The Road to You

by Brant, Marilyn

  It was a problem I had with people again and again in my life, even before Gideon had disappeared. There were too many situations others took at face value. A useful trait when I needed to withhold important information for safety’s sake. A disappointing one when I hoped to form a truly genuine connection.

  “Well, I hope you guys have a good time,” Betsy said brightly, slurping the last of her shake. “He’s kinda cute, but at least you don’t have to worry about him coming on to you or anything. He’ll probably spend half the trip mooning over Vicky.”

  “Probably,” I said, smiling, though it hurt to do so.

  Yes, it irked me that Donovan played these flirtation games with other girls, but the pain I felt didn’t stem from that. I knew he’d been acting again. The ache went deeper. To my friendships in Chameleon Lake and the transitory nature of them. Yet another anchor, tying me to home, that had just been released.

  THE NEXT morning came quickly and, like clockwork, Donovan pulled into our driveway at eight a.m.

  My parents walked out of the house with me, shook hands with him and said soft superficial things that were in love’s code:

  Mom: “Drive safely.” We can’t lose you, too.

  Dad: “Don’t forget to take breaks.” Please stay alert.

  Mom: “Call us and let us know how things are going.” We need to be sure everything’s okay.

  Both Donovan and I promised all of these. Promised we’d be very careful, check in every night by phone, not take chances. I had a list of emergency phone numbers and some money I’d saved up from work. Dad slipped me fifty dollars more, and Mom handed us a thermos with hot coffee, a couple of sandwiches and a few blueberry muffins for the road.

  By silent agreement, my dad and I didn’t let on to my mom that the trip was anything more than a routine college-scouting expedition. It was better that way, we both knew.

  So, when Mom hugged me goodbye and said, “I hope you find the perfect campus…one where all your dreams will come true,” my heart broke a little at her trust and hopefulness on my behalf.

  And, when I met my dad’s eye, I could barely contain within me the bursting love I felt for both of my parents and, though I hated to admit it, the surprising surge of anger I felt toward Gideon.

  How could he be alive and not tell us? How could he keep hurting us all this way?

  “I’ll take good care of her,” Donovan whispered to my dad.

  “Just bring her home safe,” Dad murmured back, both of them—I was sure of it—thinking I hadn’t overheard them.

  “I will,” Donovan replied. “I give you my word.” A pledge between two former military men that I suspected was stronger than law, or even life.

  Chicago, Illinois ~ Saturday, June 17

  “CHICAGO’S NOT like Crescent Cove, you know,” Donovan said, stating the obvious for at least the third time since we’d left Chameleon Lake that morning. “It’s not some one-street backwater town where we can just drive through it and pick up clues about two random guys who were there a couple of years ago. We’re flying blind.”

  “We’re not,” I countered, flipping to the middle of Gideon’s journal and reading the Chicago page yet again:

  I noted there was a slight ink change here.

  “Look, I don’t know the significance of all the details on this page, but I’m sure Gideon gave us some clues. I’ve been thinking about this ever since you figured out there were different shades of ink. On this page, the ink change is between the radiator pressure gauge and the date, and ‘J & I in Chicago’ is right underneath that.” I paused. “There’s something about all this that’s been bugging me ever since I read it.”

  Donovan took his eyes off the road long enough to glance over at me. “What?”

  “For Crescent Cove, it’s possible our brothers were there on a Monday—a weekday—in the middle of the school year. Twice,” I said. “I looked on an old calendar back home and Monday, April 19, 1976, the first time they went to Crescent Cove, was the day after Easter Sunday, and we had no school that day. The next time they went to Wisconsin, three weeks later, it was mid-May and seniors were skipping days all over the place. So, the guys could’ve been gone eight or nine hours that day without Mom, Dad or me noticing. Seven hours on the road, plus an hour or two visiting.”

  Donovan nodded. He was listening. Good.

