The Forgotten Road

by Richard Paul Evans

  “Where did you meet?”

  “In our village. I am lucky she was born near me or I would not have found her.”

  “Does she like her work as a nanny?”

  “Very much. But it makes her want to have another child. She would lose her job if she did. And I do not want to have a child I cannot see.”

  I thought about my own son. “I understand.”

  Twenty minutes later our waitress brought out large, steaming platters of food with the obligatory warning not to touch the plates. “Very hot,” she said. “Muy caliente.”

  As Eddie had promised, the food was delicious. I hadn’t had a large meal for more than a week, and my stomach hurt from my gluttony. For dessert I ordered a caramel flan followed by another beer for each of us.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when our waitress brought out the check. I picked it up. Our meal was inexpensive, by my account, though not compared to the money I’d earned in the field. It was a lot of sweat and heartbeats for a meal.

  Eddie looked concerned. “Is it much?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I will help pay, amigo.”

  I counted out cash to cover the bill. “I got it.”

  “It is not wise to spend all your money like this, gringo.”

  “It’s the least I can do, my friend.”

  When we’d finished our beers, Eddie asked, “When are you ready to go back?”

  I looked into his eyes. “I’m not going back, amigo.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “Qué?”

  “I brought you here to say good-bye. It’s time for me to continue my walk.”

  Eddie still looked perplexed. “How will you do this with so little money?”

  “I’ve got things figured out. In fact . . .” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of money, the whole of my week’s wages. I counted out fifteen twenty-dollar bills, three hundred of the five hundred forty dollars I had left and set it on the table in front of him.

  Eddie just looked at me with surprise. “Gringo, what is this?”

  “I want you to have it.”

  He looked even more confused. “Why are you giving me your money?”

  “I don’t need it,” I said. “I’d give you all of it, but I need a little to get to where I’m going.”

  He just looked at the bills. “Gringo . . .”

  “Take it, amigo,” I said.

  He shook his head. “We all need money, gringo. What will you eat?”

  “I ate enough tonight to last me a week.”

  Eddie didn’t smile. He was clearly concerned that I had lost my mind.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not loco. You don’t need to worry about me. What you said yesterday, about other options, you were right. I just didn’t see them.” I pushed the bills closer to him. “Take it.”

  He still didn’t take the money.

  “Well, I’m not going to pick those back up, so you can take it with you or leave our waitress her biggest tip ever.”

  After a moment, Eddie took a deep breath, then reached out and took the bills, clutching them firmly. “Okay, gringo.” As he looked up, his eyes welled with tears. “Thank you, amigo.”

  “Thank you for helping me. You are a good man, Eddie. After I finish my walk, I would like to come back to see you. I’d like to help you get back with your wife. How will I find you?”

  He shook his head. “You cannot find me. There are millions of men like me. We are like drops of water in a river.”

  I thought for a moment. “Then you’ll have to find me. I want you to do something. It’s very important. Muy importante. Do you want to be with your wife?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then you must do what I say.” I took the waitress’s pen and wrote down my email address on the back of my receipt. “This is very, very important. You must trust me. Do you have an email address?”

  “Yes. It is how Felicia and I talk. But I have no computer. Sometimes I find an Internet café.”

  “Good. If it costs to use the Internet, pay for it. Use whatever money you have, but I want you to check your email. Not now, but in October or November, I want you to email me at this address. I want you to email me until you hear back from me. Will you do this?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Now take this.” I slid the paper over to him. “This is my email address. Do not lose it. Memorize it if you can. It is very, very important.”

  Eddie took the paper from me. “This is how I find you?”

  “Yes. Do not lose this.”

  “I won’t, amigo.” He touched his temple. “I have already put it in here. I have a very good memory.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Sometimes it is not good,” he replied.

  We stood. I grabbed my pack and we walked to the door. Near the front desk I had an idea. “I just thought of something. Do you know Felicia’s address in Florida?”

  “Sí. I know her address and her phone number.”

  “Excellent. Write it down for me.” I grabbed a piece of note paper from the hostess station. “Just in case something happens.”

  Eddie wrote down the information. As he handed me the paper, he asked, “Why is this so important, gringo?”

  “There’s more to me than you know.” I stowed the paper in a zippered pocket of my backpack. “I’ve arranged a ride for you back to the farm. I already paid him, so don’t let him try to charge you again. Understand?”

  “Sí. I understand, but where are you going?”

  “To California.”

  We looked at each other for a moment and then embraced.

  “Adiós, hermano,” Eddie said.

  “Hasta luego,” I replied. Then I turned and walked out the door. For the first time in many years, I felt like I had a true friend.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  There are moments when reality is not only stranger than fiction but more entertaining as well.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  I had made arrangements with a young farmhand named Keith to drive me to Amarillo and rent me a room at a cheap motel. I paid Keith for the motel and gave him a hundred dollars for his trouble.

