A Song for the Road

by Kathleen Basi

  “What have I done in my life that was worthwhile,” Miriam said softly, “except make those kids?”

  “Bullshit. Here. Eat this.” Dicey shoved a s’more at her.

  “I haven’t eaten dinner.”

  “Oh, come on. You know you’re not gonna eat that sausage. Might as well have this. It’s perfectly toasted.”

  Miriam smiled and took it. Dicey was right. Perfect. “I thought you didn’t camp.”

  “We have a firepit on our patio. We made s’mores all the time. Anyway.” Dicey stared out at the falling darkness as she savored her own dessert. Then she swiveled to face Miriam. “I don’t want you to run yourself down, Miriam. You deserve better. Look what you’ve done for me. That alone proves you’re a good person.”

  Miriam shook her head. “Having you along keeps my mind occupied.”

  “So what? You think it’s only a good deed if you get nothing out of it? You have to be miserable to be holy? How very Catholic of you.”

  Miriam swallowed without bothering to finish chewing. “That’s not what Catholics believe,” she said sharply. “That’s not what I believe.”

  “Good. So prove it. Tell me one good thing you’ve done that has nothing to do with Teo or your kids.”

  The challenge touched a nerve. Miriam leaned on the picnic table, staring at the thick growth of old oak and elm and walnut, alive with the sound of spring insects. The hard edge of the graham cracker inched its way down her throat, scraping open parts of her she’d stopped paying attention to.

  “Talia had a friend,” she said slowly. “Not exactly a friend. An acquaintance from the civic youth orchestra. A kid from a rough background. Really screwed-up situation. But she was a phenomenal violist. Her dad threw her out of the house before rehearsal that night because … never mind; it doesn’t matter why. When I came to pick up Talia, this girl was planning to sleep in the park. We brought her home with us instead. She stayed with us two weeks while I looked for a safe place for her. Eventually her dad went into rehab, and she went to live with her grandmother.” Miriam nodded slowly. “I felt like I did something good there.”

  Dicey slapped her hands on her thighs. “You see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She retrieved her backpack and suitcase and headed for the shower house, leaving Miriam to ponder a word she’d grown up with but never really understood until just now, when Dicey had shown her what it meant.

  Grace.

  22

  Monday, May 2

  Hannibal, Missouri

  IN THE MORNING, MIRIAM woke to a curious sensation she couldn’t quite place. It was a coolness in her heart, an emptiness in her mind. It was the sense of being in tune with God and the universe, of absence of anxiety. It was the sound of breathing on the air mattress beside her, reassuring her that she was not alone.

  Contentment. That was it. She hadn’t felt it in so long, she’d forgotten.

  She wasn’t supposed to be content. Teo was dead. Talia, dead. Blaise, dead.

  A flashback of a scene she hadn’t witnessed—only imagined again and again. The coastal highway. The kids talking, Teo’s attention split. Crossing onto a bridge over an almost nonexistent creek. Shouting as that monster pickup truck swerved into their lane, crushing their little rental between the truck and the railing. Twisted metal. Screams. Burning.

  Miriam sat bolt upright, her head grazing the roof of the tent, gasping for air. Her body was covered with sweat.

  The air mattress bounced as she scrambled off it; Dicey groaned. Miriam unzipped the tent and escaped into the blessed chill of a spring morning, crouched down in a primal defensive position, her hands pressed to the dirt.

  Sunlight pierced the canopy, laying down long strips of golden luminescence on the worn pavement as she walked to the shower house. Inside, she turned the spigot all the way over and let the water scald away the nightmare vision.

  She powered up her phone on the way back to the campsite. Jo had called, and she had three text messages.

  She listened to Jo’s voicemail first. “Hey, Mira.” Her sister sounded ill at ease. “Sorry to call so early, I have a merger to negotiate today so I won’t be able to talk later, but I wanted to call, at least.” A pause. “I have something I want to talk to you about. About Mom. So, call me tonight.”

  For Jo, that was unusually not pushy. Miriam navigated to her texts.