  I pointed to the journal. “But there’s no way the two of them went to Chicago three days later, on a Thursday. They not only would have had to skip school, they’d have been gone half the night. It’s eight hours one way. Sixteen hours roundtrip.”

  I shot him a significant look. “Jeremy and Gideon didn’t go to Tulsa, Oklahoma on May twenty-sixth either—a Wednesday while school was in session. So the dates and the places can’t be connected. Or, if they’re connected, something about the listing is off somehow. The dates or places are wrong. Or the whole thing means something else.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, that’s because none of it makes any sense.”

  I flipped between pages in the journal and tried to decipher Gideon’s hints. I wasn’t about to tell Donovan this because he’d press me to try to explain, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that Gideon and Jeremy had been to all of the cities mentioned.

  J & I in Chicago.

  What did it mean, though, that I knew they weren’t there on the date listed? That Gideon had deliberately written down a day that they for sure could not have been there?

  “I’m going to figure this out,” I told Donovan. “I’m not positive what Gideon was trying to tell us just yet, but I know this wasn’t accidental.”

  “We’re flying blind,” he muttered.

  “We’re not,” I insisted again. “Because I did figure out one clue that I think will be useful.” I studied him as he changed lanes to stay on I-90, as the I-90/I-94 Interstates split just south of Madison. In less than three hours, we’d be in Chicago. He didn’t argue with me or even bother to ask what I’d discovered, so I said, “Amy Lynn.”

  “You know her or something?”

  “No, but it’s what Gideon wrote after her name that gives me the clue. The line begins with Amy Lynn, but then there’s a blank right after her name. Then there are the words ‘Best TV show on Saturday morning.’”

  “Okay.” He smirked a little, clearly unimpressed but at least moderately humored. “So Amy Lynn is…what? Someone on a cartoon? A big fan of them? A character in one? Is there an Amy Lynn on ‘Scooby Doo’…or maybe on ‘Land of the Lost’ or ‘Shazam’?”

  I shook my head. “That’s just it. That’s one of the reasons why I’m so sure Gideon is alive and giving us clues to follow. Because that line is an inside joke that no one outside of our family would know.”

  Donovan raised a single disbelieving eyebrow. “Because it means...?”

  “Because it means ‘dreams.’ Gideon never woke up before eleven-thirty on a Saturday and didn’t watch TV at all on weekend mornings. He always said, ‘The best TV show on Saturday morning is my dreams.’ So, I think this was his way of telling us Amy Lynn’s last name without actually giving it to us.”

  “Why couldn’t he? I don’t see why your brother didn’t just write the name down in his journal, too.”

  “Maybe it would be dangerous for her to talk with us. Or, maybe, it would be dangerous for us to be in contact with her—if someone bad knew about it.”

  “Amy Lynn Dreams?” he said, trying it out. He shook his head. “Sounds like a flower-child name.”

  “Well, when we get to the city, we’ll look it up in the phonebook. Maybe…maybe we’ll find her there and we can see for ourselves.”

  He continued to look dubious, but he didn’t turn the Trans Am around, which I considered an encouraging sign. At least he was committed to getting us to Chicago, although every one of his nonverbal cues pointed toward his disbelief that we’d find anything at all useful once we got there.

  I also sensed that, perhaps, he was hoping this would be the case. Then we co
uld put this search behind us.

  Because the day was so bright and the highways we were taking so busy with weekend travelers, Donovan didn’t want to chance pulling over somewhere and setting off the last of the fireworks. “It’s not remote enough,” he said. “Plus, I don’t want to get an out-of-state ticket—or worse—if we get caught.”

  So, the only stops we made were for gas and bathroom breaks and, briefly once, we made a visit to McDonald’s to grab burgers, fries and shakes for lunch. The anticipation of the week ahead made the food roil uneasily in my stomach, but I figured it wouldn’t do to faint from hunger later in the day, especially in the middle of a metropolis with three million people.

  It was after four p.m. when we emerged through the sprawl of the western suburbs and entered the city of Chicago.

