The Mor Road

by Jennifer AlLee

  "Counseling?" This is a surprise.

  "I know. Who'd have thought, right? But Pastor Wade won't marry us unless we have counseling first."

  This is even better than I hoped. "Does that mean you're getting married in the church?"

  "No. We want to get married before the baby comes, which doesn't give us a lot of time. We decided a small ceremony at home would be the best thing."

  "Oh, you should have it in the backyard." I can already picture it, the grass emerald green and freshly cut, new flowers blooming and swaying, tree branches festooned with silk ribbons. "I can do all the decorating for you."

  "Does that mean you're coming back soon?"

  My heart warms at her hopeful tone. "Yes. And not just for a visit. I'm coming to stay."

  If everything goes according to plan, not only will I have a new business to run, but I'll be the landlord of four nice apartments. One of which I'll offer to Ben and Lindsay at a discounted rate.

  "I can't wait till you get back," Lindsay says. "And I'm not the only one."

  "Dad sounded pretty excited, didn't he? I'm sure he'll enjoy having some help so he can take a breather every now and then."

  "I wasn't talking about Dad. I meant Adam."

  "Oh . . . uh . . ." I sputter like a malfunctioning faucet.

  Lindsay laughs. "Oh, boy. You've got it for him too."

  "No, I don't. We're friends. That's all."

  "Well, your friend has been stopping by a few times a week to keep up the garden."

  "He has?"

  "Yes. And every time he's here, he asks about you."

  "That's sweet. But seriously, we're just—"

  "Friends. Yeah, I know." She sighs, and I can imagine her shaking her head at me. "Natalie, no one's judging you. Adam's a good guy. You both deserve to be happy."

  Yes, we do. But that doesn't mean we're going to be happy together. Not now, anyway. And if God does mean for Adam and me to be together eventually, I'm not going to risk messing it up by moving too fast.

  Of course, if I buy the coffee shop, I'm going to become Adam's boss and his landlord, which means we'll be spending an awful lot of time together. It should scare me silly, but instead, I get a tiny glimpse of my future, and it makes me smile.

  "Hey, Sis, I've got to go," Lindsay says. "It's time for Lucy."

  "What's tonight's episode?"

  "Lucy and Ethel get jobs."

  I recall the scene with the two women stuffing chocolates into their mouths as they struggle to keep up with the conveyor belt, and I laugh. "Have fun."

  "Okay. See you soon."

  A warm flush spreads out from my chest, and I savor each word as I reply, "See you soon."

  50

  We've hit a snag."

  For the first time since my return, I ventured into the master bedroom today with one very clear goal: empty out my closet. Halfway through the daunting task of deciding if each piece should go in the keep, donate, or throwaway pile, my lawyer called. Now I sit on the side of the bed, a denim jacket in my hands, the cordless phone wedged between my ear and shoulder.

  "What kind of a snag?"

  "Tony's lawyer contacted me today about the house."

  Is that all? "That's okay. I told Tony we can sell the house, remember?"

  "He doesn't want to sell anymore."

  Eyes closed, I propel myself backward on the mattress. The only thing that keeps me halfway up is a mound of sweaters that are most definitely going with me to Illinois. "After all that hassle? What does he want to do?"

  "He wants to keep it."

  My eyes pop open. "He wants to live here now?"

  "Yes."

  That's weird, but not a deal breaker. "Okay. How do we handle that?"

  I hear papers rustling on Wendy's side of the call. "We'd have the house appraised and then Tony would pay you half of what it's worth. Basically, he'd be buying you out of it."

  "Okay."

  The paper rustling stops. "You're all right with that?"

  "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Let me put it this way," she says slowly. "I've handled a lot of divorces, and I've never yet seen a case where the soon-to-be ex-wife was okay with the mistress living in her home."

  Last week, I wouldn't have liked it at all. In fact, I would have fought to the death to keep Tony and his girlfriend from starting their new life here. But now, it doesn't seem all that important. "Look, I'm moving out anyway, so it makes no difference to me who lives in this house. I expected it to be a family I didn't know, but if Tony wants to buy my half, that's fine too."

