Far Away

by Lisa Graff

  Jax opens his mouth, like he wants to argue, then closes it again, like he can’t.

  Point: CJ.

  “Here’s how I think of it,” I say, to try to make it all clearer. Because I was raised around Spirit—to me, it’s like breathing. But I know all this is new to Jax. “Me and Aunt Nic were outside of Cleveland once, when we had our old motor home, and we had to call this repairman. Aunt Nic was mad ’cause she hated to pay for repairs—we used to fix everything ourselves back then. Mostly with duct tape.” Jax snorts. “But this time, we needed help, ’cause there was this hissing.”

  “Hissing?” Jax repeats.

  I nod. “It’d been there for days, but we couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. It was so annoying.”

  “Sure,” Jax says. I can tell he’s waiting for me to get to the point, so I hurry it along.

  “But then this repair guy, I swear, the second he walks into the motor home, he goes right over to the sink in the kitchen, and he takes this big ol’ wrench, and he just whacks the wall with it. Busts a hole”—I show Jax how big, with both my hands together—“right through the wallpaper.”

  “I bet your aunt was thrilled about that,” Jax says.

  “Right?” I reply. “Only then, the guy steps back, and we see behind the wall, and there’s this pipe with a gash in it, shooting water out the side, exactly where he busted the hole. That whole time, we’d had a burst pipe, hissing at us right behind the wall, and we had no idea. But this total stranger walks in and bam! He knows exactly where to look. And you know what he said when I asked him how he knew that?” Jax doesn’t shrug or anything, but I can tell he’s listening. “He pointed to these little specks of mold over the faucet, and these tiny bubbles in the wallpaper, and he goes, ‘I followed the signs.’”

  I lean back in my seat and fold my arms over my chest, pretty proud of myself for making my point so clear, with a cool little story and everything.

  Only Jax just squints into the sunlight. “So . . .” he says slowly, “the lady with the dog is the wrench? Or the mold?”

  I sigh. Obviously my story wasn’t as clear as I thought.

  “Spirit is like the pipes in our walls,” I explain. “When we lose people we love here on Earth, we can’t see them anymore, but they’re still around, right? They watch over us. They help us out. They’re around us all the time, just like when you’re in a house or a motor home, the pipes are there, too. Only you don’t usually see them, you know? Most people don’t even think about them. They don’t think about where the water travels through to come out of the faucet, and they don’t think about Spirit, either, taking care of them so they can be safe and happy. You don’t have to know the pipes are in the walls for them to work, and you don’t have to know about Spirit, either. But either way, they’re there. And if you pay attention, and you know how to read the signs, you can figure out where they’ve been, and what they’re doing.”

  Jax thinks on that. “Maybe,” he says at last. But I can tell I haven’t really convinced him.

  I give up. I don’t have any other cool stories. “Wait till someone you love dies,” I tell him. “Then you’ll get it.”

  As soon as I say that, I see Jax’s face fall, and I know. I’ve seen that look a hundred times a night.

  “Who was it?” I ask. My voice is softer.

  It takes him a moment to answer. Not like he’s thinking about what to say, but like he needs time to get the words out.

  “My grandpa,” he says. “My dad’s dad. We were really close. He died in April.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. I know from experience that’s the only real thing to say.

  “That’s part of the reason my mom thought it might be good for me to work here. She thought your aunt could talk to him for me. But then when I got here, I wasn’t so sure I wanted her to.”

  “It’s not scary,” I say, suddenly understanding why he was so freaked out last night. “Your grandpa is just as nice as a spirit as he was when he was alive.”

  Jax snorts. “Uh, Abuelo was awesome,” he says, “but he was never nice. Once when my sister was five or something, she showed him this picture of a horse she’d made in school, and he was like, ‘I could do better.’” He laughs a little snot-laugh, then darts a sideways glance at me. I pretend not to have noticed. “He was pretty great, though.”

  I’m quiet for a minute, letting Jax think. I know what it’s like to miss somebody. Sometimes you just need space.

