by Lia Louis
News headlines roll in again on the radio, but they’re all the same as they were twenty minutes ago. Something about a footballer and a court case, then the nasally announcements of snow blankets parts of the UK. Major delays. Roads closed. The public are advised to not travel unless necessary.
And maybe I should’ve listened to Mum – her pleas for me to stay home. ‘Gary at number twenty-one put on Facebook that it’s set to snow six inches, Noelle,’ she’d said before I left, clutching the collars of her blush-pink dressing gown. ‘And he’s always right. He used to work for Millets.’ But then, Mum doesn’t travel, even when it is necessary. It’s been three years since she went anywhere at all, or should I say, any further than the recycling bins in the front garden and the eight-weekly trip to the hairdresser and back which she attends as if she is under house arrest and only has an allotted forty-five-minute window before the cops turn up to throw her over the bonnet of a car and chain her hands together. In and out, no cup of tea, no small talk at the till. If I listened to her, I wouldn’t really go anywhere. And where would the pair of us end up then?
I glance over at the American in his car. I keep thinking he’ll catch me looking longingly over, like some sort of perv at a smoky bar, but the more time passes, and the more I try, again and again, fiddling pointlessly with the charger socket, taking out the wire and plugging it back in again, the more I have to accept: I need help. Because I need to get through to Mum, and it’s obvious now, with bush wees and banjos as evidence, we’re not going to be moving any time soon.
I push open my car door and get out. Snow showers my face as I slip on my coat. This borrowed, thin-as-cigarette-paper dress: definitely one of my shittier ideas. It’s freezing.
The American is looking down at something in his lap when I approach the car. A book, I think, or is that a newspaper? He looks up when I knock against the glass and the window glides down. The smell of warm coffee and new car leather puffs through the gap into the cold air.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘I really hate to ask, but if I could just use a charger––’
‘Sure. Shall I take the phone and let you know when it’s charged, or do you … wanna hop in, or …’
He trails off, thumb pointing lazily over his shoulder to the inside of his car.
Ugh, this is awkward, this situation. It’d feel weird passing my phone through a stranger’s window, tell him to keep checking whether it has enough charge for a call, hoping he doesn’t glance at any of the messages that might come through, because it isn’t exactly unusual for Charlie to send a photo of the new tattoo she’s penned on Theo’s hairy inner thigh on a whim, or a zoomed-in photo of Orlando Bloom’s paparazzied knob with the message, ‘Just some more evidence to back up my Some Penises Can Be Beautiful stance.’ But it also feels weird to jump in a stranger’s car, regardless of how stationary it is, regardless of how lovely and normal he seems, and how very much unlike a serial killer. I’d rather do neither in normal circumstances. But these aren’t exactly normal circumstances, are they? A man, chatting across the lane to a police officer triumphantly pulls a two-foot-long supermarket baguette out of his back seat as if to prove the point.
‘I suppose I’ll quickly jump in,’ I say, ‘if that’s OK?’
The American’s car is a grown-up’s car – the sort that has heated seats. The sort that has a sensible handful of loose change and a neat package of pocket-sized tissues in the glove box in case of crying or nose-blowing emergencies. I doubt the American has ever drunk Tizer in here. I doubt he’s ever spread a McChicken sandwich meal across the passenger seat in Asda’s car park and rubbed spilled ketchup into the seat until it blended with the fabric, either.
‘Do you want to use my phone to make a call first?’ the American asks.
‘Oh, um – she won’t pick up.’ I shut the car door behind me. ‘My mum. She doesn’t pick up calls from numbers she doesn’t recognise.’
‘Oh. OK.’ The radio is on – something folky; slow, husky vocals, the gentle, picking of a guitar – and the heaters hum quietly. He fishes around in the arm rest between us and pulls out a charger, plugging one end into a port below the stereo. He holds the other end out to me. ‘Here.’
‘Ah. Thanks.’ I plug in my phone, rest it in my lap. Warm relief trickles through me like brandy as the charging emblem blinks onto the screen. I blow out a ‘Phew,’ and he smiles.
