The Road to Me, page 6
Not even Joshua believed that one.
When Nellie falls silent, I shift in my chair, thoughts shooting through my brain too fast to catch. My grandmother lies, but this story has the hefty weight of truth. Besides, could she make this up? To what purpose? I can’t afford to suspend disbelief around Nellie, but for now, I believe. “So, did she?”
The words break her spell. She turns to me. “What?”
“Did she ever come back for you and your brother?”
“That was the last I saw of her, and the rest of my family, to this day.”
God, how horrible. “You mean when you were grown, you never tried to find them?”
She looks out into the trash-littered weeds and shrugs. “Why would I? Their path was different than mine.”
My grandmother is always sunny. How selfish was I to never look beneath it? I’m aching for those kids, for that poor woman, having to make an impossible choice, then living with it for the rest of her life . . . for my grandmother. “What was the orphanage like? Where is Joshua now?”
Nellie heaves a heavy sigh. “Another time. I’m tired. Will you help me?”
Her voice wavers, and in the two days—God, could it have only been two—since I’ve been with her, she’s never seemed weak, or asked for help. I jump to my feet. “Of course.” I help her stand, and holding an elbow, lead her through the breezeway to open the door to her room. “You should have taken the walker. If you had fallen out there . . .” I wait for her to snap not to fuss over her, but she says nothing.
I turn down the covers while she sits at the bottom of the bed, taking off clothes. She pulls a hot pink T-shirt out of her bag that reads: Sexy AF. “You owe me a memory now, you know.”
“Tomorrow.” Maybe she’ll forget. I help her into bed. Her pallor is ghostly in the light of the bedside lamp. My hand strays to touch her cool forehead and trail down her cheek. “Are you okay now?” Unexpected tenderness slips out with the words. No matter what she did later, Nellie was once young, and abandoned. Someone may be able to turn away from the old pain etched into her face, but that person is harder than me.
“Yes. Goodnight, Jack.”
I reach to turn off the lamp, but her hand stops me.
“Leave it.”
“Okay. Sleep well.” I stand, walk to the window and grab the crank.
“Don’t close that!” Her words are fast and urgent.
We’re on the ground floor. It’s not safe. But I’m not upsetting her more. “Good night.” I walk through the door between our rooms, leaving it wide so I can hear if she calls in the night. Or if someone climbs in the window.
I take my time getting ready for bed, but I know after I lie down, my wind-tossed emotions won’t allow me to sleep. I’ve always thought of myself as an honorary orphan, since I had no Dad, and Mom was . . . Mom. But Nellie was abandoned. The melancholy lodged in my chest burns like a swallowed ice cube. But then I realize what that means. She must have known exactly how I felt when she walked away from Mom and me.
Aloneness settles over me like a weighted blanket. I feel like the only person awake on the planet. I check my phone. It’s past two. Too late to call Leo, even if I hadn’t told him we were through.
We met at a showing at the Momentum Gallery, one of Seattle’s most prestigious. Leo is a metal artist. A good one. He uses small leaves of steel to capture nature; animals, mostly. On display was a six-foot-tall draft horse in traces, captured mid-pull. The lights on chrome created the illusion of movement, and I could feel the animal’s straining in my chest. On the wall, a tree bent in gale force winds, shedding a trail of yellow and gold metal leaves. He is so talented. He’s also intense, unpredictable and untamed as an animal in the wild—a cheetah maybe, or a panther. His messy loft doubles as his workshop, and it smells of acetylene, stale Indian food, and our lovemaking. I’m uncomfortable there. Yet I find my mind wandering to striped sunlight on messy Sunday morning sheets and lazy breakfasts spent discussing the Op Ed pages of the paper.
But I know what happens next. He’d want things. Close, know-you-down-to-your-soul things. Things I want so bad that the ever-present hollow in my chest expands, squeezing my lungs, making it hard to catch my breath.
I’ve tried before. I let go my precarious handhold on a vertical cliff to reach for another’s. I barely survived the fall. The memory of the pain, the shame, was a powerful lesson. It’s like once I’ve touched a red-hot stove, my instincts won’t allow me to touch it again, no matter how I long to.
