Mary sighed, as if relieved to hear that Eddie was a good guy. They exchanged numbers and Facebook accounts and promised to stay in touch.
In spite of the immortal matchmaking, Veronica was itching to go. She had a call to make.
37
“Are you still up for this?” Veronica tapped Jenny on the arm. They had been driving for four hours and her butt had fallen asleep even as her mind kept churning. For the first time in ages, she wanted to close her eyes and rest—to escape the guilt from dragging this damaged young woman along for her selfish, self-centered ride. Jenny needed help, much more help than she could offer.
“Yes,” Jenny yawned and stretched like a cat in a sliver of sun. “But can we please stay in a decent hotel when we get there? I’ll pay.”
“You’ll pay, huh? Where, may I ask, did you get the money to pay for a hotel room?”
“Carl hooked me up with a debit card if I solemnly swore to disappear.”
“He what?” Veronica whipped her head in Jenny’s direction. The thought of Carl and what he tried to pull at the museum made her angrier than her ex-husband’s infidelities.
“It’s just a debit card, and knowing my cheap ass dad, it’s probably got a three-hundred-dollar limit.”
“Well, that’s just great. They can track you with that, you know.”
“Yeah, so.” Jenny adjusted the seat and sat up. “Let them track me. They don’t give a shit where I am or what I’m doing as long as I don’t do anything stupid that might get leaked to the press.”
Veronica stared out at the vast expanse of green surrounding the highway. It felt like she was on a road to nowhere. JA would not be thrilled to see her face on his doorstep. “You know, maybe we could go to a meeting when we get to Lincoln. I don’t know about you, but I could really use one.”
Jenny rolled down the window and let her arm ride through waves of cool air. The bruises were fading from her skin, but the psychological wounds would remain. “Sure, whatever. For all the press knows, I’m at a rehab facility. It’s not like they can check on that shit, right?”
“I doubt it because of HIPAA, but you never know. Your dad is running for president.”
“So, I know it’s none of my business, but in a way it kind of is. Who are we going to Nebraska for?”
“My ex-husband, Jonathan Allen Smith—or JA, as he insists.”
“Is he a douchebag?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Overwhelmed by her upcoming confrontation with a person she wanted to intentionally harm, Veronica slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road. She flipped her hazards on and reclined the seat.
“What are you doing?” Jenny rifled through her backpack.
“Meditating. Be quiet.” Veronica slowly opened her eyes and spied the revolver on Jenny’s lap. “I think the more pressing question is, what are you doing with that gun?”
“I just want it for protection.”
“Do you even know how to shoot a…” Veronica stopped, realizing her question was redundant. “Is that thing loaded?”
Jenny inspected the cylinder. “Three shots left. One’s all I need, though.”
“You know, Jenny, you don’t need to protect me. I’m pretty much invincible when it comes to guns, knives, or whatever someone wants to use. You could shoot me right now and I’d be good as new in less than a minute. It’s my one and only super power.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have any superpowers. The gun’s for me. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you run with a really strange crowd.” Jenny placed the revolver back on her lap.
Veronica closed her eyes and tried to focus on the words keep it simple, but the word gun ricocheted through her mind like a live-fire round. She hated the idea of guns, even more than the cockiness of those who brandished them. As a weapon, they were too loud and impersonal. If she really wanted to kill someone, whether in a fit of rage or for merciful relief, she preferred to be close enough to feel their last breath on her face. “I get it, just be careful and don’t point that thing in my direction.”
“You don’t need to worry. I’m a trick shot. Hell, I was raised in Texas. I knew how to shoot a gun before I knew how to ride a bike.” Jenny clicked the cylinder back in place. “Maybe we should get some more ammo. Just in case.”
“You planning on killing someone?” Veronica sat back up. Meditation, like everything else in her life, would have to wait.
“Not yet.”