  After I took my things to my room, I walked next door to a Walgreens, where I purchased some strawberry Pop-Tarts, a bottle of milk, some travel-sized laundry detergent, a cheap can of shaving cream, a bag of disposable razors, and some hair gel.

  For the first time in weeks, I washed my clothes; they turned the water in the bathtub a thick, muddy brown. Then I hung everything up to dry on the chipped metal railing behind the motel and went to bed.

  I woke stiff and tired the next morning. I think my body had finally let down from all the stress I’d been carrying, and I felt as though I’d passed through a nightmare of motorcycle gangs, crew leaders, and pigweed.

  I got up, washed my face with cold water, then sat on the edge of the bed thinking about what I was about to do. I was about to let someone know that I was still alive. Once I did, there was no turning back.

  Truthfully, there really wasn’t much to think about. It wasn’t what I had initially planned, but it’s what circumstance (and a hairy motorcycle gang) had brought me to. I had twenty-two dollars and seventy-four cents left to my name. After that, my options were gone. I picked up the motel phone and dialed Amanda.

  Amanda’s phone rang six times before going to voice mail. I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t answer; I would have been more surprised if she had. For as long as I had known her, she had never taken a call from a phone number she didn’t recognize. Ironically, one of the last things I said to Amanda at the airport curb was to watch for my call from an unknown number.

  Fortunately, I knew the secret to getting through. Persistence. I dialed her again. Again my call went to voice mail. I dialed a third time, then a fourth. On my fifth attempt she answered, sounding polite but exasperated. “This is Amanda.”

  It was so good to hear that voice. Surreal, but good. “Hi, Am
anda,” I said softly.

  “Hi. Who is this?”

  “It’s Charles.”

  Pause. “Charles who?”

  “Your friend Charles.”

  Nothing. I tried again. “It’s me, Charles, your boss.”

  “This isn’t funny. I’m hanging up.”

  “Amanda, I’m not dead.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  She hung up. I groaned, then dialed her again. And again. Then again.

  The third time, she answered, “Quit calling me!”

  “You spelled Beverly Hills wrong.”

  There was a long pause. “What?”

  “Beverly Hills. You spelled it wrong in the obituary. Don’t you remember me mocking you about that in LA?”

  Pause. “How do you know about that?”

  “It’s really me, Amanda. Ask me something that no one would know but me.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Where were you when I called to ask if I could work for you?”

  “I was in Birmingham, and you were in Des Moines. And you didn’t call me, I called you. It was right after our Montgomery show, and I had just met Chris and Mila.” There was a long, silent pause. “Amanda, I wasn’t on the plane. I missed the flight.”

  There was another long pause. “What’s your social security number?” Her voice was pitched with stress.

  I rattled off the nine digits.

  “This is freaking me out.”

  “Amanda, take a deep breath. Get centered.”

  “That’s what you—he—always said.”

  “I knew this would freak you out. I also know that you’re the only one I can trust. I need your help.”

  Suddenly her relief exploded into anger; she sounded like a frantic mother who had just found her lost child in a shopping mall. “I held a memorial service for you!”

  “I know. I was there. I was the guy in the back row in the hat and sunglasses. You gave a beautiful eulogy. So did McKay. Laura’s I could have done without.”

  “It is you.” She started to cry. “Where have you been? Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

  “I know. I want them to. I want everyone to think I’m dead but you.”

  “The business is shutting down. Everyone’s gone.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay!” she erupted. “We built this together. And someone hacked into our business accounts and stole all the money!”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Yes, they did! You’re not even . . .” She stopped. “It was you. You were hiding your money.”

  “I moved it to an offshore account. I wasn’t about to let someone give it all away.”

  She broke down sobbing. After a while I asked, “Are you okay?”

  “How could you do this to me?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan any of this. I left my backpack with all that money you gave me in an airport store. When I got off to get it, they closed the flight. I got lucky. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s God, maybe it’s just dumb luck, but you know what a bad place I was in before I left. When this happened, I decided it was the universe telling me to figure things out.”

  “But what about my life?” she said. “I just started a new job.”

  “Quit it. You still work for me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Amarillo.”

  “Texas?”

  “That’s how far I’ve walked.”

  “Walked?”

  “That’s what I’m doing. Walking.”

  “You walked to Texas? How far is that?”

  “Very far,” I said. “I’m almost halfway.”

  “Halfway to where?”

  “To LA. I’m walking Route 66.”

  She was speechless.

  “I need your help to finish. I’m broke and I can’t access my money. I need to borrow some.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “I only need a few thousand to get by.”

  “Where should I wire it?”

  “I’ll have to figure that out. But first, I want you to call the Amarillo Marriott; it’s downtown . . .”

  “Just a minute, let me get a pen.” I could hear her rooting around her desk. “All right.”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Home.”

  “You’re still in Chicago?”

