by Tawni Waters
He shakes his head. “It’s all right. I’m glad you’re okay. And the baby. I mean, it is okay, right?”
I smile, which surprises me. I wasn’t expecting to be happy about this. “Yeah,” I say. “Amazingly, she’s still in there, doing fine.”
His face lights up. “She?”
“They did an ultrasound to make sure she was okay. I saw her heart beating. The doctor said it may be too early to tell, but he was pretty sure it’s a girl.”
“Oh my fucking god.” Dean starts to cry.
We clutch at each other and sob for a long, long time. We are idiots, sitting broken under florescent lights, smelling bleach, weeping for happiness about a baby we can’t possibly raise. We aren’t old enough. We aren’t wise enough. We aren’t established enough. But we cry because we know that sometimes, miracles grow from the most unlikely soil. Sometimes, roses bloom in the desert.
Seventeen
I’m peeing when Mercy shows up. The bathroom door is closed, but I can hear her through the wall.
“Dean!” She says his name in that desperate, dramatic way people use to address one another in hospital rooms. “Where is she?” As if I have been whisked away to brain surgery or abducted by aliens.
“In the bathroom,” Dean says.
“I’m in here,” I call, wanting to reassure her. I’ve already put the poor woman through enough shit without adding possible anal probing by aliens to her list of worries. “I’ll be there in a second.” The nurse, whose name turned out to be Anastasia, has given me my pain meds,which the doctor says won’t hurt the baby as long as I only take them for a little while. She’s rockin’ for a fifty-year-old lady. She rides a Harley on the weekends, and she knows exactly how to put in an IV needle without making a girl hurt. Sometimes, she spends her breaks in my room, talking about life. Her name isn’t actually Anastasia—she changed it when she joined a cult. She left the cult years ago, but the moniker stuck.
My meds are kicking in, so I feel almost numb. I struggle to get toilet paper from the roll and wipe. Everything is harder when one arm is in a cast, and the other is hooked up to a roll-along IV unit. As I fumble at the paper with my good hand, my ineptitude makes me giggle.
Mercy knocks. “Are you okay in there, honey?”
“Not at all.” I gasp. “I can’t even wipe.”
“Are you crying?”
“No, I’m laughing.”
“Can I open the door?” It sounds like she’s smiling, probably with relief. “I’ll help.”
If I weren’t on drugs, the prospect of Mercy helping me wipe might be humiliating. As is, it’s hilarious. “The door’s unlocked,” I say through peals of laughter.
The door swings open, and there she is, ready and willing to wipe my ass in her tiger-striped, movie star sunglasses and rainbow-colored maxi dress. It’s probably the drugs that make me burst into tears. That, and it just feels so damn good to see her.
“Oh, kid,” she says, rushing to me. “It’s no big deal. I’ll help.” She reaches for the toilet paper, but I stop her by throwing my good arm around her neck. My IV line gets caught in her hair.
She hugs me back, squeezing tightly enough that it hurts even through the meds. “Ow, ow, ow!” I say.
“Sorry!” she says, backing off. She’s crying too. Mercy never cries.
“Why are you crying?” I ask.
“Because you’re an idiot, and I love you,” she says. She raises her fist to punch me in the arm and then seems to realize that’s a bad idea. “If you ever do something that stupid again, I swear, I’ll punch you, cast or no cast.”
Why do people keep threatening to hurt me because I got hurt? “It’s not like I wrecked on purpose,” I say.
“I know.” She hugs me again, gently this time. “I know.” Then she wipes her eyes and yanks some toilet paper from the roll. “Should I…” She holds the wad in front of her awkwardly, as if she doesn’t know what to do with it.
“No freaking way. I’m not that high.” I take it from her and wipe as best I can. It’s ineffectual, but that’s better than a thorough wiping courtesy of Mercy. When I’m done, I try to stand, but I can’t get any leverage, what with the whole broken arm thing. “Give me a hand?” I ask.