  Becky: How are you holding up? We’re all thinking of you today.

  Gus: Your motivational speech for today! It was a link to a TED talk about working under pressure. “Thanks a lot,” she murmured. “That’s no pressure at all.”

  And Mom: Just touching base. Call anytime if you need to talk.

  Well, she’d asked for space. Her mother was giving it to her without going completely silent. Although it was a little odd that both Mom and Jo were trying to contact her the same morning. Miriam suspected a conspiracy.

  As if in response, her phone rang. It was her brother. Now she knew there was a conspiracy. That or an emergency.

  She picked it up. “Brad?”

  “Hey, Mira.” He sounded half asleep.

  Okay, maybe not an emergency. “What time is it where you are?”

  “Um … five thirty?” Her silence evidently clued him in to the oddity of his calling at such an hour. “I’m in surgery today. I wanted to call while I had a chance. I imagine today’s gonna be a rough one.”

  She was missing something. “Um …”

  “I figure it was probably all too fresh last year, so this is probably the first one. I know Teo always made a big deal of your anniversary.”

  Anniversary.

  Orange blossom and larkspur. The courthouse steps. Feeling nauseous, and not just from morning sickness. Teo, his hand sweaty, trying not to betray that he was at least as nervous as she was.

  Miriam felt like she’d been punched in the gut. She’d come home after the congressman’s funeral and canceled the standing order, and she’d never thought another thing about it.

  “Mira?” asked Brad. “You still there?”

  She heard her voice, faint and breathy, from a great distance. “I hadn’t … been keeping track of the dates.”

  “Oh, shit.” She could practically see him mussing his hair in agitation. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Jo called this morning. And Mom texted. I couldn’t figure out why.” She chuffed, more a hiccup than a laugh. “Imagine Jo remembering when I didn’t. What kind of person doesn’t remember her own anniversary?”

  Silence on the line. Then, a fierce tone. “Don’t do that, Mira. Don’t do that to yourself. You’re on the road. You’re off schedule. Besides, Mom probably called Jo last night to remind her.”

  “Mom never forgets stuff like that.”

  “Of course she doesn’t. And neither do you under ordinary circumstances. I’d place bets you’ve never forgotten before.”

  Miriam swallowed. “That’s true.” But that was because they’d always talked about it together. Planned it together. She’d never had to remember it on her own.

  The tent zipper buzzed. “Going to the shower,” Dicey mouthed. She dragged her suitcase up the drive.

  “Mom was hoping to spend this whole week with you,” Brad said. “To … you know. Support you, or whatever. But she got roped into helping plan some big event at church. You know how she is.”

  “Yeah.” Miriam mustered a chuckle and then gathered her thoughts to redirect the conversation away from herself. A survival instinct. “Is everything okay with Mom? Jo’s message said … I don’t know—it was weird. She wants to talk about her.”

  “Oh, you know Jo. She has Mom one foot in the grave. Mom’s fine, she’s just not fifty anymore. I mean, she’s lonely. Like you. I’m sure that’s what Jo’s thinking about. She sees you both in pain and figures you can help each other. Merger of two struggling entities, you know?”

  Miriam smiled wanly. “She does try to make everything fit into a profit loss spreadsheet, doesn’t she? Dad
would be so proud.”

  “Wow. That was bitter.” Brad hesitated. “Do you have any good memories of our family?”

  Miriam pondered the question. “We used to have popcorn and soda on Sunday nights,” she said at length. “And watch Disney movies. I liked those nights. And I remember doing a puzzle one New Year’s Eve.”

  “Wow,” Brad said again. “That’s all you remember?”

  “I remember Dad on his deathbed, still trying to convince Teo to go back to the accounting firm.”

  Brad blew out a breath. “I’m sorry, Mira. I wish … you know, they really struggled for a while. They kept it from us, but it wasn’t easy for them.”

  Miriam remained silent. They probably did think they’d kept it from her.

