Things I Want to Say

by Cyndi Myers

  “Hi.” Alice smiled at him. “My name is Alice and this is my friend Ellen. When I was younger, I stayed in this house on my honeymoon. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to see the place again.”

  The boy glanced back toward the house, his lower lip jutting out as he processed this information. Then he looked back at us. “Do you want to come in?” he asked.

  “We’d love that. Thank you.” Alice was out of the truck and standing beside the boy before I’d even unfastened my seat belt. I followed her and the boy up the long drive to the porch where the woman waited.

  “These ladies want to see the house,” the boy said.

  The woman folded her hands across her stomach and studied us with a worried expression. “The house is not for sale,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t want to buy it.” Alice offered up another of her hundred-watt smiles. “I’m on my way to California—I’m going to be living there. But twenty years ago I spent my honeymoon here. The people who owned the house then rented rooms and my husband and I stayed here.”

  Some of the stiffness went out of the woman. “Yes, I remember hearing the Stolzes sometimes rented rooms.” She looked toward the end of the porch. “You would have stayed in this bedroom over here, is that right?”

  “Yes. I remember the door onto the porch.” Alice led the way to the white-painted door. The Amish woman opened it and ushered us in. “My oldest sons sleep here now, but you are welcome to look.”

  There was nothing remarkable about the room, except that it was much neater than I’d expected a teenage boy’s room to be. A pair of maple twin beds shared space with a simple desk and an old-fashioned chest of drawers. Simple white curtains at the windows and patchwork quilts on the beds were the only decoration.

  “When Bobby and I stayed here, there was a big white iron bed,” Alice said. She stood in the middle of the room, a soft expression on her face. “It was spring, and we left the window open at night. I remember the smell of jasmine.”

  “The jasmine is still there,” the Amish woman said. “And the white bed is in my daughters’ room.”

  Alice nodded, as if satisfied to know these icons of her past still existed. “Thank you for letting me look,” she said, and led the way back onto the porch.

  “You were happy in your marriage?” the Amish woman asked, her tone puzzled, perhaps because she’d noted the lack of a wedding ring on Alice’s finger and the absence of a husband.

  “We were happy for a long time,” Alice said. Her eyes still held a dreamy look, as if she was once more that child bride, ignorant of everything to come in her life. “Thank you,” she said again, and descended the steps to the driveway.

  I nodded to the Amish woman and her son, and took off after Alice. Neither of us said anything as she turned the truck around. When we were out of sight of the house, I said, “Is there anywhere else you’d like to visit? Anything that was special to you during your honeymoon?”

  She shook her head. “No. That house was the only place.” She glanced at me, and some of the sadness returned to her expression. “I just wanted to see, one more time, a place where I’d been really, truly happy.”

  Her words made me ache. “You can be happy again,” I said. “Now that you’ve beat the cancer and you’re going to Ojai to start over. You could meet someone and…”

  She held up her hand to stop my babbling. “I’ll never be happy in that way again—the kind of happiness that comes from being so innocent and untouched by tragedy of any kind. It’s something only young people can know. And we’re too ignorant then to know how precious it is.”

  I nodded, understanding what she was saying, but unsure if I’d ever known the emotions she was talking about. Even children can be touched by tragedy, I thought. And yet, they’re often happy in spite of it.

  Maybe that was the real test: to learn to be content in spite of our troubles. To find the good in the midst of all the bad.

  The next morning we hit the road again, this time with me behind the wheel. Though I was a little nervous about piloting the big truck, I was also secretly thrilled. There’s nothing like sitting above the rest of the traffic to make you feel a little superior and powerful.

  “I always wondered what it would be like to be a long-haul trucker,” Alice said as we sped west on Route 283. “Or one of those people who live in a motorhome, always traveling from place to place. In a way, it’s very romantic and all, but I think I’d miss having a real home.” Funny word, home. Simple, yet charged with meaning. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had a real home,” I said. “Not really.”

