Leaving Unknown (2 page)

She opened her mouth to say something more, then thought better of it. “No need to decide right now. Let’s sit and wait for your father.” She kicked off her Birkenstocks and sat cross-legged on the bench. I sat on the “grown-up side” of the table, in a normal chair. “Tell me about your day.”

Definitely not.

“I taught Oliver a new phrase. He can say ‘Great hair!’”

My mother looked sort of sad but forced a smile. “Well, that’s something. Why did I think you were working tonight?”

“Schedule change,” I said, not entirely untruthfully.

“Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do now that you’ve graduated?” Her tone was careful.

“I don’t know.” I hesitated. “I don’t know what I’m good at.” There. I’d said it.

My mom squeezed my hand and smiled at me. “You’re good at so many things.”

“You have to say that. You’re my mother.”

“It’s the truth. Look at what a good bartender you are!”

I grimaced.

“You’re good with people.” She looked thoughtful. “What about something in health care? You…”

I blanched at the thought. I hated hospitals. “No way.”

She sighed. “What about photography? You did a remarkable job shooting my sculptures and updating my portfolio.”

“I don’t think you can make a living…”

“Maeve!” My father’s bellow echoed down the hallway. What now? He strode into the room, deep crease between his eyebrows, waving a sheaf of papers, looking like an angry orange in sock feet and an Illini sweat suit, hair sticking up. “What the hell is this?” He thrust the sheets under my eyes and I winced. The country club bill had arrived. I couldn’t believe it. The
one
day this month I needed to be far away from home happened to be the day I got fired, dropped in unexpectedly, and Dad uncharacteristically opened his mail before Sunday. Talk about bad timing. “Care to explain this?” He demanded.

“Um…” I looked at the bill. Had I really eaten at the club
nine
times?

“We don’t begrudge you the occasional meal, Maeve,” my father chastened. “But massages? A new tennis racket?” I’d forgotten about the tennis racket.

“I…”

Dad’s outrage deflated at the sight of my hunched frame. He sat down heavily. “Your mother and I understand that you’ve
had a hard time. We’ve been allowing you time to figure things out. But now you must take responsibility for your life. You’re a bright girl, you’ve got your degree. You need to start thinking about your future.”

I stared at them aghast. My future loomed impossibly large and intimidating. I had no idea how I’d fill the chasm. I’d
just
graduated two months ago. It seemed unfair to expect too much too soon.

“You have to curb your tendency to spend beyond your means,” my father lectured in a gentle voice. “You can’t buy something every time you’re upset. It doesn’t fix anything, and you’ll be in financial trouble your whole life.” He paused, as if afraid of his own words, then plunged. “I’m going to require you to repay us for the massages and the tennis racket.”

“What?!” I couldn’t believe they were doing this to me. My sister Vi had gotten a car for graduation and I was getting this? I ignored the fact that they’d bought me my car during my junior year against my father’s better judgment after I’d begged and begged for the decrepit vehicle.

My father steeled himself to maintain his resolve. “You can take as long as you like to pay us back. But you need to learn responsibility. The way you live now is”—he waved his hands in the air—“flitterdegibbety,” he pronounced. “And requires us to step in and help out more often than we should.”

“Flitterdegibberty?” My voice rose an octave. It was an unfair categorization. It’s not like my parents were perpetually rescuing me. I had a
job
. Well, I did yesterday.

“Flighty,” my mother affirmed. “But we know it’s temporary, Maeve. You’ll find your way back to center…”

“I am
not
flighty.” I adopted a haughty tone. “I graduated with a three point five average. I take excellent care of Oliver.” I wanted to say more, but the fact that I never missed an episode of
Bones
or Clinique’s Free Bonus Time at Hecht’s didn’t seem
quite right. I was uncomfortable with the brevity of my rebuttal. I wasn’t flaky.

“I’ll help you work out a payment plan.” My father seemed happy to sidestep the debate. “We’ll look at your shifts at Gin Mill and your expenses and create a budget.”

“Then you can decide how long you want to keep bartending, and if you want to try something else.” My mother sounded hopeful.