  “Neither one of them were any good at all that warm fuzzy stuff, and it probably hurt them more than it hurt us. But it doesn’t mean they didn’t love us. Dad wanted to provide for us, and Mom … I think Mom worked so hard around the house because she didn’t know how else to show us how she felt. When they were having problems, I figure she was too scared to own up to the hard stuff. She figured she’d just do what she could.” He paused. “You’re a lot like her, you know, Mira.”

  “Emotionally constipated?”

  Brad uttered a short bark of laughter. “I’m just saying, cut yourself some slack.”

  Miriam considered. Maybe Mom, too, had dreams she’d had to bury, hopes left unrealized, ghosts unresolved. Maybe she’d done the best she could with what she had.

  Brad was right; she was like her mother. She, too, had been scared to face the hard parts in her marriage; she, too, had compensated by making sure dinner was on the table and everyone had everything they needed. She wasn’t perfect, but she’d done the best she could.

  “As far as Jo,” Brad said now, “don’t worry about it. My theory is, thinking about you makes her feel guilty.”

  “Jo? Guilty?”

  “Sure. All this touchy-feely social justice Catholic stuff you and Teo were into—the food pantries and the refugee resettlement stuff—she can’t figure why you’d put so much energy into giving other people a leg up when you always had to make do with so little yourselves.”

  “She sort of missed the point of all that Catholic schooling.” It was getting easier to talk, now that she could focus on something else.

  Brad liked it better also. His chuckle was a little too high-pitched to hide his discomfort. “Actually, I think she got the point perfectly well. That’s why she feels guilty. But I don’t have room to talk. Look what I’m doing with my life.”

  “Breast augmentations for A-listers?”

  “Well, wannabe A-listers, anyway.” He laughed at his own expense, then sobered. “I hate it, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s awful, Miriam. I mean, I’m good at it. And I like the way I live. I like my house, I like surfing, I like throwing big parties. I need the money to make all that possible. But I hate the work. I always admired you two. What you did … it was who you were. They were one and the same. There aren’t many of us who get to tie together our work and our identity. I always envied you that. I still wish I knew what I could do to make my life like that.”

  The surge of affection for her brother surprised her. Growing up, Brad had never been all that supportive. Or even present. He’d left for college when she was in the fifth grade. Mostly, she remembered him teasing her.

  “I had no idea you felt this way,” she said. “I’m sorry I never asked.”

  “Oh well, our family never really talked about our problems, did we? Maybe we’d all be happier now if we’d learned to deal with things instead of sitting on them and letting them fester.” The line fell silent for a moment. Then he took a breath. “Look, I gotta go, but if Jo gives you any crap, just ignore her. You be you, Mira. And I’ll be happy knowing you’re happy. Or anyway, knowing you will be again.”

  “Will I?”

  “Oh yes,” he said quietly but with conviction. “You will. And you should let yourself be.”

  23

  Monday, May 2

  Near Des Moines, Iowa

  MIRIAM KEPT THE RADIO on all the way into Iowa to discourage conversation and leave space to think. Her unexpectedly profound conversation with Brad had given her a lot to unpack.

  Dicey took the hint, breaking Miriam’s reverie only to request occasional bathroom breaks. They both stared out the window, drinking in the sight of endless miles of fields. Something about the sight of green tractors sweeping up and down the black fields settled Miriam’s soul. Repetitive work, she thought. By all indications, boring—yet full of purpose.

  They arrived at the High Trestle Trailhead late in the afternoon. It was in the middle of nowhere—not particularly near Des Moines or anything else except a water tower and two tall grain elevators.

  As soon as the car stopped, Dicey headed for the trim red building that housed the restrooms. Miriam got out and stretched, breathing deep of the cool, clean air. One thing had become clear in the last five hours on the road: today needed to be about Teo. She might have forgotten her anniversary, but she hadn’t missed it. She knew what she wanted to do with this day. She wanted to play Teo’s guitar out on that bridge.