  “What do you mean? Of course you did. You lived in the same house for the first sixteen years of your life, and you’ve been in Bakersfield how many years now?”

  “Nineteen. But neither of those were really homes. Not the way I think of them.” I shrugged. “They were just places to live. A house. A condo.”

  She turned toward me, one leg tucked under her, the seat belt straining against her right shoulder. “So what’s your definition of home?”

  I thought a minute, trying to find words for the emotions that whirled through me. It wasn’t something I’d spent a lot of time contemplating before now. Perhaps on purpose. “I think a home is someplace you can’t wait to get back to. You feel so loved and accepted and, well, at home there. I don’t know that I’ve ever had that.”

  “Not even when you were a little girl?” Alice’s voice was gentle.

  “Maybe then.” My hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Maybe not. My parents weren’t demonstrative, loving people. They were both sort of—isolated. To themselves. Even as a little girl I remember feeling like Frannie and I had to look out for ourselves.”

  “I remember how Frannie was always mothering you. Asking you if you’d done your homework, reminding you to wear a sweater—things a mother would do.”

  “Yes, that was Frannie.” While other girls her age were pining for teen pop idols or TV stars, she was making sure I did my homework and forging our mother’s signature on report cards and permission slips. I’d taken her solicitude for granted in those days. I glanced at Alice. “Did you think we were odd?”

  She shrugged. “Not any odder than any other family. I mean, the Olsens lived across the street from me. Nine children, two parents and an ancient grandmother who had to be locked in her room to keep her from dancing around the front yard without her clothes on. Mr. and Mrs. Olsen were usually so frazzled they referred to the children indiscriminately as ‘Hey you.’ The older ones had to help the younger ones get dressed and get to school or no one would have ever made it.”

  “I remember Maida Olsen was in our class.” I smiled at the memory of the freckle-faced girl with pigtails. “She and I were the only ones without our field trip money because our parents hadn’t given it to us.” This was obviously in Frannie’s pre-forgery days. “The teacher felt sorry for us, I guess, so she let us go to the art room and do crafts all day while everyone else went to the science museum.”

  “Yeah, I was so jealous, too,” Alice said. “I hated the science museum.”

  “And here I was, jealous that you got to go.”

  We laughed, then she turned the conversation back to more serious matters. “So if you had a home, what would it be like?”

  “When I was a little girl, I always thought a home was something I’d have when I grew up,” I said.

  “You’re grown-up now, so what’s stopping you?”

  I waited until I’d passed a slow-moving minivan before I answered. “I think back then, I saw grown-up as meaning married with a husband and children. I mean, that’s what people did—at least all the people I knew. They grew up, got jobs, got married and had children.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “Hey, I gave it my best shot, but it didn’t work out for me, either.”

  “I never pictured myself still single in my thirties.” Saying the words made my throat ache. I glanced at her. “Guess I wasn’t being very realistic. Do many people ev
en have that husband-and-house-and-two-kids dream life these days?”

  “Some do. And some are happy without that. If it’s what you want, don’t give up yet.”

  “Sure. You’re right.” My palms had started to sweat and I spread my fingers wide, trying to dry the dampness. “But it was a lot easier to be optimistic at twenty-eight than at thirty-eight. It doesn’t help that I haven’t had a real boyfriend in twenty years.” Even the word boyfriend sounded absurd when applied to a man my age. Obviously the English language hadn’t caught up with modern reality. There ought to be a word to describe someone who isn’t yet a “significant other” but who has progressed beyond “date” and not quite to “lover.”

  “Nothing to say you can’t start now,” Alice said. “A woman who got rid of a hundred pounds ought to be able to brave the big, bad dating world.”

  “What do you know about it?” I looked at her again. “How long have you been divorced from your second husband?”

  “Seven years. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been alone and celibate all that time. I’ve had boyfriends. Just none I wanted to marry.”