Mercy does. As we walk back to my bed, she puts an arm around my waist for support, which doesn’t really help, but I don’t say so. I want her to feel like she’s being useful. Dean’s sitting in a lime-green chair next to my bed. He hasn’t moved since he got here.
“She’s alive,” Mercy says.
He grins. Those teeth. My heart pounds. “Thank god,” he says.
I sink slowly onto the mattress and awkwardly adjust my body. “Did you know Dean actually believes in god?” I use the mechanical controls to bring the bed to a sitting position.
“I didn’t,” Mercy says, pulling the other lime-green chair next to Dean. She sits.
I lean back on my pillow. “His unbroken tattoo is about the way he felt after he found Jesus. It was after a skiing accident. He broke both legs.”
“Who woulda thunk?” Mercy asks.
“Not me,” I say. “I never knew. Also, it turns out he likes rats. A lot. When he was a kid, he had three of them as pets, but it broke his heart when they died, so he never got more. Their names were John, Ringo, and Paul.”
“No love for George?” Mercy yanks the blanket up over my legs even though it’s about a bazillion degrees. Again, I let her because I want her to feel useful.
Dean strokes my leg. Since he got here, he hasn’t stopped touching me. “I tried for a George. My mom said three rats were more than enough.”
“She clearly didn’t understand the significance of the Fab Four,” Mercy says sympathetically. “Fab Three doesn’t have the same ring.”
Dean laughs. “In her defense, we already had a golden retriever, two cats, and a snake, all of whom she was forced to take care of because I always forgot.”
“Dean is very scatterbrained.” I offer another of the Dean tidbits I’ve gleaned during the hours we’ve spent together in this room. “He once put his keys in the fridge and couldn’t find them for days.”
Mercy chuckles. “Sounds like me.”
It does sound like Mercy. Once, I called her from school and asked her to bring me lunch, and she brought me her laptop. To this day, I have no idea what she was thinking. I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
“So you get out of here tomorrow, huh?” Mercy asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m busting out of this joint.”
“Good! I cleared out the back seat and put some pillows back there. You can ride home in style.”
Home? It had not occurred to me that I might be going back to LA instead of finishing my journey. Going back feels all wrong. I remember Mom telling me to follow my heart. “I wasn’t planning on going home,” I say. “I don’t think I’m finished.”
Mercy tries not to look worried. “Well, you certainly can’t go riding across the country on a motorcycle with your injuries. And we don’t even know if the motorcycle’s rideable.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “I talked to the garage where it was towed. It will be a few weeks before it’s ready. But I was thinking maybe Dean could drive me?” I look at him imploringly. “I mean, if he thinks he can put up with my shit for a little longer.”
Dean beams like he won an Olympic gold medal. “Hells to the yeah,” he says.
Mercy touches his arm gratefully. “Okay, I guess.” She takes off her sunglasses. When she smiles, the exquisite skeins of wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “As long as Dean is with you.”
Something happens to me then. I look at these two people who obviously give tons of shits about me, who would do anything to make sure I was protected, happy, and loved, and bliss washes over me. It’s almost like I’m back in the light with Mom. It’s a this-wor
ld version of heaven. I feel safe. I feel cherished. Even though I burned my house to the ground, I feel like I’m almost home.
• • •
The next day, they release me from the hospital with a prescription for pain meds and a long list of things I should and shouldn’t do while I’m recovering. Anastasia seems sad when I say goodbye. “You’re an amazing woman,” she says as she pushes me out to the parking lot in a wheelchair. For some reason, I’m not allowed to walk. “You’re strong. Take care of you.”
Mercy walks beside Anastasia, holding one of the handles. Anastasia lets her help, just like I do when Mercy wants to feel useful. Next to me, Dean carries my saddlebag. Miraculously, Mom’s ashes survived, though the urn did not. I think shattering the shit out of her container was her final commentary on having been neglected on a counter next to the Oreos for so long. But the saddlebag didn’t tear, so Mom’s ashes are in there at the bottom, mixed up with ceramic shards and T-shirts.
