He turned the key in the ignition and shot out into the road.
‘You are bloody unbelievable—’ I began but before I could finish my sentence about just what a dickhead he was, Dylan reached forward and switched the radio on so loud, it drowned out the sound of my voice.
‘You can’t just shut me out, D,’ I sighed. ‘And could you make some effort to keep to the speed limit?’
Baton Rouge – Memphis – Nashville
11th August
Things haven’t got any better since then, which is, like, the understatement of all time. We drove into the Deep South a few days ago and have carried on driving all day and every day with the temperature a very uncool one hundred degrees in the shade. I feel like my insides are slowly drying up and it’s all I can do to persuade Dylan to stop every hour so I can buy big bottles of water to replace all the fluids we’re sweating out. I’m living in a halter top and some cut-off jeans that I wash out by hand every night while Dylan sits in front of a TV, glassy-eyed and not speaking.
I’m a lot worried that he’s having some kind of breakdown. I know that his mum isn’t exactly the poster-child for sanity but I thought that was due to Dylan’s dad walking out on them. Now I’m beginning to wonder if maybe it is, like, hereditary. A couple of times I’ve contemplated phoning Shona but it seems wrong somehow. Like an intrusion or something.
What’s even more worrying isn’t the day-long silences or the way Dylan’s started ordering motel rooms with twin beds, like he can’t stand the thought of touching me. It’s that we get to another town (and by now we’re not even going in a straight line but zigzagging across Kentucky and Nashville in a random pattern) and Dylan drops me in the city centre (or to be more precise practically pushes me out of the car) and tells me that he’ll be back to pick me up in a couple of hours. Sometimes he’ll be on time but once I waited five hours in the blistering heat and had to spend the next two days in bed suffering from heatstroke and watching the motes of dust dancing softly in the sunlight that streamed through the closed curtains while Dylan was God knows where.
I’ve tried talking to him about why he’d changed the route and whether I’d pissed him off but he either mutters that he doesn’t want to talk about it or just refuses to say anything.
I used to feel like I’d known Dylan for a lifetime but I’ve spent the last nine days sitting next to him in that stupid car and he’s become a tight-mouthed stranger. Someone I can’t reach; someone I’m not even allowed to touch any more.
Jackson, Mississippi
13th August
Dylan went AWOL this morning. When I woke up all his stuff was gone. We’d left most of our gear in the boot of the car last night so he’d also taken most of my stuff with him.
I looked around the room, I went into the bathroom, I even walked over to the motel office to see if he was there but he’d vanished. I sat outside our room, not wanting to go back in because he wasn’t there and if I walked back into that empty room I’d have to confront the fact that he wasn’t there. I could feel a wave of panic hitting me, leaving me cold and clammy despite the heat. What was I meant to do? Was he coming back? Should I go to the police? Should I call my parents? No, scratch that. They’d probably get the next flight out to haul my sorry ass home. Oh God, I was even starting to think like an American.
In the end I mooched downtown, feeling particularly white trash in my flip-flops and pink straw hat.
I realised that cut-off denims and a retro Seventies vest (picked up in a Memphis thrift shop) that had ‘Hangin’ Loose’ printed on it wasn’t considered appropriate daywear to the God-fearing Baptist folk of Jackson from the disapproving glances I was getting. I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. I looked like some skeezy teen prostitute, no wonder Dylan had walked out (or driven out) on me. I wondered idly why his dad had walked out on his mum. He’d never talked about it. Maybe if I’d made more of an effort to find out about his family life I could understand why he’d been acting so oddly.
At least when I finally found a cool coffee shop with free wifi, the girl behind the counter looked like she wasn’t still stuck in the Fifties. In fact, her platinum hair and black lace vest reminded me a lot of Poppy and I was hit with such a pang of homesickness that I nearly started crying.
She gave me a curious look as I very quietly ordered an iced tea and asked for the wifi password.
There were five emails from Grace wanting to know why I hadn’t written for so long. I skipped through them. It was more of the same. Jack blah blah. Poppy blah blah. I don’t know what to do blah blah. The last one read:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Where are you? Poppy says you and Dylan have probably eloped and gone to Vegas to get hitched. You haven’t, have you?
We’re on tour now. It’s going well. That is, the being-on-stage bit is going well but Atsuko and Darby are snogging anything with a pulse, Poppy and Jesse are being all superior about everything and disappearing for long bouts of time (you were right, they are so having sex!!!!) which means that Jack and I are forced together all the time. I tried being aloof and mysterious like you suggested but Poppy told me off for acting like a stuck-up cow. Sometimes we talk about really deep things like if there are millions of different versions of us in different parallel universes doing all the things that we decided not to do. And other times we just play this game where you have to go through the alphabet naming things you’d take on a picnic. You know the one I mean?
Anyway, please, please write back.
Your rockin’ pal
Grace xxx
I loved Grace but her problems just seemed so adolescent. Oh God, that sounded harsh. But they were high school problems and I was stuck in a weirdy, redneck town and my chronically depressed boyfriend was gone.