  “For the time being. My new job may transfer me to New York.”

  “Quit it,” I said again. “I want you to book me a room in the Amarillo Marriott.”

  “And if they’re sold out?”

  “It’s Amarillo.”

  “Sorry. How many nights?”

  “Two. No, make it three. I need some time to collect myself. I’ve been working the fields with the migrant workers and I’m pretty tired.”

  “Migrant workers? Charles, what’s going on?”

  “I’ll put it in a book someday,” I said. “Now, the money. I think our best bet is Western Union. They can give me cash.”

  “Just a minute, let me look them up.” There was a short pause, then Amanda said, “There are three Western Union locations in Amarillo. One is just two blocks from the hotel. You’ll need to give them the tracking number, my name, and the transfer amount. How much do you want?”

  “Send me two thousand.”

  “Two thousand,” she said, writing it down. “They’ll also need a form of government-issued photo ID.”

  “I’ve got that. Wait, my ID is for Gonzales, not James. Make it out to Charles Gonzales. The same goes for the hotel room. I only have one ID.”

  “Good thing you thought of that,” she said. “How do I get ahold of you? Do you still have your phone?”

  “No. It got stolen. I need you to close it down. Just call me at the hotel with the tracking number.”

  “Okay. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No. That’s good for now. Remember, I don’t want anyone to know I’m alive.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thank you, Amanda.” I breathed out heavily. “You have no idea how good it is to talk to you.”

  “You have no idea how good it is to know you’re alive. I still can’t believe it.” She was quiet a moment, then said, “I’m glad you’re alive.”

  “Thank you, Amanda. Me too.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I have futilely chased happiness for so long that I almost didn’t recognize it when it snuck up behind me.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  I gathered my things and walked the two miles to the Downtown Marriott. By the time I reached the hotel, Amanda had already booked my room—a nonsmoking king-sized suite on the concierge level. The woman behind the desk asked for my ID and a credit card for incidentals. I handed her my driver’s license but told her I didn’t have a card. She looked back at my account and apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s all been taken care of.”

  Walking into the hotel was suddenly a new experience. Throughout my career I had stayed in hundreds of hotel rooms and taken them for granted. Now, after the migrant shack, everything looked different. It’s no wonder my life had felt hollow for so long. I had stopped looking for beauty, then wondered why the world was so ugly. I had just turned on the television when the phone rang.

  I picked it up. “Amanda?”

  “Hi. I’ve got the tracking number.”

  There was a pen and notepad on the nightstand next to the phone. “Go ahead.” She gave me the twelve-digit number. I wrote it down and thanked her.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “I’m going to go get the money, then come back and get a massage.”

  “It sounds like you’ve earned it.”

  “Earned or not, I’ll definitely appreciate it.”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “Charles, you sound different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You sound . . . lighter.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She paused again. “I d
on’t know. It’s just good to have you back.”

  “Thanks again. For everything.”

  “No problem. Just don’t go disappearing on me.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  “Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  I hung up. Lighter?

  Everyone should have an Amanda—Amanda included. I called the hotel concierge and arranged for a massage. Then I walked over to the Western Union office and picked up the money. It felt good to be solvent again.

  I went back to the hotel, ate a light lunch at the lobby restaurant, went back to my room, and took a nap.

  I got up around four and went down to the hotel’s spa. I relaxed for a while in the sauna and steam room, then went to my massage.

  The masseuse reminded me a little of Monica. Her eyes. It was a pleasant fiction, lying there, pretending it was her touching my skin, rubbing my muscles. She used to rub my back every night when I’d get home from work.

  I went back to my room and ordered dinner—halibut and scalloped potatoes, asparagus, and crème brûlée for dessert. As I was lying on my bed waiting for my meal, a thought hit me that I hadn’t had in years. I was happy. I was actually happy. How long had it been? Here I was, away from everything I thought defined my life, only to find it.

  At that moment it occurred to me that happiness had come to me in the guise of gratitude. For the first time in as long as I could remember I was truly grateful for something—not fame or money or a fleeting splash in the media but seemingly small things made big through gratitude—a soft bed, cold water, food to eat.

  For the first time I realized that gratitude and joy were connected, like conjoined twins. I couldn’t be happy because I wasn’t grateful and I wasn’t grateful because I wasn’t allowing myself to be. I was too busy hunting the next prize to appreciate the prize already at home. What I had was never enough, not because of the deficit in what I had but because of the deficit in me. And the cloud of my ingratitude obscured everything of value in my life: even something as precious as my Monica.

  That’s why I had lost her. I had stopped seeing the miracle of her. I had stopped realizing the blessing she was in my life. I had stopped being grateful for her. She had stopped being my pearl.

  The epiphany seared my heart. If I was allowed a second chance, I would remind her every day how grateful I was to have her. More important, I would remind myself every day, and the rest would take care of itself.