  We talk a little longer about the papers she'll be sending me to sign and about how long the entire divorce process should take. By the time we hang up, I'm feeling quite proud of myself. Like a very turn-the-other-cheek, seventy-times-seven forgiving woman.

  How silly that Wendy thought I'd be upset. What do I care if another woman is living in this house, eating at my old kitchen table, sleeping in my old bed . . . with my old husband. Below the piles of clothes, I get a peek at the bedspread we picked out five years ago. It took so long to find something we both agreed on, we swore not to replace it until it was worn out. Heat rises to my cheeks as I'm bombarded by memories of intimate times we spent under that spread. And then, I picture my husband slipping beneath the bedspread, snuggling up against the body on the other side of the mattress. Only he's not my husband anymore, and that's not my body.

  Maybe I'm not so well adjusted after all. I honestly don't mind the idea of Erin and Tony living together in this house. But the thought of them sharing this bed . . . that's something else altogether.

  Jumping up as though the mattress caught fire beneath me, I hit the call button on the phone and punch in 411. After I request my listing and ask that the number be dialed for me, I wait for the call to be answered.

  "Good afternoon. Salvation Army."

  "Yes," I say, sounding overly chipper. "I'd like to donate a king-size bed set. And do you know anyone who hauls away mattresses?"

  It takes me a week and a half to tie up all the loose ends.

  My insurance company cut me a settlement check for my stripped car, which I put straight into my bank account. No sense buying a replacement until I get back to Beaumont.

  I went through everything in the house, packed up the things I wanted to keep, and shipped them on ahead. In the end I decided that Tony could have all the furniture— with the exception of the hastily donated bed. I have no room for it at my parents' house, and when I get a place of my own, I'll want to start fresh.

  Change-of-address forms have been filed. My agent, editor, and other business associates have been contacted. I've said good-bye to Pastor Dave and my church family. And Jade threw me a small going-away surprise party. There's only one thing left to do.

  Standing in the front yard, I allow myself one last trip into the past. Ten years ago, after we closed escrow and the house officially became ours, Tony picked me up and carried me through the front door for the first time. Only he didn't turn quite sharp enough and he ran my shoulder into the door frame. He almost dropped me, but I just laughed and clutched his neck tighter, holding on with all my might.

  I remember birthdays and holidays, celebrations and quiet evenings. Dinners with friends. Anniversaries. So many good times. But also hard times. Times we lost someone we loved. Times when we prayed for a baby who didn't come. Times we cried and held each other. Times we suffered alone, in too much pain to come near another human being.

  All of it, all the memories, the emotions, they all come down to this singular moment. This is it. The final good-bye. To my home. To my marriage. To my old life.

  Closing my eyes, arms slightly away from my sides, I open my hands and let it all go. "Help me, God. Help me. Help me."

  It seems so long ago when I sat in a miserable huddle on the kitchen floor, calling out that same prayer after my husband left me. Then, it was a cry of despair, of yearning to fix what was broken. But now, that simple prayer is full of su
rrender, full of hope. Now, it's a prayer of promise.

  "Are you ready?" Jade's voice is soft behind me.

  I turn and take a deep breath. "I am. Let's go."

  We get in her car and she backs out of the driveway. As we head down the street, I look in the rearview mirror for one more glimpse of the house. It gets smaller and smaller and smaller, until finally, it's part of the greater landscape, too small to see anymore.

  When I get to the baggage claim area at O'Hare International Airport, I look around for my dad, but don't see him. I pull out my cell phone to call and see where he is when I hear a woman's voice calling.

  "Nat! Over here."

  There sits Lindsay on a bench against the wall. She pushes herself up as I trot over to her.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask as I hug her. "Why didn't Dad come? Is something wrong? Is it Mom?"

  "Calm down. Everything's fine. Can't a girl pick up her sister without anything being wrong?"