  But too much space can be bad, too.

  “You didn’t tell me you had a sister,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Jax replies. “She’s a year and a half younger. She’s super annoying. At some point she decided I should pretend to be an ‘international pop sensation’”—he says the phrase like it’s a curse word—“because she thinks if she’s related to a famous person, she can cut in line at the Cinnabon.” I laugh. “Sometimes my mom makes me take her and her friends to the mall, and they spend the whole time trying to teach me poses.” He hunches into the collar of his jacket, then gives me what I’m guessing is supposed to be a cool-guy sideways smirk. “Mari and her friends call me ‘Jackson Gato.’”

  “You look just like a pop sensation,” I tell him.

  He does not.

  “Once while I was doing it, the woman at the fro-yo shop gave Mari a mini sprinkle cup,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure it was just a promotion.”

  When he goes quiet after that, I ask, “Is it weird being on the road? Away from your family, I mean?” Living on a bus is all I’ve ever known, but I can imagine it might be hard, for someone who’s used to staying put.

  Jax thinks for a minute. “So, for Christmas, right?” he tells me. “While dinner’s cooking, we always go to the park on the water to watch the boat parade. It’s awesome because everyone decorates their boats with Christmas lights and there’s fireworks and everything.” He drums his fingers—thump, thump—on the wheel. “And Abuelo makes this huge deal, every year, about how no one can eat anything from the food trucks so we won’t ruin our appetites, but then the two of us always sneak off when no one’s looking and grab something.” He laughs, but then he clears his throat, like he’s embarrassed he’s told me something so personal.

  I give Jax as much space as he needs.

  “Anyway,” he goes on, straightening his back a little, “I’m always in charge of making the relleno for Christmas dinner.” He glances at me and clarifies. “It’s a side dish. Like, Ecuadorian stuffing, basically. And one year when we came back from the park I found out Mari had dumped in, like, an entire jar of extra olives when I wasn’t looking, just to mess with me. So now my main cooking job, every year, is to hide all the olives.” He thump-thumps on the wheel again.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  “I just keep thinking how this year she’ll probably get away with it,” he says, his voice heavy. “And then the relleno will be ruined for everyone.”

  I look out the window instead of at Jax.

  “We usually order pizza for Christmas,” I say at last. “And we play poker for pretzels. I kick everyone’s butts.”

  “I believe it,” Jax replies seriously.

  I lean forward in my seat, finally looking over at him. “If you want,” I tell Jax, “I’ll dump a jar of olives on your pizza so you feel like you’re at home.”

  And at that, Jax laughs. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  I smile back at him. “You know,” I say, “I’m glad you’re the one I tricked into driving me to Bakersfield. I don’t think Oscar would’ve been nearly as fun.” Jax laughs again.

  “You don’t have brothers or sisters or anything?” he asks me. “It’s just you and your aunt?”

  “And my mom, yeah.”

  “No dad?”

  “Nah. Well”—I adjust my headband—“I have one, obviously, but
no one knows who he is. My mom met him when she was traveling through Europe, but she never even found out his last name or anything.” I move on to something more serious. “Is it a watermelon?”

  Jax snot-laughs so hard he has to wipe his nose. “A watermelon is a thing!” he shouts.

  “Well, just tell me what it is, then.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re down to sixteen questions.”

  “Potato?”

  “No. Fifteen.”

  “Cactus?”

  “Are you just guessing stuff so you’ll lose and I’ll tell you what it is?”

  “Maybe. Is it a haircut?”

  “This is so not how you play this game, CJ.”

  “Is it that stuffing stuff? Relleno?”

  “No. Thirteen questions.”

  “Hey, Jax?” I say. He darts his eyes at me again. “Thanks for not turning around after I told you where we were going.”