I have no right to call. Even though he said we’d stay friends, it’s selfish, and I know it. I dial anyway.
“Hello?” There are no sleepy edges to his voice.
“Are you working?”
“Hello Jack. You know I get my best ideas at night.”
His warm tone flows over me, and I lay back, picturing him in his loft, working on . . . “What are you working on?”
“I’m making a life-sized man in full armor, made of small leaves of many shades of green. I’m calling it, Twenty-first Century Man.”
“But leaves as armor? That’s not much protection.”
“See? You get it. Now, tell me what’s happening with you. Are you home?”
“No. Through the most messed up series of events, I’m on a road trip with my grandmother.”
“I didn’t know you had a grandmother.”
Of course not. I never let anyone in that far. “I don’t. I mean I didn’t. No, I mean—”
“Sounds like you’ve worked yourself into a corner, Jack.”
At his deep chuckle, a picture flashes of us late at night, talking in bed. A flush of heat spreads across my chest. Maybe it’s the dark, or the memory but for some reason, I tell him an abbreviated version of the past days’ journey, right up to what brought me to this cheap hotel in the desert.
The last thing I remember is his deep, soft voice flowing over me in the dark.
Chapter 5
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
Plato
Monday~
The next morning I wake more refreshed than since I left Seattle. But I’m having late-night phone call regrets. I take my phone from the pressboard nightstand.
Me: Sorry to disturb your work last night.
Leo: I’m glad you did. I told you to call anytime.
Me: But then I fell asleep while you were talking. It was rude.
Leo: You were relaxed and knew you were safe with me. Not complaining.
Me: Well, thanks for understanding. Have a good day.
Leo: You too. No pressure, but I’m looking forward to another installment of your trip.
I click out. I was selfish last night, taking what isn’t mine. We’re not dating any longer, and it sends conflicting messages.
It’s too early to call work, so I pee, then make myself check social media.
Looks like Jacqueline Oliver from Heart’s Note is giving a workshop. Should be a steaming pile. #UltBeautyShow
Why ask an amateur like Oliver to do a professional’s job? #Wannabe #UltBeautyShow
What the heck? My stomach burns. I check the profile, but it’s generic and probably fake. It sounds like a full member, but surely they have better things to do than trash an indie. I’m a bit surprised Heart’s Note hit someone’s radar. A tweet won’t make a difference, but a new business sure doesn’t need any bad press.
I close out and shut my laptop and tiptoe to the open door between our rooms.
Nellie is sitting at the desk, playing cards. Except she’s not. She’s staring intently at the cards on the table, her raised but unmoving hand holds another. I can see enough to know this is not an ordinary deck.
“Good morning.”
She starts, then sweeps the cards to her and shuffles them. “Hello, Jack. I’ve been waiting for you. Come, sit.”
I glance down at my bare legs and sans bra T-shirt. “I’m not dressed.”
“I won’t call the fashion police, promise.” She pats the card-table chair beside her.
“What are you doing?” I step to her and sit.
“I want to do a reading for you.”
I recognize the tarot deck from a commercial I saw on TV once. Nope. No crazy before caffeine. “I’m good, thanks.” I push back the chair. “We need to eat breakfast and get on the road.”
“We have all of sixty-five miles to go today.” She rolls her eyes and keeps shuffling. “I’ll do a three-card reading. It won’t take long.”
I shake my head.
“Oh come on, Jack. If you don’t believe in it, how can it hurt?”
Trapped by Nellie’s logic? I lost normal down the road somewhere. I settle on the edge of the chair. “Oh, fine then.”
“The Dude is going to help me.”
“What Dude?”
“My spirit guide. I told you about him. He’s leaning on the doorjamb right behind you.”
I can’t help it. I sneak a look over my shoulder. Nothing, of course.
“He’s saying that you don’t need to believe for the reading to be true.”
“Thanks, Dude.”
Droll rolls off my grandmother like rain down a window. She lays the cards on the table. “Cut them once.”