A red, dirt-caked pickup pulled up behind them, kicking up gravel. The faint sound of Patsy Cline’s voice cut off with the engine. A middle-aged man with belted Wranglers and a western button-down stretched across the bulk of his belly hopped down from the cab and strode over to the driver’s side window. Unfazed by the cars careening by, he leaned his face near the open window and removed his sunglasses. A sweat-stained “Make America Great Again” hat engulfed his large head.
“You ladies need a jump?”
Jenny picked up the gun and scratched her scalp with the barrel. “We’re just sitting here. She’s, like, trying, like, really fucking hard to meditate and you just interrupted that shit.” Jenny blew into the barrel and smiled, revealing her chipped front tooth.
The man’s nostrils twitched at the sight of the weapon. “I didn’t mean to interrupt nothing. I was trying to be helpful’s all. I’ll be on my way.”
“Not so fast.” Jenny aimed the revolver at Veronica’s temple. “I have a question I want to ask you. If you lie, I’m going to blow her brains out.” She cocked the gun. “Ready?”
“Don’t worry,” Veronica assured him. “She’s not going to blow my brains out.” She turned toward Jenny. It would be so easy to snatch the gun away, as the barrel pointed between her eyes, but she decided it would be best if she didn’t try to control the situation.
The man lifted his arms in the air, as if to show that he wasn’t armed. “I, I,” he stuttered, stepping backwards onto the highway.
Veronica turned and smiled reassuringly at the man, but she wasn’t really sure of anything at this point. “You’re going to get hit by a car. Come back here.”
The man stepped closer to the car, eyeing his truck as if trying to figure out how quickly he could escape into the safety of the cab.
Veronica continued in a slow, even tone as if she were trying to calm a frightened animal. “Sir, she seems to be having a moment. She’s had a rough week. Just humor her and you’ll be on your way. I’m very sorry.” The words that were becoming her salvation felt like her ruin as her teeth strained against her gums. The smell of the man’s fear was intoxicating. The gun at her head wasn’t helping. She pressed her lips together and inhaled deeply through her nose.
Jenny leaned towards the steering wheel. “Nice hat. When exactly was America great? Was it when we screwed the Native Americans?” Jenny gestured with the gun. “Or how about when we nuked Japan? Was that when we were great?”
“This ain’t my hat, ma’am. It’s my brother’s. I’m just wearing it ’cause I got treated for melanoma a few days ago. Doc says I’m supposed to keep my head covered. The sun’ll kill you.”
“No. Actually it won’t. Ask her.” Jenny pointed the gun back at Veronica’s head. “So, here’s my question.” Jenny leaned closer to the window and looked up at the man. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s Don Henderson, ma’am.” He braced the door of the car. Scabs covered the knuckles of his weathered hands. “Can I go now?”
“That’s not my question. Here’s my question and don’t you go lying to me, Donald, or she’ll get it right in the noggin.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sweat beaded his upper lip.
“Do you like the smell of your own farts, Donald Henderson?”
“Excuse me?” He cupped his sunburned ear and leaned forward.
Jenny raised her voice. “When you fart. Do you like how it smells or do you not like how it smells?”
“I really don’t know how to answer that kind of question.” He shifted his w
eight and wiped the sweat with the back of his hand. His gaze darted from Veronica’s furrowed brow to Jenny’s unsteady arm.
“I don’t know is not the answer I’m looking for. Either you do or you don’t, Donald.” Jenny leaned back and clutched her knees to her chest. Her arm steadied. “Think back to the last time you farted, which I’m guessing was probably less than five minutes ago. Did you enjoy how it smelled?”
“No, ma’am. I can’t say that I did.”
“Bingo! So, your answer is no?” She nodded her head maniacally.
He returned her enthusiasm and smiled with quivering lips.
“Liar.” Jenny roared and pulled the trigger.
38
“That was fucking awesome! Did you see his face?” Jenny laughed. “He totally shit his pants too.” She wiped her eyes and the spittle from her lips.
