The Last Grand Adventure

by Rebecca Behrens

  The thing that bothered me the most, though, was that when I pictured a younger Pidge feeling so sad, I pictured a girl who looked an awful lot like Sally. She and I had been through a lot, too, with our mixed-up family. And now here I was, flying away from her. At least she didn’t yet know.

  There was one letter left, but I didn’t want to read it yet. Not in the dim, quiet waiting room. I put the valise back under Pidge’s seat and pulled out my journals. In the adventure one, I wrote about Margo and the Rolling Stone, the tawny sage-scented hills of Santa Fe, and the clear desert sky.

  Someday maybe I’ll have a life like Margo’s—or my mom’s. I could crisscross the country searching for inspiration and experiences. In a cool car (but maybe a little cleaner than the Rolling Stone).

  I can’t wait to meet Meelie and ask her about all the adventures she’s had. The ones we all know about and the ones the last thirty years brought her. She must’ve had more, wherever she was. It wouldn’t be right if Meelie were living too quiet a life.

  In my worry journal, I wrote about feeling hungry (despite that sandwich) and wondering when the people back home would realize we were gone and how we didn’t yet have a way to get from Salina to Atchison. Then I wrote something that really surprised me, like the pen was moving all on its own and taking my right hand along for the ride:

  What if Dad and Julie decide they like it better at home without me, because they can make a solution when I’m not part of the mixture? Maybe Dad, Julie, and Sally actually make a great family—on their own. What would I do then? Mom is gone half the time.

  I stopped writing and chewed on the eraser end of my pencil. I had wondered a lot what it meant that my mom’s pursuits took her away from me. She must feel about her reporting like Meelie did about flying. Maybe she was just daring to live. Now I knew from the letters that pursuing big dreams didn’t mean you didn’t care about the things—and people—you left behind.

  Still, though, a worry was gnawing at me. I hadn’t captured it on paper quite yet.

  I know my parents love me. But does anyone actually miss me right now?

  As my pencil put the dot at the bottom of the question mark, the pipe-cleaner figures Sally had given me as a farewell popped into my mind. Sally surely did miss me. And that led me to the elusive worry.

  Have I made a big mistake, by making myself miss out on being Sally’s sister?

  THIRTEEN

  Alone with the Stars

  Eventually, lulled by the hum of the electricity, I fell asleep. Some time later, I woke with a jolt, perhaps because the wind rattled a door, or the sizzle of a large bug on one of the hot overhead lights had sparked me awake. Or maybe it was because all of a sudden I had sensed that I was alone in that bus station waiting room, mouth parted and eyes closed, buried in a dreamless sleep. I turned to see an empty seat next to me. The door to the washroom was open, telling me Pidge wasn’t inside.

  My first thought: Where is Pidge?

  Followed by a barrage: What if she’s sick?

  What if someone took her?

  What if she left me here?

  Pidge’s pocketbook rested in the hard plastic seat next to me. Our luggage, battered and dusty, was still neatly lined up at my feet, including the valise under the chair. She’d never leave that for long. A clock on the wall, much like the ones in every room of my school faraway in California, snapped the minute hand forward. The soda machine in the back, near the shuttered ticket window, hummed. Outside, I heard nothing—not a car engine’s rumble, nor a train’s rattle, nor a dog’s bark. Not even the whistle of the wind. This was tumbleweed country, and I wondered for a second why I didn’t hear the twang tune Westerns always used for a scene in a ghost town.

  I stood up and rubbed my eyes. I didn’t have another dime for a call on the pay phone—only the two dollar bills squirreled away in my knapsack for an emergency—and I wasn’t even sure whom to call, if I had any change.

  A light bulb flickered, and then the spooky theme song of The Twilight Zone popped into my head. Didn’t horror shows like that always have aliens taking people away—when they were in places like the desert, where nobody was there to witness them? Or it could be something even weirder, like I was in another dimension now. I pressed my hand on the cover of my worry journal, still in my lap. The possibilities of what could have happened while I slept—a crescendo of scary scenarios—filled my imagination. But even though I longed to retreat to the safety of sleep, I had to make sure Pidge was okay.

