girl she used to be. Despite the streaks in her hair. "You want me to go with you now?"
"Why not? Do you have a better place to go?"
"I have no place to go."
Her unexpected moment of honesty shoots a pang of sympathy through my heart. She packed all her boxes not because she knew where she was going, but because she couldn't stay where she was. Something we have in common.
I stand up and rub my palms against my thighs. "Then there's no point in waiting. And it'll be easier if we do it now while Ben's out."
"Ben's not out."
I whirl around as if I expect to find him standing behind me. "He's here?"
"Yeah," she says slowly. "He's sleeping. He played a late set last night."
As if on cue, the bedroom door opens and a man stumbles out, rubbing his eyes and wearing only boxer shorts. "What have we got to eat? I'm starving."
"Ben!" Lindsay shouts. "Put some clothes on."
"What?" He drops his hand and gapes when he sees me. "Why didn't you tell me someone else was here?" He mutters all the way back into the bedroom and slams the door behind him.
I'm shocked, but not because I just saw Lindsay's boyfriend in his underwear. Even though I've only known of Ben's existence for about fifteen minutes, a picture of him had already developed in my head: tall, muscular, with long, jet-black rocker hair and a tattoo on each bicep. Boy, was I off target.
A minute later, Ben comes back out wearing frayed jeans and a T-shirt with a beer logo on the front. He's not much taller than Lindsay, and now that she's pregnant, she probably outweighs him. His short, sandy hair sticks up in all directions, and as far as I can tell, his biceps are tattoo-free.
He frowns at me. "Who are you?"
Well, he's as surly as I expected him to be. "I'm Lindsay's sister."
"You got a name?"
Yeah. Just call me Your Worst Nightmare. "Natalie."
"Huh. She never mentioned you." He scratches his head, and I notice that he does have tattoos, after all. Letters below the middle knuckle of each finger on his left hand, placed so that if he made a fist, you could read what was coming at you. Before I can make out the word, he shuffles into the kitchen.
Lindsay doesn't bother explaining to me why her boy
friend thinks she's an only child. "I'm leaving, Ben," she says in his direction.
He turns to her, his hand still on the open refrigerator door. "Seriously?"
"Don't act so surprised. I told you I was moving out."
"Yeah, but you've been saying that for two weeks. I didn't think you meant it."
"The moving boxes didn't give you a hint?" Lindsay waves her hand toward the stack.
Ben shrugs. "Figured they were for effect." He shuts the fridge door and goes back to Lindsay. He takes her hand. "I can't believe you're really leaving me."
Oh, this guy is good. His voice has gone all sweet and oozy, like warm molasses. For a second, I see Lindsay waver. See doubt in her eyes. I want to jump in and speak for her, but I know that would push her in the wrong direction. Instead, I send up a silent prayer. Give her strength, Lord. Help her.
She pulls her hand away from Ben and places it protectively on her stomach. "We're leaving you, Ben. If you don't want the baby, then you don't want me."
"I do want you." He takes a step backward. "Man, this sucks. Everything was so great for us. Why did you have to go and get pregnant?"
I can't keep my mouth shut any longer. "Don't put the blame on her," I say. "You were at the party too."
Ben looks in my direction. His jaw is set, and even though he doesn't say a word, the accusation is in his eyes. He blames me for taking her away. Forget the fact that I didn't know about any of this mess before I arrived today. She's leaving with me, therefore, I'm responsible. Well, that's just fine. I'm happy to be his honorary scapegoat, if he needs one.
"Look," I say, crossing my arms over my chest, "I'm going to get Lindsay and her stuff out of here. All you have to do is stay out of our way. Are we clear?"
"Like crystal, doll." His jaw shifts sideways, and I wonder what else he's trying to keep from saying.
I expect him to leave the apartment, or at the very least go in the kitchen and eat his noontime breakfast, but he does neither. Instead, he grabs the guitar from the stand in the corner, plunks himself on the couch, and begins to play. With gusto.
My hands instinctively fly to my ears. "What's he doing?" I yell at Lindsay.
"He plays when he gets upset. It's how he lets off steam."
I guess I should be thankful he's chosen to express his displeasure through music. If you want to call it that. It's so loud and discordant, I feel like I'm in the bowels of a horror movie.
Below my feet, I feel more than hear a thumping. "What's that?"
"The downstairs neighbors." Lindsay yells. "They get kind of cranky."
It's no wonder.
Speaking over the noise is too much trouble, so I don't. I nod toward the bedroom, indicating that Lindsay should pack her clothes, and I go to the stack of boxes. Picking up the first one, I decide it's full of books. Or bricks. Maybe I shouldn't have dismissed Ben so quickly. It would sure help if he pitched in.
But one look at him convinces me otherwise. He's attacking the guitar with such intensity, I fully expect the strings to snap. He's useless.
As I wrestle the box out the front door and downstairs to my car, I can't help wondering . . . is any man ever worth the heartache and trouble they put us through?
14
First stop, the Santa Monica Pier."
Lindsay flops her head from side to side against the seat's headrest. "We're not taking a boat to Illinois. Why are we going to the pier?"
"Because it's where Route 66 begins."
That's not really true. The pier has become known as one of the symbolic ends of 66, even though the road terminates about a mile from there. But it will make a great backdrop for the beginning of our video diary.