I do.
She points to the second stack. “Now, one more time.”
Once I do that, she gathers the cards and fans them in front of me. “Choose three cards, then lay them face down on the table.”
Pick a card, any card . . . says the sideshow barker’s voice in my head. I’ll give her ten minutes, then I’m getting in the shower.
I lay three cards on the table, and she puts down the rest, shoots me a meaningful look that I don’t know the meaning of, then touches the first one. “This card will tell you something about your past.”
“I already know that.”
“It can reveal what you learned from your past.”
I know that too, but pointing it out will extend the foolishness, so I let it go.
She flips the card. The picture looks Egyptian, with Sphinxes crouched below a guy in a golden bucket. The title at the bottom is The Chariot.
“It’s upside down.” I reach for it, but she pushes my hand away.
“That’s called reversed. And it changes the meaning.”
“Which is?”
“Upright, it’s a strong symbol of perseverance. Being one hundred percent in control. In this position, it means that in your past you felt out of control. Defeated.”
My turn for an eye roll. “You think?”
She taps the card with a fingernail. “Tell me one of your memories from back then.”
“It’s too early in the day for—”
“You owe me one, remember? You’re not going to renege on our deal, are you?”
I squirm, my thighs sticking to the plastic chair. I want to leave the past buried, where it belongs. I made a bad deal after all.
She puts a hand on my bare leg, and I jump. “Just a quick one. The first one that comes to your mind.”
She’s not going to like it, but she asked for it. “In the third grade I was invited to a classmate’s birthday party. I wasn’t special; she invited the whole class.” The wall has become a movie screen, and my memory is the feature film. “She lived in a real house, with a yard and a dog, and a bedroom all to herself. Her mom was pretty and young and . . . anyway, we played games in the big back yard that was covered in grass so green it almost hurt to look at it. We ate pizza and cake. It was so fun.”
Nellie’s soft smile ignites a spark of anger that shoots through me, fast and hot. “Things were winding down, and parents were showing up to take their kids home. The grown-ups were standing on the patio chatting when Mom came around the corner of the house. ‘Well, isn’t this sweet?’ She said, too loud. Her dress was tight and shiny, and her hair was all a mess, her lipstick smeared.
“She’d been drinking. My stomach went jittery.
“The other women turned to her, their eyes went all big. Mom’s spiky heels dug in the grass as she wobbled her way to the patio. ‘Which one of you is Ms. Rayburn?’
“The birthday girl’s mom stepped forward. ‘I am. And you are?’
“Mom turned and pointed to me. ‘I’m Jacqueline’s mom. Hi Baby!’ She waved, all big and loud. ‘You having fun?’
“The other mothers called to their kids, saying it was time to go. I trudged to the patio, my guts slick with grease and getting hotter by the second.
“Mom leaned in, ‘Thanks for inviting her.’
“Mrs. Rayburn leaned back, lips peeling from her teeth in something that was probably supposed to look like a smile but wasn’t. ‘Happy to have her.’ There was a tiny emphasis on the her.
“Mom’s face went tight. ‘Sorry to be late, but I had to work.’ She raised her arms, waving at the house, the yard, the neighborhood. ‘Some of us little people do that, you know.’ She said in a fakey-syrupy voice.
“‘Mom. Let’s go.’ I grabbed her hand, desperate to get out before something bad happened. I didn’t pull, but she was unsteady to begin with. She swayed and one of her spike heels stuck between the patio bricks. Over she went. She hit hard on her hands and knees, her dress sliding up to her tiny red silky underwear. ‘Goddam it, Jacqueline, now look what you did!’
“Everyone froze in shock-filled silence, except for the indrawn breaths.
“Mom flipped over and tried to stand, but she was like a turtle on her back, all scraped knees, elbows and underwear. After what seemed like forever, one of the women helped her up.
“My head buzzed like there were bees in it. I stood, sick and mortified, hoping it wouldn’t happen . . . but it did. I threw up pizza, soda and cake all over the patio, and several ladies’ shoes.” I look away, breaking the newsreel on the wall. “Needless to say, that was the last house I was invited to.”