  The door clattered from the breeze, like it was telling me to head outside to find her. Time to be brave. Bea brave. I ran to it. I was still wearing my short dress—and no sweater. I rubbed my arms and my knees knocked together as I hunched in reaction to the chilly, dry desert air. It was so dark out, with only a few streetlights to lighten the inky night. I scanned the empty parking lot in front of the station. I wanted to call for Pidge, but if anyone was lurking, I didn’t want to attract them.

  I took a few hesitant steps onto the asphalt and away from the bright safety of the waiting room. I squinted to adjust to the light. I saw something—a figure, past the lot and in the middle of a dirt field. At first I thought I was looking at a scarecrow, because of how its blouse was waving in the wind. But then the cramp in my chest relaxed.

  My grandmother was standing in the dark, arms outstretched. Feet planted solidly on the ground in their old-fashioned shoes. Her head was thrown back, and she stared up at the night sky. Starlight, and that lone streetlight, lit her silver chignon so it was shining. At first I wondered if she was sleepwalking. “Pidge!”

  “Meelie!” She dropped her arms as she turned. “Meelie, it’s you!” Pidge rubbed at her eyes, surprised to see me, like she’d forgotten I was waiting inside. Her smile grew so big. Did she really think I was her sister? How could she think that? I was a kid. And we were still in New Mexico. And it was the middle of the night.

  “Pidge, it’s Bea. Are you okay?”

  “I—oh . . . Of course.” Pidge’s filthy pants billowed around her legs. “You startled me.”

  “Why are you out here?” I ran to her.

  “I’m just saying hello,” she said, her tone hazy. I thought again about those pills she had forgotten to pack. Was she getting confused without taking them? I stepped closer, and Pidge squeezed my hand in hers. I squeezed back but lightly—her skin felt frail, like tissue paper tasked with protecting bones. “I was promising Meelie we’ll get there in time,” she added. “You know, I still like to go flying with her.”

  Then I realized what was going on: She was flying, like Meelie had described them doing as girls, by standing tall and making their arms into wings. And in the last letter I’d read, Meelie had asked Pidge to try to fly again.

  Pidge continued, “When I’m outside at night—it’s funny, but I stop feeling so brokenhearted about it all. Sometimes . . . the wind picks up in ways that make me feel like she must hear me. Wherever Meelie is. I tell her things—like that I wish she’d never left.” Pidge held my hand tighter. “I ask her to come back to me, if she’s ready. Sometimes I beg her for, at the very least, another letter.”

  Pidge let go of my hand to point up. Now that my eyes had adjusted, I saw more of the stars and the shades of the night sky—dark violet and midnight blue, with gray swooshes of cloud. The desert wind was cold. I huddled closer to Pidge. “Meelie always talked about that feeling of being alone with the stars. It was beauty, she said, that lured her heavenward. But I don’t think that’s true. What brought her into the sky was that up there, she felt most content. She went from being the girl in brown who walks alone to being the girl who flies alone. I always wonder, though—was being alone really so much better than being with her sister?” Pidge lowered a trembling hand to her heart. Very quietly, she said, “There were so many people who loved her. I know she enjoyed some of the hullabaloo. But Meelie also loved her privacy. Maybe she simply didn’t have enough Amelia for everyone. And she ran out of fuel.”

&n
bsp; Having all that attention—and having it all the time—must have been hard for Meelie. I thought about what Pidge had said—whether for Amelia, being alone was so much better than being with her sister. I swallowed hard, focusing on how many times in the letters Meelie told Pidge that she missed her and promised they could pick up where they left off. I’d found those words reassuring. “I think she always had enough fuel for you, Pidge,” I said, very quietly.

  She reached again for my hand and gave it a squeeze. I looked into her eyes to see if she seemed okay. They were ringed with wetness. “It’s a terrible thing, to lose someone. Especially a sister. I have missed her every moment since I heard the news. Through everything else in our lives, we always had each other—from those days playing on the banks of the Missouri to her wild publicity tours. Meelie and Pidge were forever. I have to believe,” she said, her voice wavering with force on believe, “we still are.”

