"I'm here, Dad," she says.
"Whereabouts on the road are you?"
I glance at my watch. "We left Rolla, Missouri, about an hour ago."
"No kidding. When do you think you'll be here?"
"Well . . ." I check the map we went over before starting off this morning. "If we push it, we can probably be home tonight."
Lindsay waggles her fingers at me and I turn to see her shaking her head furiously. "On the other hand," I say quickly, "we'll need to stop for lunch, and there are bound to be some touristy things we'll want to check out. So probably not tonight. But tomorrow for sure."
"Oh." Dad's energy drops just a bit. "Your mother and I can't wait to see you girls. But we want you to enjoy your trip. And to be safe."
"Thanks, Dad."
We chat a little more before saying good-bye and hanging up. I drop the phone in my purse, then turn toward Lindsay. "What was all that about?"
"What was what about?"
"You know. Not wanting to get there tonight."
She shrugs, trying so hard to be nonchalant that it has the opposite effect. "Why rush? Like you said, we might want to see some stuff."
Sure. And I'm the queen of Denmark. I'm tempted to call her on it, but decide not to. With her behind the wheel, it's best to let it rest. I'll wait until we've reached our final destination of the day, then I'll talk to her about it. Whether she wants to talk or not.
We stop for the night when we get to Bloomington, Illinois, a town so close to our final destination it seems silly to spend the money on a hotel room.
"Are you sure you don't want me to keep driving?" I leave the car idling. "Another hour and a half and we can be there."
"I'm sure." She sighs and lets her head fall back against the headrest. "Look, I don't want the first time I see Mom and Dad in five years to be when I'm hungry, tired, and cranky. Okay?"
"Okay." I turn off the engine and pull the key from the ignition. "Let's go get a room."
For our last night on the road, it's a little anticlimactic. No quirky Route 66 lodgings this time. We're staying in a national chain hotel and will probably walk across the street to have dinner at a national chain restaurant. Which is just as well. Lindsay is so distracted, the fun of anything wild and unusual would be lost on her now.
The elevator on our end of the hotel takes so long to come down, we decide to take the stairs. After lugging our overnight necessities up three flights, we find our room. I struggle with the key card, sliding it in and out of the slot at different speeds until the green light finally comes on. After practically falling into the room, I dump my stuff on the nearest bed and call out to Lindsay, "I need to use the bathroom first."
She says something affirmative, which is good, because there's no stopping me now. I probably shouldn't have bought such a large bottle of water at that last minimart.
When I come out of the bathroom, Lindsay is standing to the side of the sink, staring at herself in the mirror.
I walk around her and lean over to wash my hands. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She pulls the rubber band from her ponytail, letting her hair fall free around her shoulders. "What are they going to say when they see me?"
"Who? Mom and Dad?"
"No, Brad and Angelina." She rolls her eyes at my reflection. "Yes, Mom and Dad."
Great. Snarky Lindsay is back. I had really hoped we'd left her somewhere along the road. But I can't be too hard on her. The last time she saw our parents, her hair was normal. Now, it's three different colors: bleached-white blonde, burgundy, and about an inch of her natural sandy-blonde at the roots. She's certainly got enough to think about without worrying how her hair looks.
"It's really not so bad, you know." I smile at her. "In fact, I don't think they'll be surprised at all."
"You don't?"
"No," I say with a shake of my head. "You've always been an artsy kind of person, and that's what artsy people do."
She steps back and cocks her head to the side. "Excuse me?"
"Besides, it's not too late to fix it." There's a drugstore right across the street. We could pick up a box of hair color and touch it up tonight.
"Fix it?"
"Sure. Then they'd never even know. Of course, we have a zillion hours of you looking like that on our travel videos, but that's okay. Everyone makes mistakes, right?"
"Are you insane?" Lindsay erupts, face red, a lava flow of emotions aimed straight at me. "How dare you tell me to fix it. I can't believe you'd even suggest something like that. And then to call him a mistake—"
"Him? I never—"
She pokes her finger at my chest. "My baby is not a mistake. Don't you ever call him that again!"
"That's not what I meant." I try to explain, but she whirls and runs out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
This is terrible. How could she misunderstand me so badly? I rush after her, but in a moment of clarity stop to grab my purse with the room key in it. Then I run outside.
After jogging down the stairs, I look around, but don't see her. How could she possibly be out of sight already? She didn't have that much of a head start. I run out to the parking lot and finally spot her, racewalking down the sidewalk. Of course, in her condition, it's more of a waddle than a walk, but she's still moving pretty fast. She must be furious.
"Lindsay, wait!" I call out as I sprint toward her. She doesn't acknowledge hearing me, but her arms pump a little faster.
When I catch up, I walk beside her, breathing hard. "Lindsay, where are you going?"
"Away from you."
"Can't we talk about this?"
"No. Just leave me alone."
"But you don't understand." I grab her arm, which finally brings her to a stop.
She bats my hand away. "What is your problem? I told you to leave me alone. Who's the stalker now? You know, you go on and on about how awful Ben is, but he never said anything as mean or made me feel as bad as you just did. If you don't leave me alone—"
"I was talking about your hair!" Screaming is my only option. I figure if I scream at her, she'll have to listen.
