Grateful for the GPS on my phone, I let the robotic woman with the British accent guide the way. But once I got to Paducah … how would I find Valerie? I’d sent nearly thirty messages since she’d asked me to come, but still nothing back from her.
It was three in the morning when I finally forced myself to stop at the first signs of lodging. My eyes were heavy, my head cloudy and thick from the vodka. The short-lived buzz was gone, and now my stomach felt empty and sick. Leaving home feels like a mistake.
A sketchy motel with a green tin roof was the only place around for miles. The parking lot was dim, only a couple of cars taking up spaces. I parked and shut the truck off, resting my head on the wheel.
I can’t believe I’m so far from home … there’s nowhere to hide anymore.
I scooped up my duffel bag, the rattling of pills a welcoming sound. I hadn’t taken any pain meds or anti-anxiety meds since leaving Wisconsin. I was long overdue, my entire body achy, my head scratchy.
I picked up Chris’s remains, thankful the rain had quit, as I carried him inside, tucked safely under my arm. I shuffled inside the rundown lobby, shivering, my hair and clothes still damp from when I’d stopped at a rest stop earlier.
I’d nearly forgotten about my scars as I approached the sleepy woman at the front desk. Her elbows propped up on the desk top, she was supporting a long, narrow face with a pointy chin and cheeks pocked with old acne scars. Her eyes were heavy with sleep. Like me, she seemed self-conscious of her face, quickly tucking a mound of long orange-red bangs across her face, keeping her cheeks half-hidden.
Her eyes zeroed in on my scars, traveling from the center of my face and down the zig-zag road map that led to my chin. She recoiled slightly, then corrected herself with a tight smile.
“What can I do for you?” She directed her courtesy question at the lumpy, peeling paint on the wall behind me.
I was tired. Too tired to care what she thought about my scars; too tired to be irritated by the way she wouldn’t look at me now.
I dropped my bag on the grimy, scuffed tiles at my feet. Gently, I placed the box of Chris on top of it.
“I’d like a room, please. If you have one.”
There was a long, awkward pause, and still, she wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Check-out is eleven,” she said. Her chintzy gold name tag revealed that her name was Aimee.
“Eleven is fine.”
She wasn’t wearing a watch, but she glanced down at her wrist and rubbed the pale, exposed spot where one once was. “Listen, it’s almost four in the morning. Are you planning to stay for a few days, or …?”
“Just one night,” I breathed, reaching for my wallet. “I need to sleep a couple hours, but I plan on checking out by nine,” I added. The room was spinning … Too fucking far from home, from the safety of my own itchy walls …
The woman leaned over her computer and tapped a few keys. Hurry hurry hurry, I need my meds …
“That’ll be 69.18.”
Dammit.
I thought about my bank account, money dwindling …
Tick tock tick tock.
I handed her my credit card and minutes later, I was back outside the grubby motel, climbing an unsteady set of wet, wrought-iron stairs up to the second-floor walkway. A row of ten or eleven rooms laid dark, and probably empty. I shivered again, despite myself.
I struggled with the key card, finally managing to get the door open on the fourth try.
I was met with a blast of warm air that sent a shiver through my still-damp hair and clothes.
I set my bag on the bed and put Chris on the nightstand beside it, sighing. I can’t believe I made it this far.
Like the lobby, the room was rundown and dreary. A moon-shaped water stain blossomed on the ceiling above the queen-sized bed. There was a red-and-black checkered bedspread that looked faded and worn, and possibly full of bed bugs … but I was too exhausted to care at this point. I kicked off my boots, peeled myself from my jeans, and stripped off my damp, ragged jacket. Wearing only a T-shirt, I climbed beneath the covers with my crumpled map and bottles of pills, shivering uncontrollably but grateful for the dry heat of the furnace.
Paducah, Kentucky isn’t far.
I’d never been to Paducah, traveling only once to the state when I was younger, and that had been to a larger city called Louisville. I’d gone with Hannah to see a basketball game. It had been fun, but crowded and hot, and I’d been too nervous to enjoy myself fully.
