One Week (7 page)

“Except I completely suck at getting away from it!” I moan. “If I weren’t following you around, I’d probably have gotten on some random bus or train and I’d end up in Hicksville, Florida, or something. And then I’d just end up in some blog about the worst places fake celebrities go on vacation.” Ugh, when you lay it out there like that, it’s pretty pathetic. I mean, how hard can it be to get from one place to another when you have a ticket that lets you go wherever you want? And somehow I can’t even manage to get out of California!

The train starts moving, and I look out the window to watch. Three hours to Sacramento; next stop, Chicago. I take a deep breath, and tell myself to give it a rest. I made it this far—through no great merit of my own, I know, but still—and I’m going to prove to my dad, and to myself, that I’m not just a doll to be paraded around, useful for nothing but posing for photographs.

“Well, you weren’t exactly operating under the best of circumstances. I promise, I’ll get you to New York,” Jess says. “It’s pretty easy from this point. No more buses. And after that,” he shrugs. “You’ll figure it out.”

*  *  *

By the time the train pulls into Sacramento, I’m about ready to lose my mind. I did the math, and the amount of time I have spent over the last two days staring straight ahead, waiting for the minutes to pass, is the amount of time it would have taken me to watch the
extended versions of Lord of the Rings
and
all their special features. Not that I’d know that firsthand, mind you.

And the train from Sacramento to Chicago makes the travel time I’ve clocked so far seem like a blink. A really fast blink. A flinch. Do you know how long it takes to get from Sacramento to Chicago?
Forty-nine hours and forty-one minutes.
That’s over two days spent sitting on a train. I’m claustrophobic just thinking about it.

Jess has done it before, and he says it’s not that big a deal. That there are dining cars and the seats recline (because of course we’re going coach, because I’m an idiot and don’t have enough cash to upgrade) and the views of the Rocky Mountains are impressive. I told him where to stick the Rocky Mountains. Just because he’s in no hurry to get home to get yelled at doesn’t mean I have nothing I’d rather be doing than sitting in a chair, reclined or not, fo
r two freaking days.

We step off the train, and I’ve never been so glad to breathe fresh air in my life.

“How long until the train for Chicago leaves?”

Jess sighs and steers me over to the board where the departure times are posted. “That’s us,” he explains. “The California Zephyr. It leaves at the same time every day—11:49 a.m.. What time is it now?”

I look around until I see a clock on the wall behind us. “It’s…oh God…it’s a quarter after three.”

“So we’ve missed it. Yep.”

“What do you mean, yep?” I exclaim.  “I’ve ceded control of this entire thing to you because I figured you had a plan, that you knew what time trains left and that we would be there in time!”

“I do know what time trains leave,” Jess says, very patiently. “And so I knew when we missed the bus that there was no way we would be here in time. There’s a schedule to these things, right? Didn’t you figure we’d miss the train?”

I swear to God, I want to kill him. “Obviously
not!” My voice rises in panic, and people turn to stare at the squeaking girl. I shut up quickly, and hiss, “What are we going to do?” 

Jess crosses his arms on his chest and gives me a calm look. “We’re going to use some of that wad of cash you’re carrying around and find another motel. Unless you want to sleep on a bench?” he inquires, gesturing over to what seems to be the section of the station reserved exclusively for sleeping homeless people.

“Fine,” I say through
gritted teeth. “But you’re paying for your own damn room tonight. You snore.”

“Only when I’m wasted,” Jess says cheerfully, hoisting his duffel across his shoulders like it’s a wounded soldier. “I have heard these complaints before.”

All the motels within walking distance are pretty disgusting, but Jess insists we stay at what must be the worst of the lot. I pay for both rooms, since I owe him money anyway. He claims he needs to hoard the rest of what I owe him if he’s going to travel with me, since I seem to “burn up both money and time like wildfire,” and that The Golden Cicada Motor Lodge had something called character that I would obviously know nothing about but should learn to appreciate.

If bedding that smells like pee equals character, I don’t think I’m going to be appreciating it anytime soon.