There’s silence now, both of us turning to stare ahead through the snowy blur of the windscreen. I fiddle with a button on my coat. The American straightens in his seat, picks at a thread on the thigh of his jeans. He glances quickly at me, catches me doing the same, and we both give one of those polite, just-for-strangers smiles. He has a nice face – the sort of intangibly nice face you can’t quite put into words. When Charlie was dating, she used to scroll the Plenty of Fish app and say, ‘I just want a man with one of those nice faces, you know? Just one of those friendly, trustworthy, earthy sort of faces that make you feel like Yeah. I’d follow you into the woods, dude, and know there’s a high probability I’d remain intact.’ Yes. The American has one of those faces.
‘Coming down out there,’ I say, because, well, let’s face it, I need to say something. ‘They said on the forecast it’d be light, if at all.’
The American ducks to look out of the windscreen, two perfect watermelon slices made by the wipers in the snow. ‘Yeah. Although – I guess it sort of is light.’
‘Is it?’
He gives a shrug. ‘Well, light if you compare it to the snow in – Toyama or Syracuse or something.’
‘Or … the North pole,’ I add weakly, and he smiles and says, ‘Sure. Or the North pole.’
Snow flurries down outside, the snowflakes like duck feathers as if from a gigantic burst pillow in the sky, and a new song begins on the radio. There’s a beat of awkward silence. I’ll leave. As soon as I have the tiniest drop of charge, I’ll get out—
‘Are you close to home?’ he asks.
‘Sort of. Half-an-hour away,’ I tell him, and he nods, tells me he’s on his way to the airport now, to go home.
‘And where is home?’ Dilly would give anything now, to place a bet on a state, see if he’s right.
‘The US. Oregon?’
‘Really?’ I realise I sound high-pitched, shocked, and his dark eyebrows rise. And I can’t tell him why. That it was where Ed went. That it was where I was meant to go too, with him, to start anew. Until I couldn’t. Until I had no choice but to stay. ‘I just – I um, I had a pen pal from Portland once.’ I change routes. Still true, but not quite the heavy My Doctor Boyfriend Left Me for a Hospital in Oregon story he didn’t ask for.
‘Seriously?’
‘I was thirteen,’ I say. ‘It was a school thing. We all got allocated an international pen pal and something happened and, I don’t know, he was off school for six weeks. Or maybe he just wanted to avoid my letters, which was probably wise …’
The American chuckles. He has a nice laugh. Warm, genuine. And it makes me relax a little.
‘… so I got this very uninterested genius instead. Only lasted two letters. I think she found me really boring. She talked about pre-history and Socrates, and I just remember listing some facts about Brian from The Backstreet Boys.’
He chuckles again. ‘I’m not far from Portland, actually,’ he says. ‘Well, an hour or two. I’m by the coast.’
‘The coast. Sounds nice.’
A traffic announcement bursts through the soft folky music, and he quickly reaches forward to turn down the volume. He tries to find the music again, pressing a touch-screen arrow a few times, then settles on a random station. Another awkward, just-for-strangers smile passes between us both.
I click the side button on my phone. The battery sign blinks on and off. Of course. Of course it’s going to take its sweet time while I’m stuck in a car with a stranger. ‘My phone’s still really dead,’ I tell him, ‘sorry. I just need enough to make a call, it shouldn’t be much lon
ger …’
He lifts a shoulder to his ear. ‘It’s cool,’ he says. ‘Plus, maybe – to pass the time?’ He picks up a folded newspaper from the side of the seat and holds it up, showing an unfinished crossword, red biro scrawled roughly in some of the squares. ‘Two heads are better than one, right?’
I pause. ‘Usually.’
‘Usually?’
‘In the case of crosswords, one head, and one that isn’t mine is probably better. In the case of geography too actually.’
He smiles. A comma-shaped dimple appears in his cheek and something glitters inside my stomach, like a spark. ‘Well, you knew Portland was in Oregon.’
‘That’s true.’
‘There you go. Most people over here hear me speak and say New York? Or Are you from California? Do you know Keanu Reeves?’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, no other states exist to us, I’m afraid.’
‘No?’