I was terrible at reading maps, and grateful for my GPS app on my phone. Paducah had been farther away than I’d originally thought—nearly 483 miles. I traced the route I needed to follow with my index finger … If only the distance between Valerie and I were as short as it looks on paper.
I’d knocked out more than half the drive already, reaching Illinois, and if I left at nine, like I’d told Aimee I would, I’d reach Paducah by noon tomorrow …
But what then?
Even if Valerie was still in Paducah, being held captive by some strange stalker, how could I help her? It wasn’t like I’d brought a suitcase full of fancy knives …
I have no plan, not really. How does she expect me to help her? What can I do?
Pushing the checkered cover aside, I opened my bottles and fished out my pills. I’d gone this long without taking the pain meds, I could probably go without them … but I took two out anyway, and two anti-anxiety pills. I swallowed them without water, then cringed. Next, I got up and scrambled through my jacket pockets for my phone. I hadn’t checked on Valerie in hours, unable to use my phone while driving, and the service had been spotty at best.
The drive itself had gone surprisingly quick; the boxful of Chris beside me strangely comforting despite the storms. I stared at the box, wondering what Chris would say if he was still alive and knew what I was doing. He’d probably laugh and call me crazy.
I clicked my home button. The screen stayed dark. Dead.
I had a charger, but it was hooked up to the adaptor outside in the truck, and the thought of wandering back outside this late in that grimy, poorly lit parking lot gave me the creeps.
I looked around the room, at the few meager furnishings. I just need to go to sleep. By the time I blink, the sun will be up. And hopefully, Valerie will message me in the morning and let me know her exact location.
The remote control on the nightstand was sticky. The Bible beside it was sticky, too. I flicked through the pages, my brain buzzing with something I couldn’t define … was it fear or anticipation? All I knew was that by this time tomorrow I’d be in Paducah, hopefully tracking down my former classmate.
I rolled onto my side, tucking the itchy blankets up to my chin, and I took another good long look at the box of Chris.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know that woman always hated me. I’ll return you to her when I get back, promise …”
When he didn’t answer, I leaned over and kissed the smooth, polished surface of the box.
“Good night.”
***
The sound of banging fists on wood shook me from sleep. I sat up with a jolt, blinking sleep from my eyes and absorbing the peeling blue wallpaper and scarred trimmings of my motel room. I’m in Illinois, on my way to Paducah … and I didn’t dream of the accident at all.
The banging continued.
“Just a sec!” I pulled myself out of bed and grabbed my jeans. They still felt slightly damp and stunk of something rotten and mildew-y.
Hot, dusty streams of morning sun beamed through the cheap curtains, creating shimmery strips of light around the room. Did I oversleep?
I wrenched open the motel door, expecting Aimee. Instead, I squinted into the blaring sun at a man around my age. He was wearing overalls and sporting a long, wild black beard. He frowned at me, hands mashed down hard on his hips. “Check-out’s eleven, not noon,” he barked.
“Oh! Sorry about that. I must have overslept. Give me a few minutes …”
I closed the
door back, cursing myself for having slept so long, and gathered up my bag and jacket. I swiped the pill bottles off the dresser top and buried them deep inside my bag. If I’d had my phone charged up last night, I could have set my alarm.
Much to my dismay, the impatient creep was still waiting outside the door when I came out. I squinted at the harsh afternoon sun, wishing for more storms as I handed him the key to my room. I could feel him watching me, probably checking out my ass, as I climbed down the staircase, taking two slick steps at a time.
I roared out of the parking lot, pissed at the man for being so rude and pissed at myself for oversleeping. I was way behind schedule now …
It wasn’t until I’d made it two miles down the road that I remembered Chris.
“Oh my god! Oh my god!” I was in full-blown panic mode the whole ride back to the crummy motel, all the while praying that the maids hadn’t tossed out the box with my husband inside.