  "Sorry. It's just, in your condition . . . you know."

  Her eyes roll up toward the ceiling. "Again, I'm pregnant, not an invalid."

  True, but she's gotten considerably bigger in the last few weeks. "Sorry, I stand corrected. And I'm so glad to see you."

  Since I have three bags—and I am not asking Lindsay to carry anything—I rent a luggage cart. Then I tell her to sit down and wait for me while I collect my things. For once, she follows my directions without argument. It doesn't take long before we're on our way to the parking garage.

  As soon as we've paid the fee and driven out onto the highway, I ask Lindsay, "How's Mom?"

  "She's good. I've been spending a lot of time with her."

  "How's that going?"

  "You could say we're getting to be pretty good friends."

  I hate to ask my next question, but I need to know. "Does she remember you at all now?"

  "Not really." She shakes her head. "Sometimes, I think she remembers having two daughters. But it's never strong enough that she realizes I'm one of them."

  "I'm so sorry, Lindsay." Watching her profile, I try to make out any sign of hurt or anger, any clue that I need to back off. "I can't understand why she remembers me and not you."

  "The doctor thinks it could be because of the age difference."

  "What does that have to do with it?"

  "A lot of times, Alzheimer's does the most damage to shortterm memory. That's why she remembers stuff like her wedding and when you were little. They're farther back. But being that I'm so much younger than you—"

  "Watch it."

  She grins. "Anyway, my birth and childhood are newer, fresher memories. So that could be why she doesn't remember me."

  "That's a pretty out-there hypothesis." Lindsay's twentyfive, so I wouldn't classify her birth as a short-term memory item. Then again, Mom doesn't seem to remember much of me beyond high school, which is right before Lindsay was born. "How do you feel about it?"

  "To tell you the truth, after I heard that from the doctor, I felt better. Made it feel less personal and more of a medical fact. I approach Mom differently now. Instead of trying to make her remember me, I come to her like a new friend. I even call her Meredith."

  "And that works?"

  "Yeah, better than trying to force her to come up with memories that are probably gone forever."

  "But if her problem is short-term memory, then doesn't she forget you by the next day?"

  "Pretty much. In a way, it's a good thing. If I make a mistake one day, I get to start over fresh the next." She huffs out a breath. "This would have come in handy when I was a teenager. Might have saved us all a lot of grief."

  Every day a fresh start. I think she's making it sound a lot simpler than it really is. Still, if she's found a way to make peace with Mom's illness, who am I to contradict her? Maybe I can even learn something.

  "So, how are things with you and— Hey, wait a minute." I twist my neck, trying to read the road sign that just whizzed by. "We're going the wrong direction."

  "No, we're not."

  "Yes we are." I point behind us. "Beaumont is that way."

  "We're not going to Beaumont."

  "We're not?"

  "No."

  "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

  "No."

  Oh, fine. Now my sister is kidnapping me. You know, Lord, when I said I was ready to go down whatever path you chose, this isn't exactly what I had in mind.

  Turns out she's taking me into downtown Chicago. She maneuvers through the late afternoon traffic and pulls into a lot near Jackson Park. After she succeeds in finding a parking spot, we walk down Lake Shore Drive. It's not as crowded as it would be on the weekend, but there are still plenty of folks out riding bikes down the cement path, jogging, pushing strollers, and splashing in Lake Michigan.

  "Are you ready to tell me what we're doing here?" I ask.

  "I'm surprised you haven't figured it out already." The breeze off the water tousles her hair and she brushes it from her face.

  "I blame it on jet lag."

  "Of course you do." We walk a little farther, then she stops and turns to face me. "Now I can tell you. We're here for that."

  I have to squint to see the sign she's pointing at across the street. It's a Route 66 marker.

  Obviously proud of herself, she links her arm through my elbow and pulls me to the curb. "I've been working on editing our road trip videos, and I realized they're not complete. We've got a picture of us at the beginning, but not at the end."