‘No, afraid not. To us, everyone works for Paramount Pictures and goes to prom and probably knows someone called Chad––’ I freeze. ‘God, and of course now I’m worrying you’re called Chad and I obviously didn’t mean—’
‘Sam. I’m Sam.’
‘Sam.’ Sam. Makes sense. He looks like a Sam. Sam’s a strong, classic, safe name, and I feel certain somehow, he is also those things. ‘I’m Noelle.’
‘Noelle. Like––’
‘Christmas, yeah.’
‘I was going to say … Gallagher.’ His cheek twitches in an awkward, shy smile and I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
‘That’s Noel. I’m Noelle. No-elle. Noel but with an extra L and E on the end. Very important detail.’
He nods. ‘Noelle.’
I smile. ‘Correct.’
He brings a biro to the newspaper on his lap. ‘OK, Noelle not-Gallagher. How are you with ancient philosophers? Sixteen down is kind of torturing me.’
Chapter Four
‘Oh, Noelle, I can’t believe it. Do you have food? Drink? Are you warm enough? It’s all over the local news. Lorry got into trouble apparently. Thank God nobody’s hurt. But now with all the snow too, oh, God, it’s a nightmare – you’re OK, are you?’
‘I’m fine, Mum. But are you OK?’
‘Ian’s here.’
‘Is he? Really?’
‘He was passing! How lucky is that? He popped in to see to the gate next door. The new tenants were moaning about it. I said to him – I said Noelle and I are always saying that new tenant seems stuffy, like she’s got a broom jammed up her arse – that you smiled when you took the bins out and she ignored you. Doesn’t surprise me that she complained about the gate, of all things––’
‘Will he stay?’
‘Ian, she’s asking if you’ll stay. He – right. Yes. He says he’ll stay until you get back. I’m sure you’ll be home by – elevenish, do you think?’
‘I don’t know if I’ll be back by eleven, Mum. We’re at a total standstill––’
‘Oh, Noelle––’
‘I’ll be home as soon as I can, I promise. But look, I don’t have a lot of battery––’
‘Don’t you? She’s running out of battery, Ian. What? Ian says to switch your phone to airplane mode, save the battery, and to get off the phone now to be safe––’
‘It’s fine. A guy next to me offered to let me charge it in his car, so I’ve just been sitting in there. But I don’t know how long I can charge it for––’
‘A stranger? Oh Christ, please be careful.’
‘It’s fine, Mum. He’s fine. He was parked next to me. American. On his way to the airport.’
‘Oh. Oh. I see. Right. OK. Is he … your age?’
‘Um. Yes, I suppose—’
‘Tall? Good looking?’
‘I … I don’t know. Yes? Yes, I guess, he – he seems to have long legs. Look, Mum, I’m getting soaked, I’m standing outside––’
‘Well, you know what Dilly said about that American he went out with.’
‘Mum––’
‘Very lively. Full of energy, very fit, you know. And not afraid to show it off either. Walked around nude apparently, making breakfast, don’t you remember? Pancakes. That’s what they eat, you know. Not for dessert either. For breakfast.’
‘I’m going now.’
‘With scrambled eggs.’
‘Bye, Mum. I’ll be home as soon as I can.’
It’s amazing how quickly an hour and a half passes when you’re having one of those conversations – the unexpected effortless kind that makes you feel as though you can’t get the words out of your mouth quick enough. Ones where minutes slip into hours but seem to bring the world outside of your little bubble to a complete standstill. A flaming meteor could hit, and you wouldn’t even look up and say, ‘Oh, did you feel that? That little tremor?’
My phone sprang to life over an hour ago, yet still I find myself in the warmth of American Sam’s car. Still. I can’t believe it either.
I’d ducked outside to call Mum when my battery charged to ten per cent, awkwardly hovering at the open car door, zipping up my coat on the concrete, unsure whether or not I should just thank him and say goodbye. Because I had enough charge now to do what I needed to – check on Mum, arrange for Ian to stay with her, to help her up to bed. But Sam and I were in the middle of a conversation I was desperate to get back to – ghosts, for some reason, and the best thing we’d ever eaten. And to be honest, simply and totally unexpectedly (and slightly guiltily): I was having such a nice time.
