by Kevin Lucia
Still, something about the place bothered her. She frowned, glancing over her shoulder at Johnny. Curled up on the backseat, he seemed babyish. Hard to imagine him swearing. Stringy brown bangs sprawled across his forehead and eyes. She risked reaching back and brushing them away. As her fingertips grazed his smooth skin, a chill coiled around her spine.
She glanced forward, flicked on the turn signal, slowed, and pulled off the highway and into the rest stop’s parking lot. Dim halogen lights spilled piss-yellow splashes over the building and onto the ground. Nearby sat a small, neglected park sporting a few leafless trees. Shadowed shapes of picnic tables and grills huddled among them.
She parked at the building’s entrance, where a sign read: Welcome to Webb County. She stared at the gas gauge and saw the needle hovering over red.
Fear chilled her stomach. She had no money left for gas; had spent her last few dollars on Johnny’s Gameboy. She’d almost said no, but something made her give in. She wasn’t sure what. Maybe it had been her desperate need to see Johnny smile, showing the grin all boys his age should wear. She hadn’t seen him smile in such a long time, not since before Barry had been laid off from the lumber mill.
Or maybe it had been the kindly shopkeeper at that thrift store. A tall, regal man with white hair and deep green eyes, smiling so gently at Johnny, offering to knock five dollars off the price.
Now, staring at the fuel gauge, she felt guilty for buying the Gameboy. A few dollars wouldn’t have made much difference, but still the guilt—along with a million other sharp regrets—jabbed into her heart. Something crumbled deep inside her.
She bowed her head, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then reached under her shirt and pulled out the gun. Her skin reveled and recoiled as she touched it. Here was power. Here was weakness, too.
Here, also was truth.
She cradled the gun in her lap and thought, hard.
For a long time.
***
“Wake up. We’re here.”
“Did we stop?”
“For a while, yes.”
“Are we there yet?”
“Not yet. Just taking a rest. We’ve got a little more to go. Only a little more.”
***
A sharp report shook the car. She woke and shivered, suddenly cold from the night air Johnny had let in. She rubbed her eyes and glanced into the backseat. He’d already buckled himself up and was once again playing his Gameboy.
Somehow she found the strength to smile. “All set?”
A bare nod. “Yep. Kinda hungry, but there weren’t any snack machines here. Maybe at the next one.”
She glanced away as she backed the car out. She hadn’t told Johnny she’d spent their last few dollars on the Gameboy. Maybe enough quarters still rattled around in her purse to buy a bag of chips or cookies, so she could avoid the issue a little longer. Besides, maybe at the next stop she’d see someone she could borrow a few bucks from . . .
Beg.
Beg a few bucks. Why lie to herself?
As she drove on, the night swirled around them. It had stopped raining, and was now only misting. She looked at the gas gauge. It had dropped deeper into the red band, but it hadn’t hit bottom yet. Maybe, if she reached the next stop, she’d find help. Maybe.
The gun rubbed against her waist, mocking the thought, reminding her of its presence; always reminding.
***
“We’re close, aren’t we?”
“I think so. Maybe. Hard to tell.”
“I hope so. I’m so tired.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But it’ll be better, soon.”
“Promise?”
A nod and a smile. “Promise.”
***
She blinked and sat up. Raindrops tapped the windshield, roof, and hood. The car felt warm and close, stifling. Her head swimming with fatigue, Mary tried to brush off sleep, tried to focus.
They’d found another rest stop. Johnny had left . . . to buy snacks? Use the bathroom again? Had he found change in her purse after all?
She squinted at the building through the rain, lips unconsciously forming the words on its welcome sign. Then she yawned. She hadn’t dozed nearly as long as she could’ve.
Something had woken her. Raindrops?
It kept raining. It would stop for a while, and then, inevitably, it would start raining again. So, the raindrops had woken her up.