My stomach turned. “Um.” I hesitated. I looked at my parents’ concerned faces and felt about an inch tall. Which ranked me two inches shorter than my stack of unpaid bills. “Isortoflostmyjob…” I mumbled.

“What was that?” Mom’s confusion divot mirrored dad’s anger dent. My forehead was doomed.

“I’m not working at Gin Mill anymore.” I said more loudly. I didn’t know which was worse—the expression on my dad’s face or my mother’s disappointed “Oh Maeve.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” I protested my refrain. “Elsie’s gas gauge wasn’t working and I ran out of gas, so I was really late to work.”

“Joe fired you for being late?” My father looked confused.

“It wasn’t just the once,” I confessed to my plate.

My mother rubbed her face tiredly. We sat there for a moment, mutely staring at cooling curry chicken. Then my parents met eyes, and my father voiced a decision I suspected they’d prearranged in anticipation of the next come-to-Jesus.

“Maeve, you cannot be dependent on your mother and me any longer. We’ve been happy to help you get on your feet, but now you’re on your own. It’s for the best.”

A wave of anger doused my panic, and drove me to my feet. “How is it whenever someone tells me they are doing what’s best it ends up hurting me?” I was
not
some basket case. I had a wicked bad-luck curse. My day was textbook proof—actions
that are perfectly normal for other people are catastrophic for me. How many people get fired and cut off by their families because they bought a pair of shoes?
On sale?
Something was out of kilter in the universe, but it wasn’t me. I had a vision of palm trees.

“I am
not
a flake,” I squeezed out, my throat tight as I grabbed my purse. “And I’ll prove it.” I ran-walked to the door, imagining their envious faces as they watched me giving red-carpet interviews on my way into the Oscars. I wasn’t sure what I was going to win, but it was something good.

“Honey…” My mother tried to follow, but her crossed legs got tangled in her skirt.

I made it to Elsie and leaped in, praying for once that she would start right up. My father rapped at the window.

“Maeve, come back in for dinner,” he said, when I rolled it down.

“I don’t have an appetite.” I was telling the truth. “My stomach hurts.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “Take a week to think about our conversation. Then come to dinner and bring your bills and we can talk about what you want to do next.” He pressed $20 into my hand and then patted my head the way you pet a dog, stroking from the crown forward, making my bangs a static mess. It was his signature form of affection. “It’ll all work out, bug.”

I nodded. “Tell Mom,” I tried, but my throat wasn’t working properly.

“I will.”

He withdrew his hand and I drove away with the window still down, hoping the cold March air would blow my head clear. I inhaled deeply, a strong believer in the curative powers of fresh air. I dug in my purse for a bottle of charcoal tablets and popped two. The evasion I’d offered my parents was true—my
stomach was roiling. I hoped I wasn’t getting a virus. I cursed myself for forgetting to take Emergen-C that morning. I fumbled in the glove compartment for my car supply of echinacea and popped one of those too.

I’d already gone for a run but I needed more, like a hit. I steered Elsie toward the track. I parked and shocked some old people walking for their health by wiggling out of my jeans in the car to slip on sweatpants. I wasn’t generally committed to the underwear movement, so Grandpa might have glimpsed something he hadn’t seen in years. I stretched for only a nanosecond before I was sprinting. My feet pounded rhythmically along the track in a steady alternation, wind rushing by my ears, blocking all other sound. I had my iPod, but I preferred the womb-like combination of my thudding heart, pounding feet, and the blowing wind. I lost myself in the physical exertion of repetitive motion. Of my body obeying me. Of the rare moment when I was in total control.

I wanted to crush my parents’ pity and the look on Joe’s face beneath my pounding feet. I was
not
someone to be pitied. My heart beat true and strong. My pace ate the track. Look at me, see how I
run
. I can push myself. I have discipline. My resolve solidified. I
would
prove them wrong, but it wouldn’t be out of spite. It would be because I could. I would elude my rotten luck if I had to run all the way across the country to do it. In fact, that sounded like just the trick. I was ready for Hollywood. After all, I’d flashed my privates at strangers today. I jogged lap after lap seeing myself walking in sunshine, confident, competent, happy, and successful. Most of all I imagined a different look in my parents’ eyes. It was pride.