It works. She takes a step backward. "My hair?"
"Yes. Bleaching your hair and streaking it red. That's the mistake I was talking about."
"My hair? You wanted me to fix my hair?"
"Yes."
"Not the baby?"
"Of course not. How could you even fix—" I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand as I realize what she thought I was saying. "Never. I never even thought that. Not once."
She looks like she's about to fall over, so I lead her to a low wall encircling a raised flowerbed. We sit down and she leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands. "I'm such an idiot."
"No, you're not." My hand moves in small circles over her back. "You're a little sensitive, but you're no idiot."
"It's just that word, mistake. When I thought you called the baby that . . . I lost it."
"I noticed. But why?"
"Because I'm a mistake."
With her face buried in her hands, the words are muffled, and I'm not sure I heard her right. But if I did, I certainly don't want to ask her to repeat it. "You're not a mistake."
She raises her head. "Sure I am. Remember how Mom and Dad always called me their little accident?"
"They were just kidding around." In fact, Mom used to call her their happy little accident.
"Kidding or not, they weren't expecting me. And I was never the kind of daughter they wanted. They would have been a lot happier if I'd been more like you."
I plunk my chin down on my fist. "Right. Because I'm such a prize."
"You are. You're a best-selling author."
"I'm an infertile divorcée."
"You're the good daughter."
"Oh yeah? If I was so good, why was I never enough?"
She leans away from me, as if startled by this revelation. Truth be told, I'm a bit startled myself. It's not something I spend a lot of time thinking about, but i
t has obviously shaped my life and the way I see myself. Now that it's out there, it resonates between us.
"Of course you were enough," she says slowly. "I never meant—"
"I know you didn't." I pat her knee. "You have no idea how much Mom and Dad wanted you. They tried to have another baby for years. Years. And when they finally stopped trying, then you came along. That's what they meant by calling you an accident."
"Wow. I always thought they'd be happier without me. I never thought I could measure up to you, so I didn't try." A tear slips down her cheek and she wipes it away.
"And I've spent my whole life trying to prove that I'm worth something. What a pair we are."
The fact that we're staying in a larger city for our last night on the road has become a blessing. So far, I've chased my sister down the street, we've yelled at each other, and we've had a deep, soul-baring conversation, all without anyone running up to us and welcoming us to town or telling us where we can buy Route 66 snow globes. So when I start to cry, I let the tears come. And when Lindsay pulls a tissue from her pocket and hands it to me, I blow my nose with gusto, not giving a second thought to who might be looking.
29
There's no end to the array of hair colors lining the drugstore shelves. I pick up a box and hold it next to Lindsay's face.
"No," I say, shaking my head. "Too orange."
"What about this one?"
"Closer."
She puts it back and picks up a box marked "Champagne Blonde." "This?"
I wrinkle my nose. "Too yellow."
"This is ridiculous." She plunks the box back on the shelf and walks down the aisle.
"Where are you going?" I call after her.
"To find a baseball cap. I'll just put one of those over my head. Or maybe a paper bag."
I trot up to her, grab her wrist, and pull her back to the hair-color section. "Don't give up now. You'll feel a lot better once we've got you all touched up. You'll see."
"Okay, but let's find something quick. I'm starving."
"Agreed." I look back at the shelf, tapping my index finger against my lip. "What we need is a color that matches your personality as well as your skin tone."
She picks up a box and thrusts it at me. "How about this one?"
Surprisingly, she's picked one that's nearly identical to her natural hair color. "That will definitely work. I just thought you'd want something a little more . . . exciting." I point at one labeled "Red Red Wine." "Like that."
She sighs and wags her head. "That would have been perfect for the old Lindsay."
Withholding the laugh that fights to get out, I take the hair color from her and read the name. "So the new Lindsay prefers 'Toffee Blonde'?"
"Yes. Because the new Lindsay just realized that once the baby comes, she's probably not going to have the time or energy to keep her roots touched up. I need a low-maintenance 'do."
A kernel of pride pops within me. Whether she knows it or not, my sister is exhibiting signs of maturity. This calls for a celebration. I jiggle the box in front of her. "Great choice. Let's pay for it and go get some dinner."
When we get to the register, she reaches for her wallet, but I hand the cashier my credit card first. In response to Lindsay's questioning look, I just shrug. "Don't say I never bought you anything."
"Thanks, Sis."
The softness around her eyes, the lift of her lips, and the total absence of sarcasm are well worth the nine and change I pay for the hair color. Above and beyond.
Back in the hotel room, I volunteer to tackle the dying of Lindsay's hair. It's a risk, I know. If anything goes wrong, it will be all my fault, even if I follow the directions to the letter. But it would be beyond cruel to watch her struggle with it when I'm right here.
After I mix the solution, Lindsay sits on the bed, a towel draped across her shoulders. On my knees behind her, I try to cover the darker stripes in her hair first, then the bleached part, and finally the roots.
"You know what this reminds me of?" Lindsay asks.
"What?"
"That time you helped me get ready for the Valentine's Dance."