Settling back into the driver’s seat, she frowned at the thought. No. That wasn’t quite right. Things felt wrong. Disjointed. Like a CD skipping in the middle of a song, getting hung up on the same phrase over and over. Worse, the sensation felt familiar, but she wasn’t sure why.
Her gut twisted into knots. Of course it felt familiar. It was her life. It had always been like this, right? Ruined CD, ruined song . . . ruined life.
A sudden need to move consumed her. She reached under her seat, pulled her purse into her lap, and started rummaging through it. At first she found nothing but old lipstick tubes, crushed tampons, and a few brittle sticks of gum.
No money. Either she’d given it to Johnny and he’d gone inside to buy something, or he’d needed the bathroom again.
Strange.
She couldn’t remember.
Her searching fingers found a folded, brochure. She dug it out and opened it. A ‘Welcome To’ brochure, the kind found at rest stops everywhere.
A tiny pinprick of alarm blossomed in her heart. She tried to swallow but her throat clenched, tight and dry. Under a rising tide of panic, cold realization bloomed. She couldn’t remember what state or county this was. How far had they come since their last stop?
She flattened the brochure on her thigh.
It read “Welcome to Webb County.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She looked at the sign outside the car again.
Welcome to Webb County.
Back to the brochure. It was worn. Soiled. Colors faded, as if it had languished in her purse forever. Her desperate eyes read the sign once more, hoping for something different.
“What the hell?”
Something was wrong. She and Johnny needed to get back on the road until she sorted this out. Had she made another wrong turn? Gone south when she’d wanted to go north? Accidentally doubled-back the way they’d come?
She grabbed the door handle, but then stopped. Something nagged her. Opening the door felt wrong, out of place. How long had she been driving? Her stomach quivered.
She didn’t know.
Stupid. You’re tired. Need sleep.
That’s all.
She shut off the ignition so she wouldn’t waste gas. Breathing deeply, spots clouding her vision, she exited the car.
***
“Johnny?”
She stepped inside the rest stop, turned right into an empty lobby. Grit crunched underfoot. The place hadn’t been swept in ages. Pale fluorescent lights flickered above, throwing ghosts on the walls and floors. Something dripped back in the shadowed recesses. The information center in the far corner was in a shambles, brochures scattered on the floor. The air tasted stale, as if she was the first person to breathe it in years.
Her hand strayed to the gun, but she clenched her fist. “Johnny? You’re creepin’ me out, chief. C’mon.”
Something shifted. She turned and faced two doors—bathrooms. Light glimmered around the door on her left, pulling her toward it. Each step dragged, her own breath roaring in her ears, heart pounding.
Something waited behind that door.
“Johnny?”
Another step.
Her hand trembled near the gun.
“That you?”
Rustling and sliding, behind the door. She bit her tongue, tasting copper saltiness. Sweat chilled her forehead, and a rotten scent crept into her nostrils.
She reached beneath her ragged sweatshirt for the gun. Sweaty fingers closed around the grip, index finger curled on the trigger. She breathed frosty-white plumes; the air suddenly much colder than it had been momen
ts before, as if someone had abruptly turned the thermostat down.
She pulled the gun from her waistband. Her nerveless fingers fumbled with the pistol, nearly dropping it as she felt more than heard something sliding behind the door. She licked sour, cracked lips.
Headlights splashed through the glass front doors, panning the far walls. Tires crunched asphalt and gravel, and an engine idled.
“Finally! Thank God!”
She turned toward the light. “Johnny! Quit screwing around! Someone’s here!”
The bathroom door thumped, rattling in its frame.
She cried out. Growls rumbled behind the door, low and wet.
Another slam. She spun and pointed the gun at the door but couldn’t level it. The muzzle weighed a thousand pounds, and dizzying fear weakened her, turning her muscles into rubber.
Someone cried out.
All fell quiet.
She glanced back toward the headlights. The cry had come from there. Slowly, she backpedaled, lowering the gun. Squinting in the headlights’ glare, she saw something which ripped her breath away. Confusion tilted the floor and she wobbled. She steadied herself with a palm against the glass door.