And everything she wrote about made me more and more tempted to get on the next plane home and penalty fees and non-transferable tickets be damned. The only person I wanted to talk to was Poppy.
I sent a quick reply back to Grace telling her that I was still alive, still unmarried but would write properly soon and then, with a quick wave to the girl behind the counter, I walked out on to the street and scrolled down my contacts till I found Poppy’s number. My finger wavered over the ‘call’ button and holding my breath, I pressed.
It rang a couple of times and then I heard Poppy’s voice.
‘Edie?’
‘Hi.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Mississippi.’
‘Oh. So did you want to talk to Grace? This must be costing you a fortune.’
‘No, I just called to say hi. To you. So, hi.’
‘Are you OK? You sound upset. Is Dylan there?’
‘No. I’m fine. Dylan’s not here.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I wish you were here. I miss you.’
‘Yeah, well, whatever.’
‘No, I mean, I really miss you. I’m… Dylan’s…’
‘Edie, what’s the matter? Are you in trouble?’
‘No, everything’s good. I’ve got to go.’
‘No, don’t go. Do you want me to get your mum to call you?’
‘No! I’m OK, I shouldn’t have called. Dylan’s coming, I have to go.’
The second I finished the call, I realised what a stupid mistake I’d made. I haven’t spoken to Poppy properly in months and then I make a sudden freakish phone call which has either pissed her off even more or left her worried enough to think that calling my mother would be a good idea. But hearing her voice, while I stood in a street on the other side of the world, where none of the buildings or the people or even the shops were familiar, made me wish I was stuck in that smelly, cramped Transit van with Poppy, Atsuko and Darby. Because then I’d belong.
I bought a couple of bottles of water and some fruit and trailed aimlessly back to the motel to sit and wait and hope that Dylan would come back. I’d painted my
toenails, given myself a facial, plucked my eyebrows, trimmed my fringe, watched lots of crappy TV and done some yoga exercises. Anything to fill the time. But the sky was deepening out to a dark blue and it was getting late and I had to face up to the fact that he might not be coming back.
I was rummaging in my bag for the travellers’ cheques to see how much money I had left if I needed to get home when I found the print-out of the email Dylan had sent me in Chicago. All the worry and fear that had been buried deep inside me all day suddenly welled up and I was clutching the piece of paper to my chest and bawling my eyes out. It wasn’t the kind of crying that I do when I’ve had a row with someone or when I’m watching Lost In Translation for the hundredth time and he touches her foot. My body was literally racked with sobs; I couldn’t even stand up. I collapsed between the bed and the wall and cried like my heart was breaking. And that’s what it felt like – that my heart was literally smashed to pieces.
At some stage I stumbled to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, as if I could will the crying to stop. My whole face was distorted with grief, my mouth this dripping, large, open thing, snot coming out of my nose and my eyes swollen and wet. I splashed my face with cold water and forced myself to take deep breaths. Crying was not going to help. I needed a plan. And I needed to sit down and confront all the thoughts that I hadn’t wanted to think. Going to the police and reporting Dylan as missing was becoming a real possibility because I was scared that he was depressed enough to do something stupid.
I walked out of the bathroom, rubbing my face with a towel and still hiccuping gently when I realised Dylan was standing in the doorway. We looked at each other for a long second. I was so relieved to see him that for a moment I couldn’t move.
But then I flew at him and slapped him hard round the face. The sound of my hand connecting with his cheek reverberated round the room. Still Dylan just stood there with a blank expression on his face. I went berserk; hitting and punching his chest while I screamed at him.
‘Have you any idea what I’ve been going through?’ I yelled as he looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. ‘I thought you weren’t coming back, I thought you’d had a crash. I’ve been out of my mind with worry.’
As I said that, my hands stopping whacking every spare inch of him that I could find and pulled him towards me and I hugged him tight enough for rib breakage if I hadn’t been so puny.
One of his hands reached up to gently stroke my hair while the other traced small circles on my back.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
I pulled away from him slightly so I could look him in the eye. He winced slightly at the sight of my blotchy face.
‘If you have a problem, you tell me about it,’ I managed to get out between sobs. ‘You don’t do this ever again. And you look bloody awful.’
He smiled at that which just seemed to make the dark circles around his eyes and the smudges dusted over his cheekbones worse.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, clutching me tighter and then I noticed a movement by the open door as a tall man who looked vaguely familiar stepped into the room.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked Dylan.
I looked at the man and then back at Dylan and just as the thought was forming in my head, Dylan turned to me and said, ‘Edie, this is my dad.’
I almost went into cardiac arrest as Dylan put a name to the man hovering in the doorway. Dylan’s dad was like a craggier, paunchier version of Dylan, his chocolate-brown hair streaked with grey. It was unnerving to see Dylan’s green eyes staring out of someone else’s face. I stood there shocked into speechlessness for the first time in my life until Dylan gently shook me. ‘Eeds, get your stuff,’ he said. ‘We’re going to stay with Lenny and Estella.’