  “Because you still love Bobby?” I held my breath, waiting for the answer.

  She looked startled. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because…well, because you’re going to all the trouble to move back to Ojai, where he is.”

  “I told you, this isn’t about Bobby. I did love him once, but there’s nothing there now. Just…indifference. This is about me. What I have to do.”

  I thought of our conversation the night before, about karma and retribution and forgiveness. Was redemption as simple as wanting to do better, or as impossible as trying to change the past?

  Were there things in my past I’d change if I could? Certainly I’d wanted to weigh less. And sometimes I wondered if I should have fought harder to stay in Ridgeway instead of running to California with Frannie. But it’s tricky dealing with the past. If I changed all the bad stuff, it seemed logical that would change the good times, too.

  Probably just as well we couldn’t go back and make things different. Better to keep moving forward, toward whatever dim vision of the future we can perceive. At least then we can hold on to the illusion that things are still under our control. This time, we would see disaster coming and head it off, the way a driver watches ahead and avoids a traffic pileup.

  Which does nothing to account for all the accidents that happen every day. I gripped the steering wheel more tightly and refused to dwell on this thought. In thirty-eight years, surely I had learned enough to keep my life on the right road this time.

  We stopped for lunch in Wheeling, West Virginia. I tried not to think what a steady diet of fast-food burgers and salads was going to do to my waistline. Maybe I’d suggest we find a grocery store and stock up on healthier stuff; we could eat better and save money, too.

  Alice stretched and yawned as we walked back to the truck after we ate. “I don’t know why I’m so tired,” she said.

  “You’re probably worn-out from packing and getting ready to move.” I pulled the truck keys from my purse. “I’ll keep driving. You can rest.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind? We agreed to take turns.”

  “I’m good. I’m enjoying it, even.”

  The sun pouring through the windshield warmed the cab in spite of the air conditioner. Alice leaned her head against the passenger window and dozed, snoring softly. I turned the AC vents to blow full on me and studied the passing scenery, trying to stay awake.

  Just outside of Cambridge, Ohio, I spotted a figure on the side of the road. A hitchhiker, head down, thumb out, walking along, back to the traffic as if he didn’t really expect a ride.

  As I passed I had the impression of a slight figure dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, a navy blue duffel slung over one shoulder, long hair whipped by the wind, dark eyes full of sadness in a pale face.

  With a jolt, I realized the hitcher was a girl. A teenager, I guessed. I slammed on the brakes and steered the truck toward the shoulder.

  Alice woke with a start. “What is it? Why are we stopping?”

  “There’s a girl back there who needs a ride,” I said.

  Alice glanced in the side mirror and saw the girl running toward us. She turned to me again. “Are you crazy? You don’t pick up a total stranger.”

  “It’s just a girl. She doesn’t look that old. And she shouldn’t be out here alone.” I watched the girl jog toward us, the duffel bouncing against her side.

  “That doesn’t mean we have to give her a ride,” Alice said.

  “Better us than some man with trouble on his mind.” She had almost reached us now. “Scoot over,” I told Alice.

  Still frowning, she unfastened her seat belt and moved over into the middle of the bench seat. The girl reached the truck and yanked open the passenger door.

  Up close, she looked even younger. She had straight dark hair cut all one length, not a trace of makeup on her alabaster skin. She was wearing jeans and a jean jacket and tennis shoes. No fancy designer names that I could see from here. “Where are you headed?” I asked.

  “Sweetwater, Kansas. I’m going to see my cousin.”

  My geography was a little hazy, but Alice had said we weren’t in a hurry, right? A detour to Kansas shouldn’t take much time. “Climb in,” I said.

  She hoisted herself into the cab and settled into the seat, the duffel at her feet. “This is Alice, and I’m Ellen,” I said as I steered the truck back onto the highway.

  “I’m Ruth.” She fastened her seat belt. “I sure appreciate this.” Her voice was soft, with the slightest lilt of a European-flavored accent.

  “You should,” Alice said. “What if two men had stopped? There are a lot of crazy people out there. You could have been hurt.”

  “Alice!” I gave her a warning look. We’d just picked up this girl and Alice was grilling her like a burglary suspect. I was half-afraid Ruth would jump out of the moving truck if we came down too hard on her.

  “I wouldn’t have gone with two men.” Ruth’s lower lip jutted out in a pout. She smoothed her hands down her thighs. Her nails were trimmed short, unpolished. “Thank you for stopping, though.”

  “What are you doing out here by yourself?” Alice asked, refusing to let up. “Where are your parents?”

  “I told you, I’m going to see my cousin,” Ruth repeated. “In Sweetwater.” Her words were defiant, but I heard the undercurrent of fear in her voice.

  The fear made me speak. “Ruth, are you all right?” I asked gently. “You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

  “No.” The word was a squeak. When I glanced her way I saw that her eyes were huge and dark in her pale, pale face.

  Alice fell silent, though her gaze remained focused on the girl. I drove on, still gripping the steering wheel tightly, the tension in the air making it difficult to breathe. Whenever I glanced at Ruth and Alice, they were both staring out the front window, expressionless.

  I’d begun to relax a little after the first hour when Alice spoke again. “If you’re going to see your cousin, why not have your parents take you?” she asked.

  Ruth shook her head and stared down at her lap. “They couldn’t. They’re too busy.”

  I looked at Ruth more closely. No jewelry. Not even earrings. No pierced ears. Everything about her was so plain. And her accent sounded familiar. I realized she sounded like the woman who had shown us the house where Alice had honeymooned. “Ruth,” I said, speaking as gently as possible. “Are you Amish?”

  She shook her head again, violently, her whole body tensed.

  “It’s okay if you are,” I reassured her. “If you’re running away, we can help you.”

  “That depends—” Alice’s voice was tense “—on what you’re running away from.”

  Ruth hung her head so that her hair fell forward, hiding her face. “Please don’t make me go back,” she whispered.

  The desperation I heard brought a lump to my
throat. “We won’t make you go back,” I said, giving Alice a hard look.

  Alice started to say something else, but I cut her off. “It’s almost suppertime,” I said. “Let’s stop and get something to eat and we can talk more.”

  I stopped at a roadside diner and Ruth disappeared into the ladies’ room. I started to follow her, but Alice grabbed me and pulled me aside.

  “What do you mean, telling her we won’t make her go back?” Alice demanded. “She has a mother somewhere who must be out of her mind with worry. We should call the police.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe not.” I shook off Alice’s restraining hand. “I’m not going to hand her over to the police until I know more. Didn’t you hear her? She sounded terrified.”

  “Maybe she’s terrified of getting caught. What if she’s committed some crime? We could be accessories if we help her.”

  “Do you seriously think she’s some kind of criminal?” I wasn’t an expert on the criminal element, but I was pretty sure most of them don’t look like teenage Amish girls.

  Alice folded her arms under her breasts. “There’s something she’s not telling us.”

  “She’s scared. She doesn’t know any more about us than we know about her.”

  “I still think we should turn her over to the police. Let them handle this.”

  “No.” I met her gaze and held it. She looked angry but hurt, too. I felt a pinch of guilt. Alice had invited me on this trip. She was my friend. I should respect her wishes.

  But the memory of Ruth’s fear was stronger than my guilt. I could feel that fear in my gut. It had been a very long time since I’d been afraid that way, but I could still remember the chill of cold sweat on the back of my neck and the metallic taste in my mouth.

  “Look,” I pleaded, “there are some things that are worth running away from. I know. If we can help this girl, then I want to do it.”

  Alice narrowed her eyes at me and started to say something, but we were interrupted by Ruth’s emergence from the bathroom. Alice turned away, but the stiffness went out of her shoulders. She led the way to a booth by the front window.