  He nods. “But if your aunt gets mad at me for helping you, you have to have my back, okay? Because, seriously, I cannot—”

  “I know, I know. You love this job more than anything. Don’t worry, okay? Aunt Nic won’t be mad when we get back with the tether.” When he opens his mouth to protest, I say, “And if she is mad, I’ll swear on a Bible that it was all my fault, and that I kidnapped you. Now.” I slap my hands on my thighs. “Is it an alligator?”

  “You are so bad at this—”

  “Wait, I’ve got it!” I shout suddenly.

  “You do not have it.”

  “I do.” I’m serious now. “I know what it is.” I shift in my seat because I want to see the look on Jax’s face when I get it. “It’s Spirit.”

  “Spirit?” He wrinkles up his nose like he smells something awful, which is not exactly the look I was hoping for.

  But I know I must be right. “Yeah,” I say. “Spirit with a capital ‘S.’ All the souls that have left Earth, whether they’re drawn Far Away or still passing back and forth. That’s got to be it, because it’s not a person, place, or thing. I guessed it.”

  Jax does that scrunchy-mouth thing he’s so good at. “No,” he says. “Although that would’ve been a great pick. I wish I’d picked that.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “I give up. For real. Just tell me. I can’t take it anymore. What is it?”

  “Photosynthesis,” Jax replies. When I glare at him, he says, “That’s how plants make their food, using light from the sun.”

  “You could’ve picked anything in the world,” I say slowly, “and you picked photosynthesis? Anyway, isn’t that a ‘thing’? I think photosynthesis counts as a ‘thing.’”

  “Oh, no.”

  “It is,” I say. “It totally is, which means I’m right and you lose.”

  He shakes his head at me, and suddenly I realize he’s not thinking about Twenty Questions. “I meant ‘Oh, no, there’s something wrong with the truck.’ Look.”

  There’s a blinking light on the dash—a circle around an exclamation point. I’ve lived on the road my whole life, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that blinking exclamation points are never good.

  “Get off at the next exit,” I say. “We’ll find a gas station. I bet someone can help us figure out what’s wrong.” I try to sound confident, but there’s one thing I’m worried about—is this detour a part of Spirit’s plan, or are we off course before we’ve barely even begun?

  FOUR

  “OH, YEAH, DEFINITELY a simple fix,” says the super-friendly trucker I met coming out of the food court with a handful of lotto tickets. He’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of our truck, checking out the blinking exclamation point, and I’m standing beside him, trying to listen so we can get back on the road.

  Jax, however, is being less than helpful.

  “I can’t believe you let some stranger climb in the truck,” he hisses at me. Jax is supposed to be pumping gas, but the pump is doing all the work. What Jax is doing is scratching his arm and being even weirder than normal. “That guy is going to drive off and steal our truck, and then what will we do?”

  I roll my eyes. “That guy’s name is Gerald,” I say, and I don’t even bother to lower my voice, either. “And how’s he gonna drive off while you’ve got the gas pump in there, huh?” Jax has no response for that.

  Gerald, who has obviously heard everything we’ve been saying, nods to his own rig across the way. “My truck’s nicer’n yours anyway,” he says. “So stealing this one wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense, economically speaking.”

  I turn back to Jax. “See?”

  “You can’t just walk up to any person you meet at a rest stop,” he hisses. “Didn’t your aunt teach you about stranger danger?” He is peeved, but if you ask me, I’m the one who should be in the bad mood. At least I’m doing something to solve our problem.

  “What were you gonna do?” I reply. “Cross your fingers till the light went away?”

  “What if he’s a murderer?” Jax whispers.

  I’m getting a headache from all my eye rolling. I point to Gerald’s left arm, where a huge panda bear tattoo is exposed beneath his T-shirt sleeve. “I’m pretty sure most murderers don’t have cutesy tattoos,” I tell Jax.

  Beside me, Gerald clears his throat. When I turn back to him, he is waiting patiently for us to stop squabbling.

  “So,” he says, and Jax and I both straighten up, very serious. “Like I said, it’s no biggie. Low tire pressure.” When we both stare at him blankly, he explains, “You gotta refill the air in one of your tires. I’m guessing neither of you knows how to figure out which tire it is?”