  “I believe so too.” As we stood below the stars, I tried to find Amelia in them. And every shivering part of me tensed with purpose as I sent a plea to her, or maybe just the universe: Please, please come back to Pidge.

  Pidge rubbed my bare arms. “Come on, now. You’re getting cold. Back inside.” She started walking back to the station, taking her steps very carefully in the darkness. I hurried to catch up and hook my elbow with hers. The last thing we needed was to have to find a doctor for a twisted ankle—and pay for the treatment. It would be especially true if our path from Salina to Atchison were to involve any walking.

  Pidge settled into her seat to nap, while I riffled through my suitcase for warmer clothes. Even if I hated to put them on over my layers of desert grime, I had no choice. I went into the bathroom first and tried to use paper towels and the sliver of green soap to clean off my limbs before shrugging into my blue jeans and a light sweater. I mostly just moved the dirt around, although the paper towel I used to wipe my feet and ankles was blackened by the time I threw it in the trash can. I’d probably have to change back into my dirty dress in the morning, when the sun came up and the desert felt like an oven again—but right then, it was wonderful to stop shivering. I curled up in my seat and put my knapsack under my head like a pillow, waiting for sleep. Until it came, I watched my grandmother rest. I had a funny feeling, like somehow I was responsible for her now. Even though Pidge snored lightly in the chair next to me, she still sat with perfect posture. I studied her face, imagining what Amelia would look like when—not if—we found her on Monday. Would she have the same cropped hairstyle as when she was last seen? Would she still be so slender and elegant? Or maybe during the intervening years—while living some mysterious alternate life—she would’ve become pudgy and grown out her hair. Would her face be wrinkled and leather-like from all that time up in the atmosphere, near the sun? Did she still wear all brown? If she’d hidden herself in plain sight all these years, she must not look the same. I pictured her and Pidge hugging as two old women. And as I did, a small smile passed across Pidge’s sleeping face, like she was dreaming their reunion too.

  FOURTEEN

  On the Road Again

  Excuse me.” Somebody kept poking at my elbow, interrupting the incredible dream I was having about pancakes and bacon. “Excuse me.” I blinked my eyes open, cranky because I’d been about to pick up a dream-fork and take a big, delicious bite. A young man, who looked vaguely like one of the Beach Boys, was studying Pidge and me with a mixture of concern, pity, and disgust. I smoothed my hair and sat up, nudging Pidge out of her snores.

  “Yes?” I asked. Early morning light trickled into the station. I wondered how long we’d slept—and wasn’t the bus coming at 6:05? That was around sunrise. I felt a wave of panic at the possibility that we’d missed it. Then what would we do? I checked my wristwatch—it was five till six. We were safe.

  “Have you been in here all night?”

  “Um . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say to the Beach Boy. If I admitted we had, would he throw us out before we could get on our bus? Report us to the police for loitering? But it must be obvious that, based on the sleep creases on our faces and rumpled clothes on our bodies, we hadn’t just arrived.

  “Of course not,” Pidge said calmly. “We got here early for the bus because I was worried about us missing it. I guess we dozed off while waiting, though.”

  The guy looked at Pidge like he wasn’t sure whether to believe her, but at the same time, she was his elder and she didn’t look overly vagrant-like. “Somebody must have left the door open last night,” he said. I guess we’d forgotten to lock it after we came in from “flying.”

  I nodded. “Yep, it was open.” I really hoped we wouldn’t be getting anyone in trouble by saying that.

  “It happens.” He shrugged. “Which bus are you taking?”

  “The one to Salina.”

  “All right,” he said. “It’ll be here soon. Usually runs on time.” He walked back to the ticket counter and took his seat inside. I stood up to stretch. I had an awful crick in my neck, from the unnatural position in which the plastic seat had caused me to sleep. Next to me, Pidge rubbed her eyes. She offered me a wan smile.