“Are you sure about this?” My older sister Vi asked me for the hundredth time. I loved her, but sometimes she was too perfect a model for my unrehearsed follow-up act.

“Never more.” I used my shoulder to hold the phone in place while I reached for a carrot. Something about talking into the phone always made me hungry. Maybe it was having something hover so tantalizingly close to my mouth. With my other hand I refreshed my computer. Still no reply from Laura. I squelched a twinge of anxiety as I bit into the carrot. When she was running around the lot, she didn’t have email access. Anyway, how hard could it be to find her? I’d drive until the ocean stopped me.

“It’s an awfully big move without a
plan
,” she pressed. My sister was not a risk taker.

“I have a
plan
, Stan.” I mimicked her tone. I was in high spirits.

Vi snorted. “What, drive west until the ocean stops you?”

She had an uncanny ability to read my brain. But nothing could dampen my conviction that moving to California was the solution to my problems.

“Laura invited me. Remember Laura Mills?”

“Laura Mills from when you were ten?”

“We reconnected.”

Vi let it go. I was grateful. Laura was the unknown variable in the plan. I didn’t actually expect to be frolicking with Johnny Depp upon arrival, but I was counting on being able to crash with my old friend while I got sorted. Me, the car, the map, I had that under control. Still, there was no reason to think Laura’s invitation wasn’t sincere.

“A marathon, huh?”

“Yep. The Los Angeles Marathon.” The first step toward a new me was a personal goal. I would train over the summer, and the fall marathon would literally be the starting gun for my new life.

“A marathon is twenty-six point two miles because that’s when the first to run it dropped dead.”

“Are you saying I can’t?” I bristled.

“Of course not. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

I wouldn’t go that far, but I agreed. “Yes, I can.”

“It just seems so…far. From all of us. If anything happened…” Her voice was hesitant.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I said firmly. Did she sound wistful? It occurred to me she might not want me to go for selfish reasons. But it was hard to imagine my sister missing a screwball like me. Her life was pretty perfect. Perfect job, perfect boyfriend, perfect house.

“I’ll miss you.” She peeled open my mind yet again.

“I’ll miss you too, babaloo.” I meant it. “But I need to make a change. I need people to take me seriously. Hell, I need to
be
serious. Here, I don’t know, I feel trapped in, well, in
before
. I want to prove that I am a completely responsible and capable person.”

She laughed. “You might be the first. An archeological entry in the year 3090 will celebrate the discovery of the first completely responsible and capable human being, Homeo Fictitious Mavis, adorned in the ritual costume of flip-flops, knockoff Dior sunglasses, and clutching a map of the stars’ homes.”

“I’m being serious,” I protested. I knew she’d still worry. She always did. “It’ll be good for me.” I assured her. “I’ve got to go, Vi.”

She sighed. “I know. But let me help. I’m sending you a check.”

I wanted to say no, but I was stone-cold broke. “Not much,” I capitulated, after embarrassingly little inner struggle.

“Trust me.” She laughed. “I’m buying peace of mind that you won’t end up stranded in the middle of the desert with no gas or cell service in a town named Skeleton Junction with a popu
lation of four people and one tooth. Promise you’ll call before you leave?” It made my departure sound so definite I caught my breath, reality frighteningly present. I almost recanted it all as a big joke. Instead, I assured Vi I’d call her and hung up.

I explored my instinct to retract from the trip. True, I was wafting toward departure with only a vague idea that I’d load up the car with lots of water and hit the road. That didn’t really accord with the new responsible me I was shopping to everyone. An inner whisper asked whether I was doing this because I wanted to or because I wanted to prove people wrong.

No, I decided. I
did
want to make a real change. It wasn’t just the inspirational Post-it notes I’d taped all over the apartment in a fervor. I focused on my favorite from master Yoda:

I’d been living down to everyone’s (low) expectations of me. In their eyes I was Maeve the Clown. Vi was the go-getter. My brother, Brick, was the smarty. And me? I told good jokes. I made people laugh. I wasn’t expected to accomplish a lot, but folks sure liked me. It’s a truism that we respond to people’s perceptions. I’d lazily adopted the Maeve-is-a-slacker notion as my own. But not anymore. If I went far enough away, I could be anyone. I had a vision of myself in a lab coat and intelligent glasses, holding up a test tube and saying, “Yes when the black ants came back to life I knew I’d found the cure for cancer.”