‘We’re gonna what with who?’ I managed to say, still looking from Dylan to his dad, who was watching me with a wary expression, and back to Dylan again.
Dylan quickly got my stuff together. I followed him into the bathroom where he was packing my shower bag and shut the door.
‘What is going on?’ I hissed quietly.
‘I promise I’ll tell you everything but later,’ Dylan whispered back. ‘Please, just bear with me a little bit longer.’
I shut my eyes for a second and felt the room spin around me. When I opened them again, I was still in the motel bathroom with Dylan’s dad waiting for us outside.
‘OK,’ I finally agreed. ‘But you have got some serious explaining to do.’
I didn’t wait for Dylan to finish. I walked back into the other room, shoved my feet into my flip-flops and stalked out of the front door that Dylan’s dad was holding open for me.
The E-zee Trailer Park, Jackson, Mississippi
13th August (later)
In the car, Lenny and Dylan made desultory conversation about local landmarks and how long we were going to stay. Dylan tried to talk to me a couple of times and I murmured responses but I was still in a state of shock. Which didn’t improve when we got to the trailer and I was almost swept off my feet by a blonde, honey-skinned woman who pressed me to her unmistakably silicone chest.
‘Oh, you must be Edie,’ she drawled in one of those ridiculous Southern accents that you only hear on documentaries about child beauty pageants. ‘You are just the cutest thing. Lenny, ain’t she adorable?’
Lenny shifted uncomfortably and I realised I was being rude.
‘Hello,’ I said shyly. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’
Can you say lame? But where’s the etiquette book on how to handle these awkward social situations?
‘I love your accent,’ cooed Estella, wrapping an arm round me and leading me up the steps and into the trailer. ‘So I guess you’ve had some surprises tonight. Dylan turning up with his long-lost daddy and…’
I stopped listening to what she was saying ’cause sitting on a hideous floral-patterned sofa were two pint-sized Dylans. Dylan’s mini-mes.
‘Mom, why is she staring at us?’ said one of them.
I turned to Dylan who’d just come through the door. ‘Anything else I should know about?’ I asked him. ‘You got grandparents in the trailer next door?’
‘Now honey, I know you’re upset,’ interrupted Estella, resting a hand lightly on my arm. ‘And I’ve told Dylan what a naughty boy he is to be so secretive, but we’re glad to have you here, sweetheart. All of Lenny’s family reunited.’
I was tempted to scream that they were no family of mine but, hey, good manners and all that, so I smiled tightly and patted Estella’s hand.
‘It’s very nice to be here,’ I said. None of this was her fault. ‘You have a lovely hou— trailer. You’ve done very nice things with it.’
OK, it seemed to have electric lighting and satellite TV, but it was still a trailer.
Estella beamed at me. ‘You and Dylan will have to sleep with the twins. They can have one bunk and you can have the other. Just as well you’re both so skinny, huh?’
Dinner was difficult. Estella had cooked us roast beef even though it was ninety-five degrees outside. I tried to force it down but all I could do was look at Lenny and then Dylan and then the mini-mes who gave me the evil eye right back. It was so unreal that at one stage I got an attack of the giggles which I managed to hide as a choking fit while Estella fussed around getting me a glass of some toxic juice drink called Kool Aid and Dylan pinched my thigh under the table.
I couldn’t talk to Lenny. Out of the four of them, he was freaking me out the most. Occasionally I could feel his eyes on me, but most of the time he was watching Dylan closely, as if he wanted to memorise every centimetre of him. It seemed that since leaving his job as a lecturer in Fine Art (at Dylan’s university!) and abandoning his family, he’d been wandering ever since. Lenny had spent time in each of the places we’d visited in the last couple of weeks and in Nashville he’d hooked up with Estella, the mini-Ds putting in an appearance nine months later. The four of them didn’t seem to have had a permanent address since. And as for
gainful employment, Lenny had been a sign writer, guitarist in a country and western band, directed mud wrestling videos and was currently a wedding photographer which seemed kind of ironic as the man obviously had serious commitment issues.
After dinner, Dylan muttered something about going for a walk and after Estella gave us a torch and told us to look out for snakes (yes, snakes!), he grabbed my hand and hustled me outside.
We walked in silence for a few minutes until we came across a clear patch of grass and sat down. Dylan tried to reach for me but I pointedly ignored his outstretched hand.
‘Start talking,’ I ordered him flatly.
Most of it I’d already figured out. We’d been following the route that Lenny had taken, Dylan disappearing every day to check out his last known address and look for clues. Dylan had been thinking about finding Lenny as long ago as Washington and knew his dad had last been heard of in Chicago. He’d driven over to the trailer park this morning and sat all day with Estella waiting for Lenny to come home from some wedding in Utica…
Diary of a Crush: Sealed With a Kiss Page 14