I don't intend to stick strictly to 66 the entire way. After poring over all the information Alice gave me, it became obvious that it was impossible, since not all of the old road has been maintained. And if we tried to drive every bit that still exists, it would take us about a month to get to Mom and Dad's. That was out of the question even before I knew about Lindsay's . . . condition. Thankfully, Alice gave me a list of must-sees, the easiest pieces of the road to navigate with the most interesting sights. The first of which is the Santa Monica Pier.
Fifteen minutes later, we're at the pier. Ten minutes after that, I find a parking spot. Since it's Saturday, the place is packed, which brings on a new round of whining from Lindsay.
"Why did we have to get out of the car? I've seen this place a billion times."
"I haven't." Even though I've lived in California most of my adult life, I've never been much of a beachgoer. This has saved me untold hours of torture by allowing me to avoid shopping for swimsuits. "Besides, if we didn't get out of the car, we wouldn't have a very good video."
"Video?" Lindsay stops so suddenly she's nearly plowed into by a dreadlocked man on Rollerblades. "You never told me we were making a video."
"That's because I didn't expect it to be a big deal." I put my hand on her elbow and propel her forward. "I thought it would be cool to involve Mom and Dad by showing them a video diary of our trip. Won't that be fun?"
"Tons," she intones. "Especially when Mom wants to know who those two women are and why we're showing it to her."
"She's not that bad. She still knows who we are."
"Yeah, for now. But one of these days she's going to look at us and there will be nothing there."
I hate to think about how disconnected Mom's gotten, so I usually don't. Which is exactly why I haven't been home in such a long time. But pretty soon, when I'm standing right in front of her, there'll be nothing left to deny.
We walk a bit farther and then I steer her to one side. "I want to get you with the pier sign in the background. Then you can get me."
"Why don't you just ask someone to film both of us?"
For a moment, I'm encouraged that she wants to record the memory of us together; two sisters setting off on a great adventure. But she starts fidgeting, and I realize her ulterior motive. If we do it together, we'll get out of here faster. Which is fine by me.
I pull my brand new Flip camera out of my purse. I've had it just long enough to figure out how to work it, so I'm not thrilled about the idea of handing it over to a stranger. "I don't know . . ."
"What about him?" Lindsay points to an elderly gentleman using a similar camera to record his wife.
"Good choice." He's probably more tech savvy than I am. And if he tries to run off with it, I think I can catch him.
I wait until they're done, then approach the couple. "Pardon me, I was wondering if you'd mind making a short video of my sister and me?" I hold up my camera, and the man smiles.
"Sure thing. Stand where you want and let me know when you're ready."
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I position myself next to Lindsay. I start to put my arm around her, but her crossed arms and tight lips convince me otherwise. "Okay, we're ready."
Our cameraman nods and starts recording. Oops. I probably should have thought about what I was going to say before I said I was ready.
"Hi Mom. Dad. Lindsay and I are here at the Santa Monica Pier. We're about a mile from the official start of Route 66."
"End." Mrs. Cameraman pipes up.
"Excuse me?" Does she want us to stop?
"It's the end, dear."
"If only," Lindsay mutters.
"Behave," I hiss at my sister, then turn back to Mrs. Cameraman. "The end of what?"
"The end of 66. It starts in Chicago, and it ends here in Santa Monica."
"So we're starting off at the end of the road." Lindsay uncrosses her arms and puts one hand on her hip. "If that isn't just dripping with symbolism."
"I guess it's the end, technically, but so what? The road goes both ways." I put a finger in the air and try to sound wise. "One man's end is another man's beginning."
"That's lovely, dear," says Mrs. Cameraman.
"You sound like a fortune cookie." Lindsay scowls.
Mr. Cameraman taps his foot to get someone's at
tention. "Are we done? Do either of you have anything else to say?"
Oh, boy, he's been recording this whole time. Our tapes are going to need a ton of editing before I show them to Mom and Dad. I'm about ready to tell him he can turn off the camera, when Lindsay interrupts me.
"Wait. I've got something to say." She beckons with her fingers. "Come in closer."
Mr. Cameraman takes a step toward her. Lindsay leans in his direction, cups her hand around her mouth, and says in a stage whisper, "This woman is not my sister. She's Mexican Mafia and she's taking me over the border to sell my baby on the black market."
Mr. Cameraman almost drops the recorder. Mrs. Cameraman presses her hand against her chest and sucks in all the surrounding air. They're obviously shocked, and by the way they look from Lindsay, to me, and back to Lindsay, it seems they don't know whether or not to believe her. Thankfully, Lindsay breaks into a face-splitting grin and waves her hands in front of the camera. "I'm just kidding. This really is my sister. That's why she's such a pain in the—"
"Lindsay! I think we've imposed enough on these nice people."
The man's hand shakes a little when he gives me back the camera. "You two ladies have a nice day." His words are slow, cautious. As he and his wife turn away from us, he crooks his arm through hers and I hear him say, "Let's get out of here, Evelyn."
I turn back to my sister, ready to give her what for. But I can't. This is the happiest I've seen her all day. Instead, I just shake my head. "Come on. Let's get back to the car."
She rubs her hands together. "Oh, goody. I can't wait to see what other adventures await us."
Translation: I can't wait to see what other ways I can come up with to torture and torment my sister.
Fifteen minutes later, we're standing in the parking lot, looking at the empty space where my car used to be. "Is this the kind of adventure you had in mind?" I ask.
It takes Lindsay a moment to find her voice, but once she does, she's a verbal geyser. "I don't believe it. They stole all my stuff!"
For a flickering instant, I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Yes, selfish girl, they stole all your stuff. And the container it was in, which just happened to be my car.
The Mor Road Page 6