Although, humiliatingly, I have to admit—I kind of smell like pee, too. I’ve been wearing this same pair of underwear for the past three days, and even though I showered yesterday, my shirt is rank and I don’t have
any deodorant. I turn on the shower—which has a moldy
shower curtain, gross—and step under the water fully dressed. I use the entire bottle of Desert Rose shampoo/conditioner on me and my clothes and I still feel unclean. I hang my jeans and shirt up over the curtain rod to dry and sit naked in the middle of the bed eating my vending machine dinner and clicking through cable, most of which is in Spanish. I wonder what Jess is doing with his evening. Even though, obviously, I’m in no fit state to socialize.

*  *  *

I’m just starting to nod off when the yelling starts. As far as I can tell, it’s coming from the room three doors down, and despite the volume, I can’t really discern what it’s about since all I can really hear is, “Fuck you, you fucking bitch” over and over again. I pull the pillow over my head, but it doesn’t help. And then the woman screams.

I sit bolt upright. Should I call the cops? I scramble to the edge of the bed to grab my phone, when a door slams in the hallway and I hear the fight continuing outside. And it’s clear that the woman is fine, and is in fact holding her own. The man is now whimpering, and I suppose that while I should technically still call the cops, I can’t seem to muster up much sympathy for him.

I draw my knees up to my chest, shivering a little, though it isn’t cold in the room. I glance at the clock on the nightstand, and it’s after midnight. I know I should try to find the funny here—character, wasn’t that the word Jess used? I’m sure he thinks this is all kinds of hilarious.

I decide to go across the hall. Jess can tell me that this is perfectly normal, and that I’m just a sheltered little rich girl, and we’ll all feel much better. I reach over the curtain rod to grab my clothes, but they’re still dripping. I try wrapping the towel around myself, but it barely covers my belly button. Not exactly the attire I want to walk around in under these circumstances. Or under any circumstances, really.

In the end, I use two towels—one for my top half, and one for my bottom half. It’s a little weird-looking, but it works. I open the door a crack and peer down the hall. It’s empty. I guess the fighting couple went back into their room. I can hear muffled voices coming from Room 105, but the yelling seems to have stopped. For a moment I consider just going back to bed, but then I hear something crash and the sound of glass breaking, and I scurry out into the hall, lock the door behind me, and try to
knock,
not pound, on Jess’s door.

Just after my fist hits the door, it occurs to me that Jess might be sleeping through all of this, and I’m about to seriously piss him off. But the door opens after only a few moments, and Jess looks irritated, but wide awake.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he asks.

I open my mouth to explain, when the noise from Room 105 increases as their door opens and the fight moves back out into the hall. Jess quickly yanks me inside and locks the door behind us.  

“Thanks,” I say breathlessly. His room is the mirror image of mine. It even has the same faded sailboat painting above the rumpled bed.

 “Uh uh. Just—why?” he says, gesturing at the towels.

I flush, embarrassed. “My clothes are all wet. I washed them out and they’re still dripping.” I cross my arms over my chest, realize instantly that just makes it worse, and end up just kind of flailing my arms around like a freak. This was such a stupid idea.

But Jess just nods like this is a perfectly normal thing to have done, and bends over into his duffel. He tosses me a faded Kanye West T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants,
and I smile gratefully as I head into the bathroom to change.

When I come out, Jess has made the bed and is setting out the same assortment of vending machine tapas I ate earlier. “Hungry?” he asks.

And while a second ago I couldn’t have imagined wanting to eat another Dorito ever again, my stomach rumbles and before I even realize it I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed with my hand in the bag.

“I like to eat a Cool Ranch Dorito with a bite of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup,” Jess says, and takes a bite of this example of culinary genius. “Want to try?” he asks with his mouth full.

I shake my head and try not to gag. “No thanks. Were you by any chance hanging out with the friends that got you kicked out of school when you came up with that one?”