I smile at Anastasia. “I’ve never really thought of myself as strong,” I say.
“I think you’re wrong about that,” she says. She helps me into Dean’s beat-up blue truck. It’s vintage, he likes to say, which means it’s a piece of shit.
“Are you comfortable?” Anastasia asks, kindly. She’s good at making people feel loved, which I guess goes with the job description, but there’s something about her. She’s not only doing a job. She actually cares. This morning, she brushed my hair and helped me into a pair of jeans and one of Dean’s giant T-shirts before he and Mercy arrived. As I say goodbye, I’m surprised how emotional I feel. She makes me consider the possibility that people aren’t all heartless assholes. I watch her walk away, her pixie cut gleaming in the sun.
Mercy puts on my seat belt, and even though it makes me feel like an invalid, I let her because, well, you know.
“Be safe,” she says, kissing me on the forehead. Mom used to say that emphatically when I walked out the door, as if her words had the power to conjure mysterious protective forces. I wonder if she would still be here if I had said those same words to her as she left my bedroom the night of the fire. “Anastasia was right.” Mercy looks into my eyes. “You are strong. You’re one of my heroes, kid.”
“You’re one of mine.” I hug her hard with my good arm. “I’ll miss you.”
Mercy starts to head toward her car, and then I remember the necklace I bought for her in Omaha. “Wait!” I say. “I have something for you.”
She returns, and I ask Dean to open the saddlebag and find the necklace. He digs around. When he pulls it out, it’s covered in ashes. I hand it to Mercy. “This is for you. I bought it at the store where Mom got me this.” I lift my sun necklace.
Mercy’s eyes get wet. “Thank you,” she says, studying the turquoise moon.
“I’d put it on you, but…” I look at my broken arm.
She laughs. “I’m perfectly capable of putting it on myself. It’s one of the most beautiful gifts I’ve ever been given.”
“I just wanted you to know I love you,” I say. “I’m lucky to have you.”
We say goodbye one last time. I take her in, memorizing her, in case this is the last time I see her. “I love you!” I call out the window again as we turn onto the street, wanting to make double sure I don’t make the same mistake I made with Mom. Smiling, she waves.
“Let’s get this party started,” Dean says as we pull onto the highway. He turns the radio up, and Bob Dylan sings Mom’s song about the highway of diamonds. It’s getting harder and harder to believe she isn’t still with me. I remember what she said to me in that white light. “Oh, monkey, we never die.” I feel a vaguely familiar splash inside me, like an almost-forgotten ocean breaking against my rib cage. I think it’s hope.
I stare out the window, watching trees and billboards sprint past, pondering how Anastasia and Mercy said I was strong. It occurs to me that I have survived something most people would not. Mom used to spout inspirational clichés like she was a walking Instagram meme, and one of them was, “What doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger.” I normally rolled my eyes when she said it, as she usually did so when I was whining about doing the dishes or carrying groceries, but now, it feels profound and true. All this shit I’ve been through has changed me, and maybe, just maybe, it’s for the better. Yeah, I’m beat up. Yeah, I look like shit. But under all the pain, I’ve found a strength, a metal at my core I didn’t know was there until now.
For at least a good three minutes, the drive is all birds swooping in front of the truck and sunrays bursting through clouds. I’m exhilarated. Keep in mind that may be the drugs talking. I can see why people get hooked on pain meds. As I start to think my newfound contentment is a permanent condition, Dean goes and bursts my bubble. “So where are we going?”
Even through the meds, I feel fear. I have no idea where we’re going. New York is the short answer. But driving straight there doesn’t seem right. For one thing, I’m not quite ready to say goodbye to Mom’s ashes. For another, I still don’t know what to do with this baby. I’m pretty sure I’ve decided abortion isn’t for me, but I still can’t imagine raising a kid. Nor can I imagine letting one go. The thought of putting my precious not-so-maybe-baby girl into someone else’s arms makes my stomach clench. I have no clue what to do. The road is, always has been, the only place the world makes sense to me. This is more than a road trip. It’s a quest, a pilgrimage. Intuitively, I know Mom’s highway of diamonds has more to teach me. Leaning my head against the cool window, I ponder Dean’s question and squeeze my eyes shut. Mom, I think, where should I go?
