by Jodi Picoult
For a while after the crash we took Rebecca to a local military airport that ran programs for people who were afraid to fly. Behavior modification, really: the patrons would become proficient at a small task and then work their way up to actually flying. The first step was to come to the airport, just to look at it. Then you gave your ticket into the reservations desk the next week. Then came sitting in the terminal, and then walking outside to look at the plane. After that achievements came very gradually: getting onto the stairs of the plane (two weeks’ time), walking onto the plane (two weeks’ time), sitting for an hour on the immobile plane (four weeks). Eventually the plane took off for a fifteen-minute flight around the Bay area.
We took Rebecca although she was very young because the psychiatrist who had treated her recommended the program. She told us that events such as these are the most scarring to children, even though we may not be able to see it. The perfectly adjusted child might one day snap because of an unarticulated fear of flying. So Rebecca (the youngest by far) went to phobia classes. She was everyone’s darling, the other women would fight to hold her and make sure she was all right and that she understood the instructions. Rebecca herself did not mind the attention. After she left the hospital in Des Moines, she did not mention the accident and she did not give any indications of having been involved in such a catastrophe, and because of this we also shied away from the subject. We told her these classes were just a fun thing, like other little girls took ballet or piano lessons. Jane was the one who actually drove her there; I was usually away on business.
I was away on business the time Rebecca temporarily lost control—during the second week of the plane-sitting excursion. The first week, Jane told me over a crackling Chilean phone connection, Rebecca had been fine. And then all of a sudden this Saturday she was uncontrollable, throwing herself across the seats and screaming and crying. The psychiatrist told us we should continue to bring her to the phobia class, in spite of her outburst. She said that the outburst was a manifestation of fear, and as a scientist I was inclined to agree. But Jane refused to take her, and since I was in South America, I hadn’t any leverage. Rebecca was four then, and she has yet to set foot on a plane since.
Of course. They will go to Iowa.
I float, staring up at the sun. How stupid of me. I should have realized this earlier. I was so busy concentrating on Jane that I neglected to see that Rebecca herself is one of Jane’s biggest clues. Where Rebecca goes Jane will follow. And at her age, Rebecca will want to see the site of the crash; to jog her memory, maybe, or to put it all behind her. Wherever else they choose to go en route to Massachusetts is incidental. Iowa will be the midpoint; Iowa is the sure thing.
Suddenly I am overwhelmed with relief. I will meet them in What Cheer, Iowa; I will stake out the cornfield where the wreckage still sits, until I see them, and then we shall talk. I am one step ahead. I start to smile, and then grin wider, and before I can stop myself I am laughing aloud.
28 JOLEY
Dear Jane—
Are you enjoying Fishtrap? It’s a great little place to get away from it all, particularly civilization. Montana is quite beautiful, and overlooked. Take your time getting across it. What matters isn’t when you get here, but how you get here.
I have been doing a lot of thinking about your visit, and you, and me. In particular I have been remembering the night before your wedding to Oliver, when we were on the back porch in Newton. You were wearing the yellow dress you always thought made you look fat in the hips, and you had your hair pulled back in a ponytail. You had matching yellow shoes—I’ve never forgotten that, because it gave you this look of absolute completion. You came out on the porch, holding a bottle of Coke, and you offered it to me without even looking me in the eye. But we hadn’t been doing a lot of speaking those days, not since I told you I wasn’t going to come to the wedding.
It had nothing to do with you, I suppose you understand that by now. But I was sixteen and nobody was listening to me, including you. I had these feelings about Oliver, I can’t be any more specific than that. Feelings that made me wake in the middle of the night, sweating, ripping the sheets on the bed. And dreams, which I have not told you or anyone.
This is what you said: You’re just a kid, Joley. You don’t know what it’s like to be in love. When it’s right, you know it. Why, look at how long I’ve been dating Oliver. If it wasn’t meant to be, it would have ended a long time ago.
You told me this months before the wedding, while you were cooking dinner—it was a fricassee, I remember because the oil kept spattering you in the face while you were speaking. You told me this after I begged you to give Oliver back his engagement ring. And I was a kid, and maybe I didn’t know anything about love, but I would hazard a guess that you knew just as little as I did. The difference being you thought you knew. Anyway, when you set the date, I announced that I wasn’t coming to the wedding, it being against my principles.
Then you stopped eating entirely. I thought at first it was pre-wedding jitters but when you couldn’t fit into any of your clothes, or Mama’s, and when we had to belt your tightest pair of jeans just to hold them up, I knew that the cause had nothing to do with your marriage. Oh, Jane, I wanted to tell you that I didn’t mean it, that I’d go back on my word, but I was afraid you might take it as a blessing for your marriage, and I wasn’t about to give that.
And that night, before the wedding, you came onto the porch. I was looking at the lawn, or what was left of it after all the striped pink tents had been set up. There were white ribbons and crêpe de chine festooned all over the yard. It looked like a circus was coming, not a bride, and I won’t make any jokes about that. You gave me a Coke. “Joley,” you said, “you’re going to have to get used to him.”