  “Uh . . .” I start. I know how to change a tire, and I’m a whiz with jumper cables, but somehow I don’t know anything about tire pressure. I glance at Jax like maybe he’ll be helpful, but he’s busy avoiding eye contact.

  “Well, I’m happy to show you, if you want,” Gerald says. “And how to fill it with air, too. Then you’ll know how to do it yourselves for next time.”

  “That’d be awesome,” I say.

  Jax, of course, says nothing.

  “Great. Air pump’s back there.” Gerald points to a row of metal machines near the rear of the station. “Takes quarters. You kids got quarters?” I nod. Jax scratches. “Well, that’s one thing, at least. Pull up to the pump, and I’ll meet you over there.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Gerald, seriously,” I say, just as the gas pump clunks, letting us know our tank is full. I wait for Jax to pull the pump out, but he doesn’t. “Need help?” I ask him. His hand is on the pump, but he’s stone-still, eyes on Gerald in the passenger seat. Finally, I figure out that he’s waiting for Gerald to hop out before he removes the pump.

  “For Pete’s sake,” I say, rolling my eyes again.

  Gerald is watching us. “You know,” he says slowly, “this is awfully rough road for a joyride. You kids sure you don’t need me to call someone?”

  “Huh?” Jax asks, hand still on the pump.

  “He thinks we’re dumb kids who stole their parents’ truck,” I tell Jax. Then I tell Gerald, “We are not dumb kids. Jax is official driver of my aunt’s business.” I leave out the part about how we kind-of-sort-of are driving off where we’re not supposed to. “Just ’cause we don’t know how to put air in tires doesn’t mean we’re imbeciles. It means we need help.”

  “Well,” Gerald says. “I stand corrected. I’m happy to help you not-imbeciles get back on the road.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. And he hops out of the truck.

  * * *

  • • •

  When we get to the air hoses, Jax sits in the driver’s seat while Gerald shows me where to find the info about our truck’s required tire pressure. It’s located on a sticker like two inches from Jax’s elbow, but Jax won’t even look at us as we inspect it. Gerald hands me his pressure gauge, which is this tin
y tool with a top shaped like a diving helmet, and he demonstrates how to attach it to each tire and let out just a hiss of air, so the gauge pops out and gives the reading. I do two of the tires by myself, and I’m the one who figures out that our left front tire is super low.

  “Feed the quarters into the machine,” Gerald instructs me while Jax remains useless. “Great. Now we’re gonna hook the hose to the air valve, same as we did with the gauge.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to try?” I ask Jax as I cross his side with the hissing air hose. “It’d probably be good if you knew how to do it.”

  Jax shakes his head, eyes straight ahead.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  “And always remember to replace the stem cap,” Gerald tells me when the tire is properly inflated. He hands me the tiny black cap and waits while I screw it back onto the valve. “Perfect. You guys are good to go.”

  “We owe you one for sure,” I tell Gerald. “Can we buy you a Twinkie or something?”

  “Nah,” he says, patting his belly. “I don’t like to eat right before I go out murdering people.”

  Over in the truck, Jax’s eyes go wide, even though it’s obvious Gerald is messing with him.

  “Sorry,” Gerald says, “bad joke.” Then he leans a little toward me. “Is he okay?”

  I shrug. “Who knows?” Yesterday, during Aunt Nic’s show, I thought he was jumpy because he was freaked out by Spirit, but as far as I can tell, Gerald’s not a spirit, so I don’t know what gives.

  “Tell you what,” Gerald goes on. “Next time I find myself in the same town as you and your aunt, you get me discount tickets to one of her shows. I gotta see this lady for myself.”

  “I’ll get you in for free,” I tell him, and we shake on it.

  And that’s when I see it—the tattoo poking out of Gerald’s right shirtsleeve. It’s inky and blue, a skinny curved tentacle.