  “Okay, we’re here, Nancy Drew,” Donovan said. “What now?” He rubbed his eyes and looked tired enough from the day of driving for me to take some pity on him and not slug him in the arm like I wanted to.

  “Now we need to find a phone booth,” I told him.

  It took us a few minutes to spot one in the parking lot near a movie theater. I noticed that “Grease” was playing here as well, along with three other films. Imagine living in a place where four movies were shown every day. It was that type of thing I loved so much about life outside of Chameleon Lake. The incredible number of choices. The options paired with anonymity.

  We parked and walked to the empty booth. “There’s no directory,” I said, pointing to the silvery chain where the phonebook had once been attached.

  “Damn.” He picked up the receiver and dug his hand deep into his jeans pocket, retrieving a dime. “Well, we can call the operator—”

  I snatched the phone from his hand. “No. I want us to look up her name ourselves. I don’t just want to be connected to her line without knowing anything about her. Her address, for instance, or if there’s anyone else listed with her.”

  “Or if this person even exists,” Donovan added sarcastically. “It could be that there’s no one by that name anywhere in the city. I think the whole idea to come here was—”

  “I already know what you think.” I glanced across the street. “There’s a gas station over there. Don’t they usually have phone directories?”

  He shrugged a halfhearted “yes.”

  Sure enough, when we asked the older guy behind the counter, he pulled out a thick copy of the phonebook and plunked it down in front of us.

  I flashed the guy a smile and began flipping to the “D’s” just as soon as he turned his attention to one of the other customers.

  Dream, James P., 23 Park Ave W……… 324-5645

  Dreamsly, Steve, 1556 Green Bay Rd ……… 354-9091

  Dreamson, Amy L., 653 Ashton St, Apt 301-C ……… 467-8207

  Dreamstrand, William & Gail, 21006 Michigan Ave ……… 316-0866

  Amy L. Dreamson. Amy Lynn?

  I pointed at the name. “Pretty close to what I thought,” I whispered. “I think this is her. It’d be too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

  Donovan made a doubtful face and glanced away.

  I pulled a pen and mini notepad out of my purse and jotted down the address and phone number. “Thanks,” I told the guy as I handed the big book back.

  Donovan nodded at him, too, and bought a dollar’s worth of Kit Kat bars. “Snack,” he told me, though I was mystified that he could even think of eating right then.

  We walked back across the street to the phone booth and Donovan unwrapped one of the candy bars and snapped off the first chocolate-covered wafer. He waved it in front of my nose, but I took a step back and shook my head.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, crunching the stick in half. “Want me to make the call?” He devoured the other half of the wafer in one bite and broke off a second one.

  For the first time since I’d met him, he looked young to me. Like a ten-year-old kid chomping on his Halloween candy. And I got a hint of what he must have been like as a boy, on a day when he was happy and unfettered by life’s burdens. There was a fun-loving recklessness lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to emerge.

  “You look…preoccupied,” I told him with a scowl. “I’ll call the number.”

  He shrugged, as if not caring, and handed me a dime. But, as he gobbled down his third chocolate wafer, I understood the reason he needed a snack. I knew a nervous habit when I saw one. The tremor that ran through his hand as he watched me reach for the phone was a dead giveaway.

  I punched in the phone number and waited—my stomach flipping—as it rang. After five long rings, someone picked it up. A woman.

  “Hello?” she said with a voice that sounded younger than I’d expected.

  I cleared my throat. “Hello,” I said back. “May I speak with Amy Lynn Dreamson, please?”

  There was a longish pause on the line, and I could almost feel the woman’s hesitation. “This is Amy Lynn,” she said at last, quietly. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  I swallowed. Hard. And Donovan, who was listening attentively next to me, stuffed the last of his Kit Kat into his mouth and swiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Yes,” I said, realizing suddenly that I hadn’t thought out this next part when I envisioned myself contacting Amy Lynn. Didn’t know what, exactly, to say.