Even now, after death, I have failed him.
***
A cigarette dangled from between my teeth as I slammed the door to my truck and approached a rundown diner called Pegosi’s. It was well after one; I was three hours behind schedule now after the debacle with Chris’s ashes.
Luckily, the room hadn’t been cleaned and my dead husband was still in his box where I’d left him.
This time, when I went inside the diner, I left Chris’s ashes on the passenger’s seat.
He’s probably safer without me.
My stomach twisted and curled—how long had it been since I’d eaten? I couldn’t remember eating a thing the past two days.
I slid my unlit cigarette behind my ear and pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt. It wasn’t enough to conceal my face, but it helped.
Two parallel rows of mismatched tables sat empty. A young girl with a cheek piercing perked up from behind the counter.
“Sit wherever ya like,” she drawled. My instinct was the booth in the far corner, furthest from the entrance and the windows. I picked up a plastic, one-page menu from the counter and made my way toward a seat in the middle instead.
The waitress was standing beside a heavy-set man behind the counter. The backline and grill were all out in the open, which should have been comforting, but seemed strange.
They were whispering. Whispering about me? I wondered.
Moments later, the waitress came around the counter and walked over to my table, hips shifting sexily from side to side.
She was chewing gum, her eyes focused intensely on mine as she asked me what I’d like. I reached back and adjusted my hood around my face, feeling as though I were under a microscope.
“Steak and eggs, please. Glass of ice water. And coffee, black, if you have some.”
“Sure thing.” She took the menu from me, then went back to her whispering companion behind the counter.
I stared out the window, which overlooked the parking lot. A couple young boys in a sporty red Camaro zipped in and parked next to the truck. Moments later, they wandered in and chose a table close to me, just as the waitress came floating back with my food. It had taken less than ten minutes to make my brunch, which surprised me.
The desire to turn on my phone and start searching for Valerie ran bone-deep. I’d let it charge for the last hour, and I was hoping—praying, really—that I had a new message from her. I forced myself to eat first … the steak was tough and cold in the center, but the grease and salt were a welcome explosion on my tongue. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, imagining how good a drink would taste right now—something stronger than water and coffee, at least.
I ate every bit of the chewy meat, barely breathing in between bites, and then I picked at the eggs. My belly was full.
Satisfied, I turned my phone over and stared down at the blank screen. Please be okay, Valerie. Please let your feed be full of posts, telling your many followers that you were just sick again. That your trip to New Orleans got delayed … or better yet, let there be pictures … loads and loads of pictures … of you doused from head to toe in Mardi Gras beads, sporting one of those icy margaritas, in a cup as big as your head. You don’t need my help … you’re fine. Just fine. And I can turn around and go back home, to my prison, where I belong.
But before I could load my Instagram or Snapchat apps, my phone was chiming and buzzing … dozens of texts from Hannah pouring in. Several voicemails, too.
What the hell, Hannah? It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I sent you a text. Calm down!
The boys were staring over at me, snickering. I gave them the finger and their chuckles rose.
Rolling my eyes, I opened the thread of texts and my breath instantly became lodged in my throat, the room spinning mercilessly.
I tried to focus on Hannah’s words, but they blurred before my eyes:
Hannah: WTF Camilla? What the fucking fuck?!!!!!!!!!!
Hannah: Answer your phone. NOW. Bonnie said you broke into her house. You broke into her house!!!! What the hell were you thinking?
Hannah: You took Chris’s ashes from his own mother? And you stole some priceless water pot from her shelf? How could you?? I know you hate the woman … but how could you be this dumb? TELL ME YOU ARE NOT THIS DUMB.
Hannah: I need you to answer your phone, dammit. I’ve called you a million times. She’s pressing charges. She has an outdoor camera, and guess whose face was all over the fucking thing? YOURS. The police are looking for you, Milly. I’m scared. Please call me.
Panting, I plunged three fingers into my ice water and rubbed cool water over my face.