And I turned to you, trying not to catch your eye. “I don’t have to get used to anything,” I said. You had always trusted me before, and I didn’t know why you wouldn’t trust me now. Even to this day I cannot put into words what it was about Oliver that set me off. Maybe it was the combination: Oliver and you.
You began to reel off a list of all the things about Oliver that were kind and gentle and important. You told me that best of all, Oliver would get you out of this house. I nodded, and wondered to myself, at what price?
That’s when the hawks came. They circled above us, rare in Massachusetts even then. Their talons stretched behind them, orange spears, and their beaks broke the blue of the sky. They alternated between beating the air and coasting, a foreign cursive alphabet.
“Oh, Joley,” you said, squeezing my hand, “what do you think of that?”
I thought it was an omen, and I decided that I would let whatever those hawks did determine my actions for the wedding. I have always prided myself on reading signs: the tickle in Mama’s voice that betrayed her composure; the showers you took at midnight and that nightgown you tore to shreds; Oliver; those hawks. We both watched as the birds flew together, connecting like acrobats. Four wings beat to block out the sun, and when the mating was over they ripped like a broken heart, one hawk flying east and one flying north. I turned to you and said, “Yes, I will come to your wedding.”
So you might say that I have betrayed you because I knew all these years that your marriage would not last. I did not tell you because you had no reason to believe me, until now. I also did not tell you the dream that I had over and over every night until the wedding. In it, I saw you and Oliver making love—a very difficult thing for a brother to envision his sister doing, I might add. Your legs were wrapped around Oliver’s lower back, and then suddenly you cracked down the middle like a Russian doll and split into two halves. Inside was another you, a smaller you. Oliver did not seem to notice. He was still thrusting when again you cracked down the middle, splitting to reveal an even smaller person. And so on and so on until you were so tiny that I could barely make out your face. I was terrified to see what would happen, and because of this, maybe, I always woke up. But the night before the wedding the d
ream continued all the way to the end, and as Oliver finally came, you cracked down the middle and split again and this time there was nothing inside at all; there was just Oliver, exposed.
When I woke up the night before the wedding, I heard you screaming, and you continued to do that until the sun came up.
You are going to be here sooner than you realize—another week at the most. Please wish Rebecca a happy birthday. Head north on Rte. 15 to Rte. 2, and take that east into Towner, North Dakota. It may take you a couple of days but it is a straight shot. There’s only one P.O. in Towner.
God, I can’t wait to see you.
Love,
Joley
29 JANE
After Utah, Rebecca and I rip up a piece of paper Oliver used to track our miles per gallon and write the names of five states on the back: Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico, Wyoming and Idaho. We stuff these in one of Rebecca’s sneakers, and then I give her the honor of choosing our destination. And in Idaho, as I expect, Joley’s letters find us again, guiding us through the plains.
We decide to sell the car in Poplar, Montana. Well, not sell it, really, but trade it in for a less expensive car and get some cash. I have credit cards but I am leery of using them; Oliver must be well on his way, and since the cards are in his name, American Express would gladly give him a record of the last purchases, their dates and locations. The last time I used a credit card was just at the border of California and Arizona, to get gas. And in truth we have stretched our several hundred dollars a third of the way across America, which deserves mention. Why couldn’t we have run out in Palm Springs of Aspen, a town steeped in an inflated economy and populated by the rich? Why Montana?
“Poplar,” Rebecca says. She is in charge of reading the small brown road signs that line Route 2. The Missouri River runs on her side of the car, right alongside the highway. When we were bored earlier we tried to outrace it. She is sitting cross-legged, her hair flying wildly around her face. She hasn’t brushed it yet today—we had to sleep in the car last night since we had no money for a motel, and thank God it was warm enough. We put down the back seat and spread an old blanket across the rusty hinges. We used the spare tire as a pillow. It was nice, actually, the way we could see the stars. “I can’t see the place from here,” Rebecca says. “Maybe we’d better turn off.”
We are looking for a town that seems well populated, which is a fifty-fifty toss-up this far north in Montana. We gave up trying to find a car dealership hours ago. Apparently, many gas stations double as dealerships in Montana.
I’ve promised Rebecca she can pick the car. After all, her birthday is tomorrow and she didn’t even complain about sleeping in the back of the wagon. We had a long discussion about the most practical type of car and our dream cars (Mercedes for me, Miata for her) and the likelihood of finding any vehicle in Montana that will actually start.
I pull off the exit and brake at the end of a dusty dirt road. There is no sign, no more road, nothing. I haven’t any idea which way to turn, so I look at Rebecca. “Looks like Poplar isn’t too pop’lar,” she says, and giggles.
To my left is a heavily wooded area. To my right is a purple mountain. The only place to go would be straight ahead, which means crossing through a field of some sort that is laced with red wildflowers and yellow berries. “Hang on,” I warn Rebecca, and then shifting the station wagon into overdrive, I roll its thick tires over the weeds and tall grass.
The grass is so tall that I cannot see out the windshield. I am afraid of running over a little kid, or a cow, or crashing into a combine. It is a little like driving through a car wash, where those wet cloths massage the surface of your car like a million lapping tongues, except here we are in a tunnel of soft silver brushes. We roll along, five miles per hour, with our fingers crossed.