Veronica sped down the highway as if her hair were on fire. Both she and Jenny were high on adrenaline, and if she didn’t find an exit quick, Nebraska’s finest were going to pull them over and throw them in the slammer. She looked at Jenny and flashed her razor-sharp canines. “If you ever do something like that again, I will rip your throat out. I don’t care who your dad is. You will be dead. Got it?”
“Whatever. Why are you driving so fast? If I were you, I’d slow down before I got a speeding ticket.” She bit at what remained of her nails. “Just saying.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Jenny? You just blew half of my head onto that poor man’s shirt. I think the police will be a little more concerned with that. And then,” her voice rose to a furious level, “then, they will be really concerned that you got that fucker’s gun!”
“First of all, it was not murder. It was self-defense. And second, that redneck saw that you were okay when you were giving him that mouth to mouth shit. He’s not going to call the police. He’s going to go home, take a shower and probably wash his clothes. That’s what he’s going to do. Chill the fuck out.” Jenny gingerly placed the gun into the glovebox and slammed the reluctant door shut. “You have to admit, that shit was crazy. For a minute there, I thought you were lying about your superpower, but you weren’t. If we could film that, we’d be fucking rich, richer than my dad. You’d have like advertisers busting down your door and a million YouTube followers.”
“What if I had been lying? What then? Jesus!” Veronica exited the highway and zipped into the darkened bay of a truck wash. As the engine idled, she angrily violated the nooks and crannies at the bottom of her purse. “Here,” she handed Jenny a handful of quarters. “Wash off the evidence and whatever you do, don’t do a half-assed job of it.” Veronica hopped out of the car, inspected the door and shook her head in disbelief. In the window, she caught sight of her own reflection. No blood lingered on her body, but her cardigan was soaked. She peeled it from her skin and threw it in the trash bin. “I need to go do something about this.” She waved her arms over the length of her body. “Don’t say a word to anyone. Got it?” She grabbed the keys from the ignition and Serenity-prayed her way into the Flying J.
As the automatic doors whooshed open, she was assaulted by a blast of air conditioning and the chorus of George Strait’s “All My Exes Live in Texas.” Wishing for invisibility, she lowered her head and navigated the fluorescent maze of candy bars, chips and energy drinks to the safety and seclusion of the women’s restroom. Passing a rack of t-shirts and hoodies, she briefly entertained the idea of grabbing one to cover her bare arms, but good sense and dwindling funds interrupted that plan. Forget the shirt—she needed a phone. Turning the corner of the restroom hall, she exhaled like a runner crossing the finish line. A lone trucker with ripe clothes and two-day stubble leaned against the wall as if waiting for her. He tried to meet her gaze with hungry, bloodshot eyes. She quickly darted through the door marked with a “W” and mentally dared him to follow.
At the littered counter, she wet a wad of rough brown paper towels and scrubbed the drops of drying blood. Flicking a bit of brain matter from her purple camisole, she turned to see her back in the mirror. Sweat soaked the back of her shirt. She pressed the hand dryer. The noise it made when ignited was angry and excessive, but it managed to dry her shirt.
Feeling confident that she could slip back to the car unnoticed, she tiptoed out of the restroom. Jenny was at the counter paying for a mound of unhealthy snacks and a soda twice the size of her head. The cashier handed her some bills, which she stuffed in her back pocket, along with the newly acquired debit card.
“Let’s go,” Veronica demanded.
“I’ve got to pee.” Jenny handed Veronica the bag and the sweating soda. “Take this. I’ll be right out.”
“On your way out, get a prepaid phone. Got it?”
As Veronica steamrolled through the automatic doors, a Highway Patrol vehicle pulled into the lot directly in front of her. Two officers sat stone-faced in the front seat.
And sat.
And sat.
Veronica’s pulse quickened as she looked for the easiest path between the parked cars. If someone dared to look close enough, they would be able to tell that she was a walking crime scene. All they needed was a black light.
Menopausal invisibility, don’t fail me now. As nonchalantly as she could, Veronica walked directly past them. With her car in sight, her pace increased. She didn’t know if it was fear or hope that fueled her forward… but she knew it would be all too easy to take off and leave Jenny behind.