Outside, her rusted old Ford Escort idled, which didn’t make sense. She’d turned it off. And where was the other car she’d heard pull in? Inside her car, however, she saw something that blew all her other questions away.
Johnny slept against the passenger side window. Though he hadn’t been in the car when she’d gotten out, there he was, sleeping innocently, face peaceful and relaxed. Next to him and behind the wheel sat . . .
The world spun away.
Quiet hysteria roared behind her eyes.
It was her. Crying. Tears streaming down a broken face, eyes gazing at Johnny with desperate madness. Something metallic gleamed in her hand.
The gun.
The .38 she’d taken from Barry, the one she’d kept tucked in her waistband the entire time, the one she clutched in a white-knuckled grip right now.
“Please, God. No.”
The other Mary raised the gun and tenderly planted the muzzle against Johnny’s temple.
She struck the glass, the impact stinging her palm.
“No! Dammit, no!”
She wanted to run, her brain sending frenzied signals for her legs to move, something inside her screaming she had to stop this, had to get out there and stop this, but her legs wouldn’t move.
A distant pop.
Johnny’s head jerked.
Crimson whorls painted the window as he sagged down into his seat. She stared as the other Mary swallowed the muzzle and pulled the trigger.
Another pop, this time louder.
A wet, meaty thump.
She stumbled back from the entrance, away from the car, away from what she’d seen. It was a bad dream. A hallucination. She was tired, seeing things. Desperate, she fumbled with the gun’s cartridge chamber.
There should be six full chambers, because she’d never shot it, never shot it because that bastard Barry had seen reason—or least hadn’t wanted his balls blown off—so he’d let them go, and she hadn’t fired a shot. She hadn’t done this horrible thing because she’d only dreamed it, and there should be six bullets, six bullets . . .
The cartridge cylinder clicked open.
It spun lazily then slowed, showing two empty bullet casings, side by side, in their chambers.
“N-no. I-I didn’t. I-I . . . ”
The thing in the bathroom slammed against the door again, scratching and whining. She closed her eyes and saw blood. Matted hair. The small, red, wet hole in Johnny’s temple.
The bathroom door thundered. Claws skittered on concrete. She opened her eyes and pointed the gun at the bathroom door, her finger tightening on the trigger.
The growling stopped.
The door fell silent and still.
She couldn’t take this. It was too much. So many images spun in her head. She couldn’t change it, couldn’t make it different or better, it was like before, always like before.
Always.
She closed her eyes and jammed the muzzle deep into her mouth. Her teeth clicked against its metal.
A warbling tune flowed from behind the bathroom door, stopping her. She strained to hear the odd yet familiar music.
Fanfare trumpets. Jingles and jangles.
The Gameboy.
She pulled the gun from her mouth, opening her eyes. “Johnny?”
Silence. No growls or scratching.
Tears welled. She blinked, felt them overflow, cascading down her cheeks. “Please. I don’t want to do this anymore.” A sob twisted her chest, and she shuddered. “I’m so sorry.”
The door swung wide open, slowly. Backlit by a soft glow, an adolescent form approached her, its face cloaked in shadow. It stopped a few feet away and stared at her with white, shining eyes which cast ghostly light across the soft contours of its face.
She sniffled and wiped her eyes, a curious peace flooding her.
She reached out. Wordlessly, it took her hand. As they walked toward the exit, a stray thought stopped her.
She glanced down and saw the revolver gleaming in her hand.
Biting her lip, she tossed it away. It clattered on the cement, its echo thin and insignificant.
They left the rest stop and climbed inside the now empty, still idling Escort. She put it into gear, pulled away and reentered the darkness ahead. They rode in silence until she whispered, “How much longer?”
“Not long,” it answered. “We’re almost there.”
She slipped a hand under her shirt and felt nothing but warm skin. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
She smiled.
11.
Did I pull the trigger?