  She headed for the restroom too, and when she returned, she didn’t see Dicey anywhere. She pulled the guitar out of the car and strapped it on her back. As she donned Talia’s beribboned hat, she heard Dicey speaking indistinctly. She turned. The young woman sat on a nearby bench, talking to her phone. At first, Miriam thought she was arguing with someone by video chat; she had a fierce, impassioned look on her face. But as Miriam approached, the words became clear. “… so that’s the first thing I want you to remember. My second would be, always listen to your grandma. She’s a pain in the neck, but she knows what she’s doing. And the third is this: you are brown, you are beautiful, you are strong. Go change the world for me, baby.”

  Miriam halted. This was no conversation; Dicey was recording a message for her daughter.

  She inched backward, but Dicey noticed her anyway. Her face wiped clean. “Hey,” she said. Her phone disappeared into her pocket.

  “Sorry,” Miriam said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She hesitated, wondering if she dared ask the purpose of that video. Dicey was by turns totally open and prickly as a porcupine.

  Dicey gestured. “You’re taking the guitar?”

  “I thought I’d go out and play some of Teo’s favorite music. Badly.”

  Dicey grinned. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Well, let’s get going. You’ll see soon enough.”

  Dicey hauled herself to her feet, and they started down the paved trail, only to stop at a sign: “High Trestle Trail Bridge: 2.5 miles.”

  Miriam turned to her companion. Could she safely walk five miles round trip? “Um …”

  “Come on, we’re wasting daylight.” Dicey grabbed her elbow and propelled her forward.

  Miriam’s phone dinged as they began walking. She palmed it and rolled her eyes to see Gus’s name. “This is the second time today.”

  “For what?”

  “Gus,” she said.

  “Really?” Dicey looked thoughtful. “What’s he want?”

  Miriam clicked the attachment and found herself looking at a program. Cleaning my desk and found the program from the festival concert. Do you have a copy? Would you like one? she read. She sighed. “Really, I think what he’s doing is reminding me that he wants that sonata finished.”

  “That’s kinda pushy.”

  “Yeah, well. Gus has never been what you’d call ‘subtle.’ He’s wearing me out.”

  “Secrets are hard to carry,” Dicey observed.

  This from the girl who turned every conversation away from herself.

  Miriam took the high road, tapping out a short reply: Sure, thanks.

  She slid the guitar case around her front and slipped her phone into the zippered pocket. “So—that recording you wer
e making, back there? It’s for your daughter?”

  “Just thinking out loud,” Dicey said. “You had a conversation this morning too. Who were you talking to?”

  Miriam shook her head, chuckling at the two of them, dancing around subjects they didn’t want to discuss. She decided to break the dysfunctional cycle. “My brother.”

  “Oh? Why was he calling?”

  “Today’s my wedding anniversary.”

  Dicey’s jaw dropped. “Oh, Miriam.” She hesitated. “What did he say about it?”

  How to distill that conversation into one topic? “He said I’ll be happy again someday. And that I should let myself be.”

  “Huh.” Dicey eyed her appraisingly. “That’s surprisingly empathetic, for a guy.”

  Laughter underscored the heavy, compressed ache around her heart. “How did you get so jaded?”

  “I’ve only ever known one good man in my life—my stepdad.” Dicey spread her hands. “Though it seems like your Teo was a good one, I have to admit. And it sounds like your brother’s not completely without hope.” Dicey winced and pressed her hand to her abdomen. “Baby girl’s feisty today.”

  Miriam slowed. “I’m pushing you too hard. Should we go back?”

  “No way. I’m feeling better than I have in a long time. It’s just that sometimes I forget for a little while. It’s just nice to pretend nothing’s changed. But then sometimes …”

  “Then it hits you all at once, and you can’t breathe. You just want it to go away.”

  “Mostly I just get pissed off.” Dicey was already out of breath. “I want to go do something really stupid, like bungee jump or skydive or, I don’t know, get trashed. Just to give this pregnancy the finger, you know?”

  Miriam nodded, laughing. “I know exactly.”

  Out of nowhere, Dicey started coughing so hard, she had to stop and bend over. Miriam wrapped her arms around the younger woman, helping her to the ground and holding her while her body heaved.

  The tight ache of anxiety that seemed her constant companion these days seemed less burdensome suddenly. It had turned outward.