The car was dried and spotless. Even the interior dash and seats were wiped down. A vanilla-scented air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror. Jenny wasn’t good for much more than a laugh, but as a meth addict, she sure knew how to clean. As Veronica buckled her seatbelt, Jenny plopped down beside her, perhaps sensing that her days in Veronica’s protective custody were numbered. She placed the phone on the dash.
“I got one too. Let’s roll,” Jenny dug into her bag of treats and ripped open a Snickers bar. “So, how long till we get to Lincoln?”
“Now that we have to take the back roads, I have no idea. In fact, I’m not quite sure we should even stay in this stupid flat-ass state.”
“But Seamus hooked you up and your ex is expecting you. Come on, woman. We’ve already come this far. What’s the problem?” As soon as the words left her lips, Jenny’s face flashed in recognition—she was the problem.
Jenny dumped the half-eaten candy bar back in the bag and tapped her foot against the floorboard. “So, if we don’t go to Lincoln, what’s your plan B?”
“Detroit.” Veronica pulled out of the bay as the two officers sauntered into the store. “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
“Another ex?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, come on. How bad can he be?”
She pulled cautiously onto the service road. “He tried to kill me. We were at his place and some guy just walks in and shoots me in the head. Kinda like what you did twenty minutes ago.”
“No shit? I bet that fucker got a big surprise when you came back.”
“Yeah, he was surprised alright. And then he shot Kevin. I was so stupid. I had no idea it had been planned. I didn’t want to lose the man I loved, so…” Veronica’s voice trailed off. “I’m too tired for this.”
39
Nebraska 1978
With the accumulated crumbs of her abnormally long life crammed into boxes in the back of a crappy cargo van, Veronica fled Detroit towards the anonymous plains of Nebraska. In the last twenty-four hours, she had been drained by Kevin and shot several times. Being repeatedly shot and having to reassemble into her former physical-self took a psychic toll. Not only was she hungry, angry, lonely and tired, she was heartbroken. The man she loved was not who she thought he was… but neither was she. In the two years she’d known him, he was never privy to her secret. Not only did this make her a pretty damn good liar, it made her realize that she was part of her own problem. She had been to enough AA meetings to know that she was only as
sick as her secrets. For her own serenity, it was time to tell the truth.
Determined to remain as ethical as possible in pursuit of a meal, she wandered into St. John’s Regional Medical Center in the middle of a cold, cloudless night. The halls were empty, the lights were lowered, but she held out the hope that someone on one of these dimly lit floors was dying and might need a little help to get there. The first order of business was to procure a new outfit, so she wouldn’t look like a bedraggled visitor in her brown cords and turtleneck sweater. She followed the numerous signs through empty halls to the OR. Trying the handle of a supply closet, she was relieved to find it unlocked. Several pairs of surgical scrubs in her size were neatly folded on one of the shelves. She changed into the blue, loose fitting fabric with “St. John’s” embroidered on the front pocket and stuffed an extra pair in her purse. In her experience, it was surprisingly easy to walk the halls of a hospital when she dressed the part. No one ever seemed to question her sudden appearance. Most of the time, other employees were relieved to see her face, especially in the wee hours of the dreaded night shift. She stowed her clothes and purse behind a stack of surgical glove boxes and peeked her head out the door to make sure the coast was clear. It was.
Walking with a sense of purpose, she located the ICU on the hospital map and strode the bleach-scented halls. At each door, she studied the patient’s chart. She wanted dire—hours or even days to live with no chance of recovery—and geriatric. Old folks were the least resistant. Most had already surrendered to the idea of death and many welcomed it.
In room 339, she found her midnight snack. She gently stepped through the cracked door of Lily Shelton, an eighty-seven-year-old with advanced leukemia. The room was dark, but she sensed movement at the bed. Quietly she crept into the open bathroom.
“Thank you, Johnathan,” the woman gurgled. “It won’t hurt, will it?”
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