Jess shrugs. “Maybe. Tastes good even without the pot though.” He waves a tortilla chip and peanut butter cup in front of my face. “Sure you don’t want to try it?”

I think for a moment about all the crazy things I’ve done today, and how this is really the least insane of the lot, and figure I might as well go for it.

I get up to spit it out into the garbage can. “That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Jess grins. “Fine. More for me,” and he crams another bite into his mouth. I climb back on the bed and help myself to a plain old Dorito. We munch in silence for a moment, listening to the fight continue out in the hall.

“I think they do this when they’re bored,” Jess says, nodding his head at the door.

I laugh in spite of myself. “What, you mean they had nothing else to do tonight?”

“Yeah,” Jess chuckles. “This is how they keep the magic alive.”

I shudder. “Oh, I
really
don’t want to think about that.”

“Too
late,” Jess grins. “So, um…” he pauses, taking another bite of peanut butter cup and chip. “Is your mom out in New York or something? Is that why you’re headed that way?”

My smile fades and I shake my head. “No, she’s not there. Or I don’t think she is. I just want to go someplace far away. Someplace different.”

Jess examines a chip closely, and then says, in an offhand way, “I guess I would have thought you would go where she is. This kind of seems like the perfect opportunity to find her…” he trails off, and looks at me expectantly.

I press my lips together firmly and shake my head. “Nope,” I say, and hope he’ll leave it at that.

But of course he doesn’t. “Hey, look, I know you’re hurt about the stuff with your dad and the birthday cards and all, but you don’t know what might have been going on with her, and maybe if you found her, it would turn out that it was all a misunderstanding or something, and everything would be great.”

“I don’t want to,” I snap. “Okay? What business is it of yours, anyway? And what world do you live in where magically everything is fine?”

Jess looks away, but before he does, I see that I’ve hurt him somehow, and I take a deep breath. “Sorry,” I say. “I know you were just trying to help.”

Jess doesn’t answer right away. And when he does, his voice is quiet. “My dad died about five years ago. And before he died…I was fifteen, you know? We fought a lot. The night before, we’d had this huge fight about how I wasn’t helping out enough at home, that he was counting on me to be the man of the house, and take care
of my brother and sister while my mom was at work. I didn’t
want
to be the man of the house. I wanted to be able to go out like all my friends. He lost his temper, and said I was a selfish little prick. I called him a fat fuck and
stormed out of the house. He left for work before I got up the next morning… so that was the last thing we ever said.”

“How did he die?” I ask softly.

“He was in a car accident—he was a UPS driver, and he got hit crossing the street.”

I want to reach across the bed and take Jess’s hand, like he held mine in the car, but I don’t know how. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and it sounds completely inadequate.

Jess looks away, and after a moment he clears his throat. “Yeah. It’s just—there isn’t anything I wouldn’t give to be able to talk to him again. Even just to fight with him again.” He looks at me seriously. “You have that chance, Bee.”

I sigh, and spread my hands helplessly. “It’s
different when they leave you,” I say, trying to explain. “And I used to believe what you’re saying—I used to think there was some reason she left that would explain everything, that would make it okay. And I
did
look for her.”

Jess looks surprised. “You did? When?”

“It was right around when I found out she didn’t send the cards. I figured there had to be something that was keeping her from me, like maybe she was on the other side of the world, doing—oh, I don’t know. I had all these fantasies about how she’d gone to save trees in South America or dolphins in Japan or something. Which still wouldn’t make it okay, but it was something.”

I stop, and fiddle with the candy wrappers on the bed. I don’t know why, after all this time, it’s still so hard for me to accept this. Jess waits quietly, and doesn’t push me to talk before I’m ready. “Well,” I say, and force a laugh. “She wasn’t saving dolphins, and she wasn’t in Japan. She’s still in California, selling cheap T-shirts at the beaches around San Diego. She’s a drunk. She’s….she’s been arrested for drunk-driving. She nearly killed a kid a couple of years ago.”

Jess lets out his breath in a rush. “Yeah. That’s not saving dolphins.”