  I cleared my throat again. “My name is Aurora Gray. You and I have never met, and you may not know anything about me at all, but I believe you might have met my brother and his best friend. They…they, um, visited Chicago two summers ago.”

  There was another long pause. “What were their names?” the lady asked, and I couldn’t help but detect a hint of dread in her soft voice.

  “Gideon,” I said. “That’s my brother. And—”

  “Jeremy,” Amy Lynn whispered, interrupting. “Right?”

  “Right,” I managed to say. Oh, God! So they really were here! When? Why?

  Beside me, Donovan was as still as if he’d been flash frozen.

  “Yeah,” the woman said. “They were here. Have you, um, talked to them recently?”

  “No,” I admitted. “They…they haven’t been home since then. I was hoping you might know something about what happened that summer.”

  Amy Lynn’s breath caught. “There are a few things I could tell you, but I’d rather not talk on the phone. Where are you?”

  “In Chicago,” I replied, my heart pounding. “It won’t be a problem to meet you wherever or whenever you want. Are you free today? Tonight? Tomorrow morning?”

  I needed to see her in person. To find out what she knew about my brother, of course, but also so I could study her reactions face to face. There were only so many signals I could read over the telephone.

  “Are you alone?”

  I shook my head, aware that my pulse was racing against itself and my throat had begun to clog up. Then I realized the lady on the line couldn’t see me.

  “No,” I said, explaining that Donovan was with me.

  “Jeremy’s older brother.” Amy Lynn stated this with a certainty that was both gratifying and anxiety producing. “I knew about him,” she added. “Army guy, right?”

  “Right.”

  Donovan, who was able to hear every word, not only looked as unmoving as a marble statue, he now looked as pale as one.

  “Okay. He can come, too, but no one else,” Amy Lynn said, giving me her address, which matched exactly the one we’d found in the phonebook, and suggesting we meet her there at six o’clock.

  She paused and made a sound that was almost like a laugh, but a little strangled and uneasy. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you for a few days,” Amy Lynn murmured in the seconds before she hung up. “Gideon said you might be coming.”

  THE DRIVE to Amy Lynn’s apartment in the Portage Park neighborhood only took about twenty minutes, even with the busy Saturday-night traffic. Figuring out where 653 Ashton Street was, however, took twice as long as that and required Donovan to finally buy a city o
f Chicago map, because, God knew, he was too cool to even consider asking for directions.

  But we did manage to get there with twelve minutes to spare and find one of the few available parking spots. We waited impatiently in Donovan’s car until my watch read two minutes to six.

  “Let’s go in,” he said, every muscle in his body so taut, he looked like he might snap.

  The security in the four-story brick building was stronger than in most of the apartment complexes I’d seen in Chameleon Lake or even in Minneapolis/St. Paul. We couldn’t just walk in and take the stairs up. We had to press a button to be buzzed into the lobby first.

  Donovan knocked on the door to 301-C, his body language a study in rigidity and seriousness. I could tell this Amy Lynn person was taking her sweet time inside and checking us out. A shadow passed behind the keyhole, and a number of bolts needed to be unlocked on the other side of the heavy oak door before it swung even halfway open.

  When, at last, it did, I got a good view of the woman who’d been on the other end of the line during our phone conversation. I had to admit my surprise.

  I’d always considered myself kind of on the mousy-looking side, being of slight build and fair complexion, with longish light-brown hair that hung limp, just past my shoulders, unless I pulled it back into a ponytail. But Amy Lynn took “mousy” to the tenth power.

  She was around twenty-five years old, painfully thin, with wrists so delicate and pale that the veins protruded. Her short, goldish hair was pixie-like in style, giving her face and features a look that reminded me of Peter Pan. Her eyes—clear, blue and wary—studied me right back.

  I introduced myself and Donovan, using a well-honed super-calm voice and working to put this new person at ease. With the back of my palm pressed against his chest, I physically held Donovan in the hallway, keeping him from stepping forward into the apartment until Amy Lynn was ready to receive us.