I’m not saying she answers me. Maybe it’s my brain. Or my soul. Maybe the best, smartest part of me rises to the surface and gives me the answer. But before I really process what I’m saying, I blurt out, “I need to find my dad.”
Eighteen
When I run a Google search for Andy Warphol, my iPhone helpfully asks, “Did you mean Andy Warhol?” and offers a bunch of pictures of soup in answer to my query.
“No, you dumb ass,” I say out loud.
“What did I do now?” Dean asks. His crappy truck doesn’t have air-conditioning, so he has his window rolled down and his elbow out the window. The wind rustles his hair, making him look like he’s at a photo shoot for Axe for Men, which is to say, he’s dead shmexy. I remember how good it felt to have him inside me. And I want him. I wonder if my arm would rebreak if I tried to have sex with him in the truck. I’m guessing it would, plus we might get arrested, and I’ve had more than enough catastrophes for one road trip, thank you very much. Also, for reasons I can’t fully understand, the thought of having sex with him terrifies me, as tempting as it is. I’m not sure I’m ready to be that close to him again. What if I freak out like I did last time? So when I answer, I don’t hint at my surging lust. Instead, I say, “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to my phone.”
“What did it do now?” he asks.
“It thinks I’m running a search for Andy Warhol instead of my dad.” I shift in my seat, peeling away from the sticky upholstery.
“Why the hell would it think that?”
“Because my dad’s name is Andy Warphol.”
Dean laughs, then quiets. “You’re not kidding?”
“No,” I say. “At least that’s what my mom told me his name was. Maybe she made it up. I don’t know.”
“So if your mom had stayed with your dad, you’d be Harley Warphol? It sounds like a comic book heroine.”
“Juliet Warphol, actually,” I say.
“Wait. What?”
“My real name is Juliet. Harley’s a nickname.”
“Holy shit. How did I fall in love with you without knowing your name?” Dean asks.
I shrug apologetically. “I was doing my best to be a walking conundrum.”
He grins. “Juliet. I like it.”
“I don’t,” I say. �
�Hence the nickname. Don’t you dare think about calling me Juliet.”
“Fair enough.” He touches my face. “Harley it is.”
I grab his fingers and kiss them, then run a search for “Andy Warphol address.”
“Are you looking for Andy Warhol address?” my phone asks.
“No, dumb ass!” I say.
“You and your phone have quite a tense relationship,” Dean offers.
“If I didn’t need it, I’d throw it out the window,” I agree, clicking on “search instead for Andy Warphol’s address.” This time, one address comes up, an art studio in Minneapolis called Warphol Dreams, which sounds like the name of a kick-ass band, a B sci-fi movie, or a bad porno. I can’t decide which.
My stomach lurches. “I think I found him.”
Dean glances at me. “No shit?” He rests his hand reassuringly on my thigh, and his heat floods me. Even in the sticky summer air, it feels good.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Dean asks.
I’m not sure, but I nod anyway. “I need to know.”
Dean doesn’t ask for specifics, which is good, because I’m not sure I have an immediate answer for him. Do I need to know what my dad looks like? Do I need to know if he loved my mom? Or do I need to know if he loved me? Tears come to my eyes when I think that last question. So that must be the right answer.
“I think I need to know if he loved me,” I whisper.
“He had to love you,” Dean says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because to know you is to love you.”
I smile. “He didn’t know me.”
“But I bet he felt you, the way I feel this little one.” He touches my belly affectionately. “I feel her spirit, you know?”
I nod. I do know.
He points at the sun, which glows white-yellow, almost at its highest point in the sky. “You’re like that.”