I haven't thought about that in years. We sat on the bed, just like we are now, and I arranged her hair in a loose updo. Then we raided Mom's jewelry box and found some cool costume pieces that were perfect with her dress. "How old were you then?"
"Twelve."
She doesn't have to think about it. I, on the other hand, have to do the math. That would have made me twenty-six. Already married to Tony. For the life of me, I can't remember why I was visiting my family that weekend.
"You told me I looked like a princess," she says.
"And you stuck your tongue out at me."
She laughs, her body and head shaking, which throws off my aim. A drop of color formula misses her hair, but I catch it in my palm before it can land on the bedspread.
"I was a little past the princess stage."
"A girl is never past the princess stage." I make a few more squirts with the bottle, rub the solution around with my plastic glove–covered hand, then sit back. "There. You're done. In fifteen minutes, you can finish up in the shower, and you'll be gorgeous."
Careful not to put my hands anywhere that will leave a stain, I scoot off the mattress. Once at the sink, I peel off the gloves and dump them in the trash can.
"Do you really believe that?"
I turn on the water and look at Lindsay's reflection in the mirror. "Of course. You're gorgeous no matter what color your hair is."
"No, I mean the thing about never being past the princess stage."
It seems she and I are destined to misunderstand each other over hair-related comments. After my hands are clean, I pull a towel from the rod and dry them slowly, taking time to think over her real question. "Yes," I finally answer. "I do believe it."
"Even now? After you found out Prince Charming is really a snake and the coach turned back into a pumpkin?"
Well, if she's going to put it that way . . . I blow out a gust of air, toss the towel on the counter, and sit in an uncomfortable straight-back chair near the bed. "Just because I didn't find a true prince doesn't mean it can't happen for you."
She pulls at a loose thread on the bedspread. "What if I already did?"
"You mean Ben?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Lindsay—"
"You just don't know him like I do. If you did, you'd understand."
How can such a smart young woman be so totally taken in by such a slimeball of a guy? "I wouldn't be too sure about that."
"You've only seen him at his worst. But there's a whole other side to him." Her eyes grow wide and she bounds off the bed, grabs her purse, then drops back down on the mattress. She pulls out her phone and starts fiddling with it. "Here. Listen to this."
If she's going to play one of Ben's songs, she's wasting her time. I've already heard what he calls music, and it just solidified my opinion that he's a loser. But the melody flowing from her phone speaker takes me by surprise. It's sweet and haunting at the same time. And when the singer joins in, his voice perfectly complements the instrument. He sings of love and longing, of cherishing his woman and putting her needs first.
She's got to be pulling some kind of joke. "Who is that?" I ask.
"It's Ben." Smug self-satisfaction transforms her face. "That's what I've been telling you. Ben is a sensitive, caring guy. He loves me. This," she says, waving the phone between us, "is the real Ben."
As the song continues, I'm swept up in it. She has no idea how much I want her to be loved this way. How I wish the father of her baby was an amazing, tender man. But the fact remains that Ben has anger issues. I've seen him take out his frustrations on his guitar. And I saw the evidence of him taking them out on my sister's face.
When the song's over, Lindsay tosses the phone beside her on the mattress. "What do you think?"
I think it will take more than one love song from a very convincing entertainer to change my mind. All I can do is pr
esent her with the truth. "He's a better singer than I thought, but that doesn't change the fact that he hit you."
Frustration rumbles deep in her throat. She picks up the phone, and for a second I'm afraid she's going to throw it at me. But she just shakes it in my direction. "This man would never do that. I told you how it happened. I got up in the middle of the night to get some water. I wasn't wearing my contact lenses. I couldn't see where I was going and I ran into the door. Ben never hit me."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset you. But—" I gasp as I look past her and see the illuminated numbers on the bedside clock. "Twenty minutes."
"What?"
"It's been twenty minutes since we finished the color. You need to wash out the dye!"
With a yelp she jumps off the bed and shuffles into the bathroom. Her phone slips off the bedspread and thumps at my feet. Picking it up, I wonder why she insists on defending Ben. She's been strong in her stance that if he wants her, he has to want the baby too. Why should it matter to her whether I believe he's a good guy or not? Maybe because she's holding on to the fantasized image of him. An image that's reinforced by persuasive text messages and emphatic love songs.
Maybe her phone should get lost. Or maybe the battery could fall out. I turn it over in my hand and realize there's no way I'll ever figure out where the battery compartment is, let alone how to open it. Just as well. If I thought sabotage would really work, I wouldn't be against trying it. But this is something Lindsay's going to have to work out for herself.
My head whips toward the closed bathroom door as the sound of running water stops. I quickly toss the phone back on the bed where she left it and wait for her to come out. When she doesn't, I call after her.
"Is everything okay in there?"
"I can't believe you did this to me!"
Oh, no. Like this day wasn't ending badly enough. Now I've destroyed her hair. "Come out and let me take a look at it. Maybe we can—" I was going to say fix it, but I've learned my lesson.
She pushes the door open and walks out. She's wearing her bathrobe and has a towel wrapped turban-style around the top of her head. With a smile, she pulls it off and her damp hair tumbles down to her shoulders.
The Mor Road Page 12