When had Chris’s mother become so high-tech … installing cameras, that didn’t sound like something she’d do …?
The town of Oshkosh already blamed me for Chris’s death. Everyone knew I had a drinking problem, and before I “quit”, I made frequent trips to Sammy’s Spirits and the bar on Melton strip. After stopping, I started driving a couple towns away to buy my alcohol.
For some reason, they didn’t test me for drugs or alcohol at the hospital after the accident. Probably because they thought I was going to die …
But everyone suspected I’d been drinking that night, even though nobody could prove it. It was ruled an accident. A horrible, tragic accident. But now they had a reason to nail me. And messing with a dead guy’s ashes was no joke in the small, conservative town of Oshkosh …
My hands shaking, I placed my cigarette in my mouth and flicked my Bic lighter again and again, trying to get a spark.
“Hey! You can’t smoke in here, lady.” The waitress’s polite demeanor was replaced with disgusted concern. She was staring at me, as was the guy behind the counter, and the two young boys. Do they know what I did?
“Sorry.” I took a twenty out of my wallet and held it up so she could see before placing it down on the table.
I could feel the scars on my face glowing red with shame as I shoved my way out the door. Immediately, I lit my cigarette and stumbled toward the truck, puffing. I need another drink. Why didn’t I save more of those little bottles?
“Now what?” I said to Chris, as I climbed in behind the wheel. I rolled my window down, blowing smoke rings out the top of it.
“Now what …” I mumbled again, glancing back down at the buzzing phone in my lap.
Just as I was about to search for Valerie, it started ringing. Hannah again …
I didn’t get a chance to say hello before she started shrieking.
“What the hell, Milly? Seriously, what is going on with you? I know you miss Chris, but you can’t break into an old lady’s house like that.”
“I know. I know! But, listen, I didn’t steal that stupid water pot …” I flicked my half-smoked cig out the window. It bounced off the shiny red car and I felt the corners of my lips threatening to curl up in a smile.
“What? I can hardly hear you,” Hannah said, her voice growing louder and louder. I held the phone away from my ear, cringing.
“Where are you?” Hannah shouted.
“I
’m in bed. I’m not feeling good … can I call you later? We can discuss this …”
“You most certainly are not in bed. I’m standing in your fucking bedroom, Milly!”
Shit.
“The police are looking for you, as we speak …” Hannah’s voice was heated, but also sad. And tired. She was sick to death of her needy, reckless sister. Me too, Hannah. Me too.
“Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”
I put the truck in gear, glancing briefly over at Chris in the passenger’s seat. Now, he was no longer a stupid box, but real … he raised one mischievous eyebrow at me. Whatcha gonna do? He seemed to be saying …
I put the truck in gear and pulled out of the diner’s parking lot. The truck growled as I held the pedal all the way down to the floor. Chris was smiling, as though he approved.
I could still hear Hannah, shouting through the phone on the seat beside me.
Finally, as I veered onto the expressway and hit seventy miles per hour, I ended the call with Hannah. Then I blocked her number, indefinitely.
Chapter 8
The roads were bumpy and stark, storm clouds sprouting like bulgy black bruises in the sky. All the radio stations had evolved into static; an eerie silence hovering between me and the box. The ghost of Chris was gone.
Every few minutes, a howling, old country song would drift through the speakers then fade back out again. I missed the quiet of my apartment, the punchy feel of the keys of my computer …
But there was something freeing about it, too … no one knew where I was, no one could reach me if I didn’t want to be reached. For the first time, I could see why Valerie enjoyed traveling on her own. Although, unlike me, Valerie had never lost her connection to the world. On the contrary, she kept us apprised of everything going on in her life. Until now.
The more miles that stretched between me and Oshkosh, the more the idea of stealing a boxful of ashes and a stupid pot (which I didn’t take) seemed small, perhaps even nonexistent … Is it really a crime to steal your own husband’s ashes? If so, it shouldn’t be.
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