“Okay…maybe that’s over the top,” I conceded to Oliver. “But I
am
capable of doing something amazing, even if it’s not the cure for cancer. I use words like ‘truism’ in a sentence when I’m only talking to myself.”

“Let’s get drunk!” Oliver said.

“You’re going back in your cage,” I threatened. “This is serious time.”

“Are you thinner?” Oliver nipped my ear.

“You’re forgiven.” I laughed. He resumed tugging strands of blonde hair from my braids.

I assembled my morning vitamin regimen as I pondered, absently lining up vitamins A through D, a woman’s multi, ginkgo bilboa, manganese, flax oil, selenium, dong quai (not that my libido was being called into action these days) and the other dailies. I made a note to pick up ginseng and coenzyme Q10 to counteract the increased stress of travel. If I was going to do this, I resolved to do it right. I needed a battle plan, supplies. I had to prepare for dinner with my father and figure out my financial mess. I frowned into the empty bottle when nothing shook out of my zinc container. How had I let that happen? Zinc is an essential part of a daily supplement regimen. I decided to start with a shopping list.

My eye fell on a Post-it that read

The first thing I needed was a Super Map…

I spend hours studying maps. For a person who’s traveled only within a two-state radius, they fascinate me. Riding back from the beach one weekend with Jules, studying a map, I’d noticed a nearby town called Half Hell, North Carolina. I’d insisted she detour. Half Hell hadn’t been more than a trailer park off Middle Swamp Road, but the friendliest chatterbox alive had sold me an icy-cold Coke in an old-fashioned bottle, and my passion had been born. I’d organized day trips all over
the state to visit Climax, Toast, Erect, Welcome, and Whynot, occasionally crossing the border to visit Ninety Six or Sugar Tit, South Carolina. I loved capturing the curves of the road and the quirks of the towns on film. I’d drag along whatever unlucky friend I could find on these “shutterbug Saturday” back-road adventures. I’d lost most of my co-conspirators after a trip to Smackass Gap because I’d accidentally forgotten to mention it was practically in Tennessee. My friends were less than impressed with the four miles of houses along Route 64 after eight hours of mountain roads. Even Elsie radiated attitude in the pictures. For me, it was like that trail when I was nine. I couldn’t rest until I’d reached my destination. Even if I had to swear affidavits in blood that a town was within three hours and had at least one charming feature, with supporting maps and internet research to prove it, before anyone would go with me.

I liked to snap an Elsie centerfold at each destination, and developed quite a collection of my car in front of one-of-a-kind town signs. Friends contributed postcards from Satan’s Kingdom, Vermont; Boring, Oregon; and Gas, Kansas. I meticulously categorized my scrapbook. First, you have just plain peculiar names, like Peculiar, Missouri, or Goofy Ridge, Illinois. Second, you have “I was here” places, such as Hell, Michigan, or It, Mississippi. Third are the great imitators: Milan, Ohio, or Moscow, Idaho. Fourth, you have superlatives, such as Best, Texas, or Top of the World, Arizona. Best, Texas, is not to be confused with Veribest, Texas. The number of Wild West murders, knifings, shootings, and brawls in Best fostered the slogan “the town with the Best name in the world and the Worst reputation.” Last census: Population, 2. Veribest, by contrast, reported a community of 40 inhabitants, two working churches, and seven businesses. I fully intended to stop by both on my drive across, and crossed my fingers that the two
dedicated souls in Best had hung in there. I wanted to photograph America from the inside out.

Elsie couldn’t handle the high speeds of the Interstate, so I happily planned a back-roads course wending from one alluring destination to the next. Back roads would extend my trip, but I was in no hurry. The marathon wasn’t for months. Only, the longer the trip, the more money I’d need. That
was
a problem, since I didn’t have any.