  The signal flashes a white walk stick man. I'm in a state of semi-shock—not just because she located this marker, but because she thought of doing it at all. "Did you see that?" I point at the big capital letters on top of the sign that say BEGIN.

  Fishing the camera out of her purse, she smiles at me. "Well, this is the traditional beginning of the Mother Road. It's exactly right, don't you think?"

  I look at my sister, so happy, on the brink of becoming a wife and mother. Then there's me: ending a marriage but starting a new life; heading down a new road, excited about where God will take me. We've come so far. We have so far yet to go.

  "It's perfect."

  Note to the Reader

  I'm so glad you traveled this fictional journey with me. Natalie's story started with one simple question: What would a marriage expert do if her own marriage failed? As the story grew, and I learned more about Natalie, her sister, and what they both faced, it seemed natural to send them on a trip down the Mother Road.

  About Route 66

  Because I grew up in Southern California, Route 66 is quite familiar to me. In fact, for about ten years I lived on Huntington Drive in Duarte, which is part of the historic highway. But I never ventured any farther on 66 than the California border. Research was in order.

  The Mother Road is a fascinating American relic, and I didn't want to tamper with its charm and history by making up locations. So, every place that Natalie and Lindsay visit along the way is real. Today's road warriors can still see the wild donkeys of Oatman, eat at the Road Kill Café in Seligman, and take a picture with Little Louie standing guard outside Granny's Closet in Flagstaff.

  Those who check out the Oatman Hotel can see the room where Clark Gable and Carol Lombard are said to have spent their honeymoon. But a bit of controversy surrounds that particular spot. While all the guidebooks and the majority of websites I checked support the honeymoon story, I found a few Internet claims that it might be a hoax. The most convincing came from a fan site and quoted Gable from several 1939 magazine articles. So, did the famous couple stay there? I don't think there's a soul alive today who knows for sure. But since the story has become such a big piece of Oatman lore, I decided to let Natalie and Lindsay experience it as any other tourists would.

  The only location in the novel that's not real is Beaumont, Illinois. I wanted the flexibility of a small town where I could create the details I needed, such as the Old Town renovation and the coffee shop, so I took the liberty of making
it up.

  There's so much more to the Mother Road than I could include in one novel. If you're interested in learning more, or in plotting a trip of your own, you might find these books helpful:

  EZ66 Guide for Travelers by Jerry McClanahan (Lake Arrowhead, Calif.: National Historic Route 66 Federation, 2005)

  Route 66: The Mother Road by Michael Wallis (New York: St. Martin's Griffin, 2001)

  Route 66 Adventure Handbook by Drew Knowles (Santa Monica Press, 2006)

  Let's Go Roadtripping USA (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Student Agencies, 2010)

  I hope you enjoyed visiting all the locations as much as I did.

  About Alzheimer's

  I was eight years old when my great-grandmother died, but since she lived with us, I remember a lot about her. Toward the end, she didn't know who I was, and she thought her daughter and my mother were her sisters. Although she wasn't diagnosed, I'm pretty sure she had Alzheimer's. Regardless of what name you put on it, seeing your loved one slip away is an experience no family should have to go through.

  I did a lot of research on the disease before writing this story. Natalie's mother, Meredith, actually has early-onset Alzheimer's, which means symptoms began to manifest before the age of 65. There is a perception that this form of Alzheimer's progresses at a faster rate, but there's no scientific proof to back it up. It's more likely that, because people in their fifties are more active and social, their friends and families are more apt to notice changes in behavior.

  Alzheimer's is a strange and mysterious disease. While there are common markers, each affected person behaves in his or her own unique way. If someone you love has Alzheimer's or another form of dementia, I urge you to build a support system. Reach out to other family members, your church family, and support groups. Please don't try to travel this road alone.

  In our electronic age, the first place most of us look for information is the Internet. There's a wealth of information there, but proceed with caution. Look for legitimate sites with solid information, backed up by accreditation or the endorsement of experts in the field. Here are a few sites I found particularly helpful: