Driving With the Top Down

by Beth Harbison

  What was I going to do? I mean, there was just nothing I could do except climb all the way back down, move the ladder a couple of inches, then climb all the way back up. That seemed so unnecessary, since I was already up here and so close. So I stood there like a dumb, unseen moron, unable to make this patently, clearly, horribly dangerous situation actually, you know, worth it.

  Thank God there were no security cameras in a place like this. I could just imagine the viral video making the rounds on the news. The sort of thing where the newscasters aren’t supposed to laugh because it’s really a very somber story at the heart of it, but inevitably someone, probably the weather or sports guy, would say some little smart-aleck joke and everyone would chuckle.

  One more step down and I tried again. They didn’t know it, all those unwatching witnesses, but they’d given me a chance at a mulligan. I stood on my tiptoes and reached for the cat, making contact. For one brief moment I had him, but then he meowed loudly and leapt to another rafter. Startled, I overcompensated and the ladder started to tip. Backwards. And it kept tipping.

  And here’s where you’d think I might have just seen this as serendipity. I’d wanted to kill myself and even though this wasn’t how I had planned to go, it was an opportunity that had presented itself handily. It would have happened fast, and from that height it would have been over instantly. Best of all, it wasn’t even my fault, really—I mean, yes, I was the dummy who’d climbed up there to get the cat, but it was because a little girl was crying, so in essence, I would die a hero. Sort of.

  But no, instinct kicked in, I screamed, and without even thinking, I reached for the curtain as the ladder blew past and slammed to the floor.

  That got their attention.

  Everyone looked at the ladder. From my perspective, I could see that human beings have roughly the same reactions and timing, because their heads all seemed to move at the same time, turning first to the source of the clattering, then to the oddball trapped in the top of the curtains, sneezing her head off.

  There wasn’t even time to think of what to do.

  The instinct to live, to save yourself, at a time when all your muscles are engaged in doing exactly that in a manner not unlike rigor mortis, is stronger than any scheme Lucy and Ethel or I could ever come up with, however “heroic” it might be on the surface.

  So for one endless moment, I remained there, frozen in the most embarrassing position I’d ever been in.

  But before anyone could, or did, move, the curtains started to tear. Slowly. Evenly. One might even say sarcastically. The sound was like a record being scratched, and when I instinctively reached up to grab the rod, my sleeve got caught in the hook. It was one of those surf brand T-shirts—Roxy, I think—with the thumb hole at the wrist. Purely decorative, as it was made out of fabric so thin that it didn’t matter whether it had sleeves or not—the shirt wasn’t providing any protection from the cold.

  I’d actually had that thought that morning when I’d put it on, since the hooks on my bra weren’t meeting comfortably all of a sudden (a fact I’d attributed to the doughnuts I had at the last auction—it’s really amazing how fast weight piles on me, my mother was right!) and I left it off.

  So down I went, like a new member of Cirque du Soleil on the first day of training, taking the curtain with me and leaving my shirt behind.

  How long did it take? Three seconds? Maybe four? An hour? A week? A year?

  I have no idea. To me, it felt like forever. Kind of like when you’re sitting there waiting for people to finish singing “Happy Birthday” to you in a restaurant with a frozen smile on your face.

  When at last I hit the ground, one of those rakes I’d tried so carefully to move out of the way had been knocked when the ladder fell, so my right foot landed directly on it, puncturing right through my shoe and knocking the rake up to hit me in the head.

  I was a Stooge. Or Jerry Lewis.

  I was ridiculous.

  Really, it was my fault for having such uncharitable thoughts about how dumb and blind these people were, thinking to myself that they wouldn’t notice John Wilkes Booth walking into a theater with a machine gun.

  They were noticing me now.

  I barely remember getting up and dusting myself off. At the time, I didn’t feel any pain, but I’m a little achy now, so that was probably just the adrenaline. I went over to a shocked Colleen (thank God Tamara was still outside) and told her I would be waiting in the car.

  Naturally, she didn’t leave me there for long; she came out as soon as she paid up, but in the meantime I did get a chance to think. And, seriously, when I started to fall, why did I stop myself? Is the human impulse to survive so physically strong that it doesn’t care what the mind thinks? Where was the brain that had been planning suicide for the past few months? Suddenly hiding behind the muscle, urging it to hold on. Crazy.

  I’d thought my road was so clear. How could I fail at this one final thing? There is no way to fail at suicide as long as it works. Failing at suicide is failing at failure.

  At this point, I’m beginning to feel I’m so bad at living that I might never be able to end it. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Colleen

  “What is that smell?” Tamara asked as they rolled along the endless miles of I-95 through Georgia. The road was a long black Sharpie line in front of them, flanked by guardrails and, for the past five miles, Jersey walls with low, swampy water extending far to the left and right. Smokestacks billowed in the distance to the east.

  Jersey walls made Colleen nervous, so she was glad to have something to say—anything—to try and distract herself. “Paper factories,” she said, gesturing toward the smokestacks. “They smell like sulfur.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the smell of Georgia for you.”

  “I hate it.”

  Colleen wanted to snap at her, and say that she could deal with it or keep bitching, but either way, it was going to still stink. She kept her mouth shut. She knew she was only irritable because she had been able to get ahold of Kevin for just a minute here and there over the past few days.

  “Bad time to have the top down,” Tamara went on, her tone dripping with nasty attitude.

  Shut up, Colleen thought. Tamara had been really good, really agreeable, for most of the trip, so maybe it was an uncharitable thought, but still, Shut up shut up shut up.

  “We should stop at Paula Deen’s restaurant in Savannah,” Bitty said. “What’s it called? The Lady and Sons?”

  Colleen glanced sideways at her. How fast could a person put on weight? Bitty had been eating nonstop, and she looked great. She actually looked like a normal person now. Colleen had never seen her resembling anything other than a twig. They’d even stopped at a Target so Bitty could get some new clothes. She’d only gotten yoga pants and a couple of sleeveless exercise shirts, though. Colleen wondered if she was running out of money or determined to lose the weight again.

  Seeing Bitty gnawing on peanut brittle they’d bought at the last gas station, it seemed like it was more likely the former. The map of this trip was starting to look like a Candy Land game board.

  Not that she’d gained that much weight, of course, but a little really showed on Bitty. Obviously, she needed it—her body was soaking it up. Once, Colleen had gained five pounds from Thanksgiving and the following day of leftovers—mashed potato pancakes fried in butter!—which had stayed on her until she finally stopped thinking she was “bloated” and went on an actual diet to lose them. So how much could Bitty gain in a week? After Colleen’s weight gain, she’d looked it up and seen that, actually, it was frighteningly easy to consume the 3,500 calories required to gain a pound. There was a regular-sized milk shake at the local ice cream store that had more than 2,000 calories alone.

  She used to love those things.

  Not anymore, though.

  “Isn’t there something wrong with Paula Deen? She did something messed up, rig
ht?” Tamara asked.

  “There is nothing in the world wrong with Paula Deen,” Bitty said. “Except that she doesn’t use as much real butter and cream anymore on her TV show.”

  “You watch her TV show?” Colleen asked, surprised.

  Bitty took a sip of her Pepsi. Real Pepsi. Not diet. That was 250 calories right there, and she’d had a bunch of them.

  Colleen used to love real Pepsi too, till she’d looked it up.

  “I used to,” Bitty said. “I did it instead of eating. I know it sounds weird, but it was kind of a substitute.”

  “That would kill me. Watching someone make pound cake while I was on a diet? I don’t know how you did it.”

  “I did it because I had to. I did everything because I had to.” Bitty paused and looked off to the west. Her brown hair was taking on tinges of auburn in the sunlight, and freckles were starting to dot her nose because they’d had the top down. Colleen had offered her sunscreen, but Bitty waved it away as if Colleen were offering her a dead squirrel in a clown suit.

  “I don’t need that.”

  “You need it! Good Lord, I don’t know when the last time you were out in the sun was, but I’m pretty sure I was there. With your complexion, you’re going to burn like crazy.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Tamara?” Colleen handed the bottle back and felt Tamara take it. “Smart girl.” Then in the rearview mirror, she saw Tamara look at it, shrug, and set it on the seat next to her.

  Colleen groaned. “You’re both going to be sorry.”

  There was a sign for a rest stop a mile ahead, and she decided to pull over and reapply the sunscreen herself, fix her ponytail, which was getting blown out by the wind, and, of course, pee. Because the moment she hit the road, it felt like she had to pee every few minutes.

  Also, she didn’t mind getting a moment of alone time. Even if it was just in a bathroom stall.

  “Again?” Tamara asked.

  “Thank goodness,” Bitty said, draining the last of her Pepsi and burping. It was a ladylike burp, but still a complete and utter shock coming from Wilhelmina Camalier.

  Colleen looked at her in disbelief. “Are you kidding?”

  “I’m tired of always being perfect and proper.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “That was rude, though. Sorry.”

  She pulled the car into a parking space and put on the brake. Bitty and she opened their doors, and she turned to the back. “Tam?”

  “No, I’m good.” She returned her attention to her phone. Her brow was furrowed.

  “It’ll be a while before we stop again.” God, she sounded like such a nag, even to her own ears. This was what kids did to you. Somehow they ended up looking like the calm cool ones while the adults who were just trying to get them to do the right thing ended up seeming shrill. “Okay,” Colleen said in a singsongy voice, mentally adding desperate need to pee to the list that had begun with peeling sunburn.

  “You go on,” Bitty said, digging through her change purse. “I’m going to run over to the vending machines too. I’m just dying for a Nutter Butter. Anyone want anything?”

  “Nope,” Tamara said.

  “No, thanks,” Colleen said, thinking that Paula Deen’s restaurant had actually sounded good and Nutter Butters were a pretty far cry from that.

  She went to the restroom, and as she came out, Bitty was going in. “Oh, good. Will you hold these?” She thrust two packs of cookies and another Pepsi into Colleen’s hands before looking at the otherwise-abandoned restroom. “God, these places are spooky. It would be the perfect place to murder someone, wouldn’t it? If I’m not out in three minutes, send in the national guard.”

  She gave a laugh that was followed by a weird look, and then went inside.

  Colleen gave a laugh of her own, but she could hear the genuine edge in Bitty’s voice. “I’ll wait on the bench so I can hear you scream, how’s that?”

  “Thanks.” Bitty looked grateful.

  Colleen went over to the bench a few yards away and set the cold Pepsi and cookies down next to her. There was a North Carolina newspaper folded up on the brick wall to her right.

  All these people on this road, she thought, everyone passing the same things, stopping at the same rest areas. How many people had been through here this year alone? This month? How many people did she actually know who had stopped here in her lifetime? Anyone famous? Had Ava Gardner ever taken the trek down from her eponymous museum in North Carolina to, what, Boca Raton or someplace fancy in Florida? Had she stopped here herself? When had she died, anyway? The ’80s? After she’d been on Knots Landing. Colleen used to watch that show with her mom. This rest stop had definitely been here in the ’80s. It was entirely possible Ava Gardner had peed here.

  Wow. She was getting punchy.

  She glanced back at the paper, now half expecting to see an article on Ava Gardner, but what caught her eye instead was a small picture in the top right over the caption WINNINGTON WOMAN MISSING.

  Was that—? Could it be?

  No way.

  Was that Bitty?

  She picked up the newspaper, vaguely aware that she had no idea who had left it there or what was all over their potentially grungy hands, here outside the toilets. But she had to see.

  The paper was dated yesterday.

  WINNINGTON WOMAN MISSING

  The mysterious disappearance of former Winnington socialite Wilhelmina Camalier deepened today when her car was found on a remote road near Henley. Her purse and keys were in the Jaguar, and there did not appear to have been a struggle.

  It is uncertain exactly when Mrs. Camalier went missing; no sources recall seeing her for several days before her car was found. Having separated nearly a year ago from her husband, Lew Camalier, she had been operating under extreme distress ever since the split, according to many sources.

  Police haven’t entirely ruled out foul play, but Winnington deputy Marc Penskey thinks the case is cut-and-dried. “This is a woman in great duress. In layman’s terms, you might say she’s come unglued and is wildly unpredictable.”

  Apparently, Mrs. Camalier left all her personal belongings in her home, including her license and most credit cards, so it is thought that she cannot get very far. Mr. Camalier says no money is missing from their bank account.

  “I just want Wilhelmina to come back,” Lewis “Lew” Camalier says. “To get the help she—

  “Reading the comics?”

  Bitty’s voice started Colleen so much, she gasped. When she looked up at Bitty, she could tell the color had drained from her cheeks.

  What on earth was she going to do? Why hadn’t Bitty told her all this was going on? What was the significance of that huge omission, and what on earth should Colleen do with it? She couldn’t ask Kevin for advice, because she already knew he’d tell her to drop Bitty off at the next ER.

  “Colleen?” Bitty prompted, frowning.

  “Oh. Sorry,” she said, apologizing for the thoughts Bitty didn’t even know she’d just had. “I’m getting that nervous, spacy feeling I always get when I’ve had too much caffeine.”

  Bitty nodded. “I remember.” She held out a cookie. “It always helps to get something into your stomach.”

  “No thanks,” she said. She didn’t even have the appetite for a cookie. “I’ve got to watch it.”

  “That’s all you guys ever say,” Bitty noted, picking up her Pepsi and the other cookies. “You’re making me feel like a total pig.”

  “Welcome to my world,” Colleen said automatically. “About time the tables were turned.”

  As soon as she’d said the words, she hoped there was no room for misinterpretation or insult. Nothing to potentially set Bitty off.

  “What does that mean?” Bitty asked.

  “I have no idea. Honestly. I’m punchy.”

  “You’re acting weird. You know that, right?”

  “I’m fine,” Colleen said, then made a show of sighing. “I just talked to Kevin, and he and Jay
are having such a good time without me, it kind of made me feel sad. Like they don’t need me.”

  “Oh, Colleen, that’s terrible. God, men can be such jerks sometimes. We’d probably all be better off without them.”

  Colleen looked at her sharply, but she went on.

  “But then life would be pretty boring. Still, I wish Kevin hadn’t made you feel that way.”

  “He didn’t mean to.” How far was she going to have to take this lie? “I could just tell they were having a really good time.”

  “So are we!” Bitty put an arm around her shoulders and gave a squeeze. “Right?”

  “Right.” Colleen rolled up the newspaper and stuffed it awkwardly into her bag. “Let’s go. Time to hit the road again.”

  * * *

  IT WAS CRAZY. Once upon a time, Colleen had known Bitty well, and now she was suddenly a missing person and had totally neglected to mention it. If Bitty was found with her, did that mean she would be considered somehow an accessory to … something?

  No. This was crazy. Bitty was fine. She’d just left a jerky husband. A jerky husband who wielded a lot of social power and probably had that article planted to save face for himself. The stupid thing was written by a man. He probably came this close to mentioning PMS. And it was badly written, to boot. Just a little bit of gossip in an otherwise-bored newspaper. Reporters this far out of the major cities didn’t have anything worthwhile to say about Jennifer Lawrence or Halle Berry, so they just had to make drama in their own midst.

  Surely that was all it was. And even if it wasn’t, there was no mention of Bitty having done anything illegal or being in any way dangerous—she’d just, basically, taken off. Big deal.

  Who didn’t want to do that now and then?

  Colleen accelerated down I-95 as the sun went down. Her playlist had reached its old-time music section at just the right moment, and Frank Sinatra was singing “Witchcraft” as the sun sank into the horizon under a scribble of lipstick pink sky.

  Colleen glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Tamara mouthing the words. “You know this song?”

  “I’m not an idiot.”