“This is wild,” Rebecca says. “We don’t have towns like this around San Diego.”
“No,” I admit, not quite certain if that is for better or for worse.
“I could get out,” she suggests. “I could scope for you. You know, tell you if you’re about to hit a woodchuck or something.”
“I don’t want you leaving this car. Then there’s the chance I’ll hit you.”
Rebecca sighs and resigns herself to slumping down in her seat again. She starts to French-braid her hair, an incredible feat to me, since she has no mirror for reference. She braids all the way to the bottom but she has lost her ponytail holder. Rummaging through the garbage trapped between the seats she comes up with a trash bag twist-tie, and improvises.
Suddenly the field opens and I am inches away from a Coke machine. I slam my foot on the brake and send Rebecca crashing into the windshield. “Shit,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “What are you trying to do to me?” Then she looks out the windshield. “What is that doing here?”
I back up several feet so that I can maneuver the car around the vending machine. As I break through the last row of reeds, the car rolls, free, onto the blacktop of a gas station. There is only one pump and a small concrete building, not large enough for service. However, at least ten cars are lined up in a row diagonally across from where we are parked, which leads me to believe they may be for sale. An old man with white hair braided down his back is leaning against the pump, doing a crossword puzzle. He looks at us but doesn’t seem surprised that we have driven out of a field. He says, “What’s a five letter word for ‘irritate’?”
“Annoy.” I step out of the car.
The man makes no effort to look at me. He fills in the word I’ve given him. “It fits. What can I do for you?”
Rebecca gets out of the car and slams the passenger door. She stands back and surveys the station wagon and starts to laugh. It is wreathed with berries and black-eyed Susans, which have become tangled in the overhead rack and the antenna during the journey across the field. It looks as if the car has been at a 1960s commune. Rebecca begins to pull off the long, knotted stems of the plants.
“To tell you the truth, we’re looking to get a new car,” I say. “Something a little flashier.”
The man makes a strange noise through his nose, and then removes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it across his forehead. “Flashy,” he says, circling the car. He makes that noise again. “Won’t be hard to get flashier than this.”
“It’s a very good car. Solid, and reliable, and there’s only thirty thousand miles on it. A cream puff.” I smile at him, but he is inspecting the tires.
“If it’s so damn good, why are you looking to get rid of it?”
I give Rebecca a look that tells her to keep quiet. “May I speak to you alone for a moment, Mr.—?”
“Tall Neck. The name is Joseph Tall Neck.”
Alibis and excuses race through my mind, but when I begin to speak I find that I am telling him the truth.
“ . . . So we left my husband in California, and we’re driving across America and quite honestly we need a car and we need cash, which brought us to you.”
This man looks at me with his coal-colored eyes, and he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. “Tell it to me straight, lady.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. This is it: my daughter’s birthday is tomorrow. All her life she’s been taking these tap dancing lessons, and there’s an audition for a movie in L.A., and she asked if I would take her to it for her birthday present. Her dream is to be a big star, but frankly we haven’t got the money to spend on a fancy costume or a big car or anything else that will make the bigwigs in Hollywood notice her. So we talked it over and decided we would sell the car and get something a little cheaper, and then with the extra cash we’d buy nice clothes and rent a limo to go to the audition.” I say this all in one breath and then lean against the gas pump, spent. When I look up, the man had walked over to Rebecca. His eyes are glowing.
“Dance,” he commands.
I don’t know where she picked it up, because Rebecca has never taken a tap dancing lesson in her life. But she starts shuffling and doing a soft shoe in the red
earth of the field we’ve driven through, using the flattened tire tracks as a makeshift stage. “I can sing, too,” she says, grinning.
Tall Neck is entranced, you can see it in his face. “You are really something. Who knows? You could be the next Shirley Temple.” The man leads Rebecca over to the line of cars in the front corner of the station. “Which one do you like?”
Rebecca bites her lower lip. “Oh, I don’t know. Mama? Come over here. What do you think?”
When I stand next to her, she elbows me gently. “Well, honey,” I say, “I want you to pick. It’s all part of your birthday present.”
Rebecca clasps her hands in front of her. She doesn’t have much of a choice: several beat-up Cadillacs, a blue Jeep, a dusty Chevy Nova.
“How about that one?” Rebecca says, pointing to a little MG I hadn’t noticed. I have always steered away from cars that small, because of the safety risk. It is half-hidden behind the gas price sign, red with rust spots over each tire. The interior is ripped in many places.
“The convertible top is automatic,” Tall Neck says, “and still works.” Rebecca jumps over the door of the car and lands in an awkward split on the front seat, one foot wedged into a hole of foam where the vinyl has cracked.
“How much?” I ask, and Rebecca and Tall Neck both jump as if they have forgotten I am there. “And how much will you give me for the wagon?”
Tall Neck gives me a sour smile and walks back to the station wagon. He pulls a wild daisy from the side mirror. “I’ll give you three thousand, although it isn’t worth that much.”
“Are you joking?” I explode. “It’s only four years old! It’s worth twice that!”