Nellie’s eyes fill with empathy. “Thank you for sharing that.”
My stomach is queasy, just recalling it. “Oh, hang around. I’ve got a million of ’em.”
“The Dude says that your past built your strengths you rely on today.”
“Well, lucky me then, huh?”
“Which brings us to the ‘present’ card.” She flips the second.
Even upside down, the card is scary. A black and white drawing of a skeleton on a skeletal horse, waving a scythe, jaw open in a scream. As if I couldn’t figure it out, DEATH is in heavy print at the bottom. “Well, that can’t be good.”
Nellie grins at me. “The Death card is wonderful. Very powerful. Reversed in the present position, it stands for immobility, slow changes, a narrow escape. In a word, you’re stuck, Hon.”
No shit, Nellie.
“The Dude says that all you need to do to be free is to let go and move to the brighter future that’s just waiting for you.”
Sure, because letting go is the reverse position of my super-power.
She puts her hand on the last card. “This is your future.” She flips it over.
It’s a hand coming out of a cloud, holding a stick. Below it, “Ace of Wands,” in script. I have no idea what that means, but at least it’s upright.
“Ahhhhh.” Nellie says, in a doctor reading-test-results voice.
“What? What does it mean?”
Her eyes sparkle. “For a non-believer, you’re awfully interested.”
My cheeks heat. “Just trying to get this over with. I want a shower.”
“This is a perfect card for your future, Jack. The Ace of Wands is a card of creativity. You will be daring and brave and take risks. It shows that now is the time for passion. A time to trust your potential and go for what you want.”
My heart rises on a cloud of hope, until I remember this is Nellie, and nothing Nellie says can be trusted. I push out of my chair. “I’ll see you in fifteen, and we’ll find some breakfast.”
I walk away from her know-it-all grin.
Twenty minutes later, I’m ready. When you only have three changes of clothes, it simplifies things. I slather moisturizer everywhere. Arizona makes me feel like a grape in a dehydrator. “We need to get a few more changes of clothes . . .” I step into Nellie’s room.
She’s dressed and sitting at the end of the bed, bag of clothes at her feet, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor.
Seeing my irrepressible grandmother . . . repressed shoots a bolt of worry to my stomach. I take two steps and sit on the bed.
This rouses her. She looks up, a smile on her face. “I’m ready.”
I put a hand over her gnarly, spotted one. “You’re sad. Won’t you tell me why?”
She shakes her head. “It does no good to dwell on what is gone. You learn the lesson then move on.”
The truth slips around my misgivings and out of my mouth. “But it would help me to know.” I’m willing to risk opening myself to Nellie if it means filling the holes in my past. “I know it’s selfish but it matters a lot to me. Please? What happened after your mother left you at the orphanage?”
She sits long enough that I think she’s going to refuse. Then she starts talking in a faraway voice; as if she’s telling me from that place, so long ago.
1942~
When there was nothing but a shimmer of dust where Momma’s car had been, we turned to The Children of Charity Orphanage; a large, old, drafty Victorian. Joshua said it looked angry, scowling down on us with dark windows, rotting boards and flaking paint. I thought it just looked tired. I took his hand and told him not to worry; I’d never leave him. Then we trudged up the steps.
They had to take us in—Momma was long gone. I know it sounds horrible, Momma leaving us, but it was far from rare back then. Parents didn’t want to give up their kids, but when the only other alternative is watching them starve, who wouldn’t have chosen the same?
The system wasn’t set up to handle the volume of young bodies. There weren’t enough beds, enough matrons, enough food . . . enough anything.
A harried woman took us through the front hall and back to a dorm room. They were all dorm rooms really, with some cots, a few bunkbeds, but mostly straw pallets on the floor. There weren’t any empty ones, so they gave us some straw and burlap bags, and I made them up for Joshua and me, butted up against each other. She gave us each a half a blanket; holey, scratchy smelly things that must have been army surplus from the first World War.