  “I’m hungry, Pidge.” That was an understatement. Since the dream of a breakfast feast hadn’t been reality, now I felt the gnawing in my belly. I needed a real meal—not necessarily of a champagne-dinner magnitude, but something more substantial than packaged cookies or crackers. I thought of Julie’s Chicken Kiev and casseroles, and I could almost cry. Even memories of my mother’s dry vegetarian “meat loaf” were tantalizing.

  Pidge gave me a look of pure guilt as she reached for her coin purse. “You poor thing. Get as much as you want from the vending machine. As soon as we’re to Salina—I promise you we’ll stop for a real meal. But I don’t think we have time now.” As if to make her point for her, a wheezing brake noise outside the doors announced the arrival of a big silver bus. The Beach Boy motioned at me from the ticket counter, confirming it was ours. “Hurry,” Pidge said. “Our chariot awaits. But get something chocolate for me. I believe in treating yourself, after a hard night.”

  • • •

  The bus chugged out of the parking lot, half full of passengers. I’d watched them all come on board, since Pidge and I were the first to take our seats. There were a few young men in their military uniforms, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. Maybe they were going to Vietnam. Through the window, I could see that their loved ones waited and watched long after they stepped inside, wanting to stretch out that precious last glimpse before they headed away. There were a few college students with long hair, noses buried in books. Suntanned farm workers filled up more of the seats. A young family got on last, brother and sister in the middle of a battle of nudges.

  The morning was still fresh, but in the aisle seat next to me, Pidge’s eyes had already fluttered to a close. Her sudden grogginess worried me, but then again we hadn’t gotten much rest. The circles under her eyes almost looked like shiners. The bus seats, compared to the plastic ones in the waiting room, felt like the cushiest imaginable. I sighed and leaned my head against the smudgy window, staring out at the passing view. I ate my sandwich crackers slowly, savoring each tiny bite. When they were all gone, I licked the tip of my index finger to gather up every last crumb and salt flake in the wrapper. I crumpled it and shoved it into my jeans pocket. Pidge hadn’t finished the Hershey’s bar I’d bought for her, and I eyed it sticking out of her pocketbook. But I wasn’t about to steal food from my grandmother—especially when she was probably as hungry as I was. We’d decided to throw the blackened banana out once it started oozing in her pocketbook. And the saltines had been pulverized.

  I watched the soldiers sitting quietly in their seats. One of them was eating a candy bar and when he saw me staring at it longingly, he insisted I take what was left. I gobbled it down. I listened to those kids start squabbling again and their mother’s shushing. I pulled out The Egypt Game and read a few chapters. I dozed. I started writing a letter to Ruth, which read like fict
ion considering all that had happened in the twenty-four hours since we got kicked off the train. I studied a state map of Kansas that I’d picked up inside the bus station, in case I needed to figure out where we were, or how to get where we were going. I learned that the state flower of Kansas was the sunflower and the state reptile was something called the ornate box turtle. I felt a little bad for the ordinary box turtles that they didn’t get the honor. I flipped through a hotel brochure and imagined that we’d stayed there the night before: that I’d taken a long, hot bubble bath and washed off the travel grime before falling asleep in a big comfy bed. But the funny thing was, that scenario seemed kind of dull compared to how I’d actually spent the night.

  The bus made a stop, and I ran out to use the filling station’s grungy restroom. It was only slightly cooler inside the bus than it was under the sun, and my jeans were damp with sweat.

  It smelled different outside, more like plants and less like sunbaked rocks. The landscape had changed—the scenic desert mountains of New Mexico had faded into the wide and open plains of Oklahoma, or maybe Kansas. I wasn’t even sure which state we were in. Multicolor grasses waved below a big blue sky. I always thought the flat states in the middle of the country would be boring and ugly, but that was wrong. Maybe I was bored after being cooped up on the bus, but the views held unexpected beauty. I snapped a picture.

  “Beatrice!” Pidge was leaning out of the bus door, waving to me. “Get back on here!” While I’d been staring at the scenery, everyone else had reboarded and the bus was about to leave. I raced up the steps and, blushing, took my seat.