‘You could uh – charge up your phone some more,’ Sam had suggested, leaning across from the driver’s seat, hair bristling in the gentle but icy breeze. He has such nice hair. Thick, dark, probably smells like showers and coconuts. ‘If you want to.’
And I’d nodded from the road, phone in hand, relieved that he’d asked. ‘Plus, we haven’t finished that crossword yet, have we?’ I’d joked, and he’d laughed and said, ‘Yeah, I’m not sure we ever will.’
I tingled as I spoke to Mum on the road, snowflakes falling relentlessly, as if from a lifetime supply – that lovely deep exhale of relief once I knew she was OK, and that warm-blooded feeling of having had fun. Away from home. With someone new. Even when I rack my brains, I can’t remember the last time that happened. Years. Definitely years. And I’d forgotten the fizz of it, I think – of meeting a fresh, new person, and that purging you can do when to each other you’re clean slates, and everything shared is new and interesting and a little bit of universe expanding. Maybe that was part of the guilt too, besides Mum, knowing she’d be worrying – that it’s been so long.
‘So, this slightly bonkers-sounding alpine guide thing,’ I say. Sam is swivelled to face me in the driver’s seat, his broad back against the car window. ‘Your job …’
‘My job.’
‘Do you get to go all over? Travel a lot – go here and there?’ A mountaineer. Sam is an actual mountaineer.
He nods. ‘Wherever I’m needed. Although, my base is in Oregon right now – place called Mount Hood? They run summit programmes and I’m a guide with a few other climbers. But not sure for how much longer.’
‘Mount Hood,’ I repeat. ‘I say that I like know it. My mountain knowledge is – well, it’s shite, to be honest.’
Sam laughs, that little crescent of a dimple in his cheek. ‘Ah, it’s super high, super snowy, super mountainy. That’s all there is to know, right?’
‘Wait, so, you climb icy mountains?’
Sam smiles shyly, taps the side of his finger absentmindedly on the steering wheel. ‘Are you going to ask me if I worry about plummeting to my death again?’
‘You leave me no choice. Sorry.’
I keep drifting from my body and watching myself from the other side of the window, and I’m ninety-nine per cent sure the Noelle Butterby outside with her nose pressed against the glass is silently muttering, ‘Kindly, what the fuck is happening to us here?’ Because things like this don’t happen. Not really, not in real life. Especially to m
e. People like Charlie, yes, I’d almost expect this to happen to her. Before the baby, she and her husband Theo were always out, always falling in instant-love with fast friends on yoga retreats and coming home with stories about people they room-shared with who cured their migraines with enemas and forgiveness, and how they’re going to meet up for brunch. But me. These things don’t really happen to me. I mean, first of all – stranded due to snow? We’re barely on first-name terms with sleet in England, let alone proper, Last-Christmas-music-video snow, yet here I am, in what is practically a blizzard, sitting in someone’s car who over ninety minutes ago was a nameless stranger – a bloke in a car. And I feel – something. I don’t know what exactly. Alive. Buzzy. Like my blood is rushing with stars, with electricity. And I didn’t even want to get into this car. It’d be painfully awkward, I thought, sitting there, looking like a melted waxwork with swollen bee-sting eyes and cried-off make-up, and a ridiculous dress I’d never usually wear in a million years – red, faux-satin. Something I’d picked out of Charlie’s wardrobe because I thought it said, ‘worldly adult’ and ‘student most likely to be settled and happy with her shit perfectly together, so what were you thinking, eh, Ed?’
But sitting here with Sam – I can’t even really explain it. I just know that I don’t want to leave. I imagine Charlie’s face, if she could see me now. ‘Erm, excuse me,’ she’d say. ‘Are you Noelle Butterby? Is that an unidentified male? Are you actually – holy shit – having fun?’
Sam stretches in his seat beside me, clears his throat. ‘Do you think your mom will be all right?’
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘Our friend, our old neighbour, Ian – he said he’ll stay with her. He used to help us a lot with Mum before he moved in with his girlfriend, so … best man for the job.’
Sam nods, turning a biro in his hand. ‘How long has she been sick?’