It’s a helluva cliffhanger, to be sure. Maybe I pulled it, and the round in the chamber was a dud, or I got one of those two empty chambers. Or maybe it went off, but by some freak chance—you read about them, from time to time—the bullet got lodged in the chamber or something, and all I got was a painful mess of powder burns in my mouth.
Did I pull the trigger?
Helluva cliffhanger.
I sure as hell wanted to. I was done. Maxed out. Brains fried. All that crazy shit happening to me? On top of a useless, nomadic life? I’d been carrying that .38 (which I recognized, now) around with me forever, always alone and never having nobody, coming from nothing and no one, with no place to go, nowhere to belong.
So, yeah. I wanted to pull it. Bad. My finger tensed on it and everything.
Putting the muzzle in my mouth and swallowing its business end while staring into that old mirror triggered it. Made me remember everything. My dad, Barry, the mill worker, who enjoyed performing heavy bodywork on his son and wife when he was deep in his cups. Or Mom—Mary—and how I finally remembered seeing her eyes in the rear-view mirror of our old Escort on our last ride, how I saw her eyes in mine.
That Escort.
With the bad brakes, sputtering engine, peeling paint-job and cigarette-smelling, oil-stained seats. The Gameboy she’d bought at some run-down little thrift store in, a thrift store named . . .
shit
. . . and a tall old guy with white hair and bright green eyes, who let Mom have the Gameboy for five bucks off, for only a dollar . . .
SHIT
. . . and I remembered waking up in a hospital room. A nun praying over me. Doctors, nurses, police and social workers asking me about my mom and dad, did I have parents, did I know them and what happened to them, what was my name, where was I from? How did I end up unconscious in a ditch alongside a road in the middle of nowhere?
I remember pushing all their questions away until finally I snapped awake completely in a Boy’s Home somewhere. An orphan who couldn’t remember what had happened to his parents; couldn’t remember who he was or where he’d come from. I remembered, distinctly, counselors and priests trying to crack open my past until they finally stopped trying.
“Mom,�
�� I whispered, throat raw, feeling small, helpless, and more alone than ever, “Mom, what did you do?”
A warbling.
An electronic fanfare.
Steps creaked behind me. A large, weathered but somehow strong and kind hand reached down over my shoulder, holding an old Gameboy. The old Gameboy Mom had bought me all those years ago on our flight away from my abusive father. I accepted it numbly and dropped the .38, which clunked against the floor.
The weird old shopkeeper who’d ditched me in his crazy-ass store squatted down until he was at eye-level. He smiled kindly, no longer so strange or enigmatic. “Hello, Johnny. It’s good to see you again after all these years. I was starting to think you wouldn’t ever make your way back.”
I glanced down at the Gameboy.
Gray, brick-like in comparison to today’s sleek handheld games. I cradled it in my lap, finger tracing those A and B buttons, the + directional key, the green-scale screen.
I sniffed. “I remember Mom buying it. Here? Am I from here?”
The shopkeeper’s smile widened, though he seemed sad, also. “You and your mother passed through. I don’t know where from, honestly. Doesn’t matter as much as where you’re going now.”
My mind sputtered, wheels trying to turn, getting horribly stuck. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, in some ways—in ways which count the most—you’ve never left the road, have you? At such a young age, your poor mother took you and fled, took you out on the road, and you’ve never left it. You’ve always been on it, your whole life.”
“She killed herself.” The words sounded flat and dead to me. “She killed herself. I remember. But did she kill me, too? I saw her . . . I mean, I think . . . I remember . . . ”
The shop-clerk’s smile faded. “What do you remember about your childhood after?”
Well, I gotta tell ya, that question threw up a wall. I opened my mouth, ready to blurt out details of living in foster homes, being traded from family to family, but I came up with nothing but a blank, gray wall.
“I don’t remember.” I glanced down at the Gameboy in my hands. “Why don’t I remember?”
“How far back can you remember?”
At first I was afraid to try. Not sure what I was afraid of, exactly. That I’d remember something I didn’t want to? Or that I’d remember nothing?