Affordable camping would figure heavily in my trip, and I’d chosen the Southwestern route because Southern states not only had some crazy town names, but the warm, dry weather would be best for camping. Food would be a bigger problem. I pondered. I’d lived for a week on a carton of eggs once. Eggs were cheap. Hardboiled eggs kept well and traveled easily. I could get pretty far on a couple of dozen boiled eggs. Eggs are high in iodine, choline, and vitamin B2, I reasoned, and a good source of protein. This was a good plan. I’d throw in trail mix and cheese sticks for variety. And oranges. I lived in constant fear of scurvy, so oranges were essential. I’d reserve my cash for necessities, like Diet Coke and water. You want to take lots of water when you drive through the desert. I hadn’t driven cross-country before, but it seemed to me that as long as I had a map, water, boiled eggs, and sunscreen, I’d be fine.

“People have survived weeks in the Australian Outback with less,” I informed Oliver. “Naturally I wouldn’t want to drink my own…you know…but that’s why I’d have the water.”

That left the last hurdle. Cold, hard cash. I sat back, rubbing my neck. Oliver didn’t object, as he’d abandoned my shoulder and was practically beak to nose with Simon Cowell on TV, entranced by an
American Idol
rerun. “You’ll go blind if you sit that close to the TV,” I warned. He ignored me, just as I’d ignored my parents. Kids never listen.

The phone rang. I grabbed another carrot stick and answered. It was Jules.

“Can I borrow your ladder?” She asked without preamble.

A year ago in a fit of DIY that petered out almost before I got home from Lowes, I’d blown $300 on a ladder. It now served as the world’s most expensive drying rack for my delicates. Well, second most expensive. Maybe third. My road bike and treadmill were also costly clotheslines. The only time the poor, emasculated ladder was used for its intended purpose was when I loaned it to friends. Jules regularly borrowed it to change the seasonal fairy lights in her apartment. As it was April, I suspected illuminated mini-bunnies were going up.

“Sure. Easter lights?”

“Yep.”

“For a hundred dollars you can keep it,” I joked. “I have enough spokes on my bike to dry all my naughty bits.”

“For real?” She demanded. “’Cause if you mean it, you’re on.”

“Really?” I was surprised. A hundred bucks was a lot for something as boring as a ladder. But then, Jules took her seasonal decorations very seriously.

“Hell yeah. Save myself the hassle of driving to your place and back every month. And that’s over half off.” Some things Jules and I had in common.

My eye fell on my new, trouble-making tennis racket, tag still on, sitting next to a bowling ball that I’d never gotten holes drilled into. “Do you play tennis?” I asked Jules.

“No. Why?”

“Never mind.” An idea was forming. “You know my turquoise BCBG pumps you love?” Jules and I wore the same size shoe.

“Of course.”

“I’ll sell them to you for another hundred dollars.” I held
my breath. It seemed like an outrageous sum to ask of a friend. But, the shoes had cost me $160 and I’d worn them in only two battles before the pain in my toes won the war. Jules wore them much more often—she has a commendable tolerance for pain when it comes to shoes. She’d survive the siege of Stalingrad in spikes as long as she looked good. I folded like a Jane Grey monarchy at the first sign of a blister. Had I been Robert E. Lee in uncomfortable heels, the Civil War would have ended in thirty minutes if the North had offered me a pair of flip-flops to concede.

“Seriously? Hell yes! I love those shoes.” Jules jumped at my offer. I couldn’t believe it. I’d made $200 just like that. My brain raced.

“Jules, if you help me organize a yard sale, I’ll give you an employee discount on all my shoes.” I barely listened for her response as my eyes flicked from item to item around the room: treadmill, bowling ball, tennis racket, chess set, television, sofa, yoga ball, juicer, waffle maker. I was going to California for a fresh start. I’d sell it all.

“Sure. I’d help anyway.” She was quiet a moment. “So I guess you’re really leaving.”

“Mm-hmm.” I was cataloguing the room, eager to get off the phone and start organizing.

“I’ll miss you.” Jules recaptured my attention.

I thought of Jules’s bright eyes and easy laugh. Her willingness to try anything, even Smackass Gap. I wanted to say something in return but it was hard for me. I opened my mouth to tell her I’d miss her too. Jules was more than a former co-worker. She was a friend. Instead I said, “When I leave, I’m giving you my yellow suede Fiorinas, as a memento, pimento.”