“But the parts are going to take two weeks to get here,” he said, “and they’re going to cost an arm, a leg, and a kidney.”
The balloon of my happiness instantly popped. “You’re supposed to tell me that first,” I said. “To not get my hopes up.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I try to focus on the positive.”
We walked into the service station waiting area and I sat down on one of the vinyl chairs. Despite all the coffee, I felt exhausted.
Josh took a seat across from me. “I’m guessing you don’t want to wait. And that maybe you don’t need to spend a few thousand dollars on a car that”—he looked out the window at her—“that probably has two tires in the junkyard already.”
“Be gentle,” I cried. “That’s my life companion you’re talking about.”
“I’m not telling you to junk her. I’m just saying…”
“That I need a new car?”
Josh leaned forward and clasped his hands together, his expression earnest. “I get the sense you’re trying to go somewhere kind of far away. And I just don’t think she’ll be the lady to take you.”
I paused to let this sad news sink in. “So you’ve got a sweet ride you want to sell me?” I asked eventually—and skeptically.
He smiled. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. But I do have something that’ll get you where you’re going. Do you want to take a look?”
I didn’t, actually, but I was desperate, so I followed him around back of the garage. I just couldn’t wait two weeks for a repair.
Maybe this was a lesson for me: There’s always more to lose.
There were half a dozen cars parked in a small lot behind the shop, and most of them looked like they wouldn’t even turn on, let alone drive eight hundred miles.
“Really?” I said to Josh.
“Over here,” he said. Then he pointed to a small black van with a purple stripe along the side, and a bumper sticker that read MY OTHER CAR IS THE MILLENNIUM FALCON.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
“Only sixty-five thousand miles,” he said.
“And it’s cheap because it’s incredibly ugly?” I asked hopefully.
He laughed. “I think it’s a bargain. It’ll run for another ten years at least.”
I hope I don’t need it that long, I thought. “You think you’re going to cruise around in a Mercedes—and you end up in a minivan,” I said softly.
“Everything changes. Nothing remains without change,” Josh said, equally quietly.
“And now you’re going to quote Buddha,” I said, shaking my head. But at the same time, it made me feel better. “Promise to take good care of Beatrice,” I said. “Don’t put her back here with these losers.”
“I won’t,” he said.
“I’ll come back for her,” I said. I hope.
As I signed the paperwork to buy the van, a hollow ache in my guts, I asked, “Do you have a good story?”
Josh looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—is there some funny thing you like to tell people? Or something not funny. Whatever. Just a really good story.”
He gazed up at the ceiling fan, turning slowly in the August heat. Then he smiled at me, almost mischievously. “Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a great mechanic. He was a happy guy. He had a nice house, a good truck, and a better dog. And then one day, a beautiful, dark-haired stranger came into his repair shop.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “Are you—”
He held up a hand. “Wait for it! Her car was a disaster—not even he, engine expert that he was, could fix it that day. But she didn’t really mind, because he was so handsome and charming. And when he asked her out on a date, she said yes.”
“And then?” I said. By now my cheeks were on fire.
“And then they had the best date of their lives,” he said.
“Wow,” I managed.
“And so then they had another amazing date. And not long after that date, he proposed. And she said yes again.” His smile was electric now.
And me? I didn’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed.
He leaned forward. “Do you want to see her picture?”
Finally, the truth dawned on me. “Oh my God,” I said.
“What?”
“It really happened! I thought you were making it up,” I admitted, laughing. “I thought it was about us.”
He laughed, too. “You’re beautiful, it’s true,” he said. “But I’m married. I just don’t wear the ring because I don’t like it getting greasy.”
Still laughing, I asked him to pose for a picture next to Beatrice. He said yes.
That way I could remember them both.
Chapter 10
BY THE time I pulled into the Starlight Motor Inn in Richmond, Indiana, I was farther west than I’d ever been before. (How a person could get to age thirty-six without crossing the Mississippi—I didn’t know, but I’d soon be able to cross that off my list.)
My room was tiny, but nicer than the motel’s flickering neon sign had led me to expect, with pale gray walls, a cute mini-kitchen, and a vase of fresh daisies on the dresser. I took a long hot shower, washing off the grit of the road, and lay down to close my eyes for a minute. The next thing I knew, I was being torn from the warm arms of sleep by the sound of my neighbors having loud, yowling sex.
Or else maybe the Starlight kept a roomful of feral cats next door—I couldn’t be sure. I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock.
Disoriented and starving, I gathered loose change from various pockets and headed to the vending machines outside the motel office, where I bought myself Cheetos, Snickers, and a Diet Coke. I’d never been much of a cook, but this was taking not cooking to a whole new level.
Welcome to life on the road, I thought giddily, and bit into the Snickers. If only the vending machine sold earplugs, too.
The small motel pool glowed turquoise in the darkness, and so instead of going back to my room, I opened the creaky gate, slipped off my shoes, and dunked my bare feet into the cool water.
I washed down the Snickers with the soda and congratulated myself on getting this far on my solo journey. Obviously my circumstances weren’t glamorous—but I was having an adventure. And wasn’t that worth something?
As I sat there, reflecting, the rush of cars passing by on the highway began to remind me of the sound of the ocean. Soon I was overcome with longing for my island, my beach, my house—for all the things I didn’t have anymore.
I wondered what Josh the philosopher-mechanic would say to make me feel better: At least your van runs well, maybe, and something about how I ought to make something good out of something bad.
Easy for him to say.
But in a way, I was making something good—or at least I was trying to. I’d already gathered a handful of stories and photographs, and I was on my way to gather more. Maybe, just maybe, something would come of them.
The gate creaked open then, and a woman came inside the pool area. She was wrapped in a blanket and bleary-eyed, her hair mussed. She sat down on one of the deck lounge chairs and heaved a big sigh.
I ignored her, in case she was one of the people I’d just heard going at it. TMI, you know?
But eventually she spoke. In a smoker’s voice, she asked, “Are you married?”
“No,” I said, leaving it at that.
“Good. Let me give you a piece of advice. Do not, under any circumstances, marry a man who snores.”
I laughed in surprise. “I have a history of not taking good advice. But that sounds reasonable.”
“It’s more than reasonable,” she said. “It’s crucial.”
“Like a deal breaker?” I said.
She looked at me as if I were crazy. “Of course! Do you think I want to be out here in the middle of the night on a lounge chair by some crappy pool, talking to some sad-looking lady?”
“I guess not,” I said. Thinking: Do I really look sad?
“I get no peace,” she said.
She was quiet for a while then. And in the darkness, by an anonymous motel and beside a total stranger, I felt more alone than I’d ever felt.
But it wasn’t sad. It just was.
When I looked over at her next, she was asleep.
And a few minutes later, she started to snore.
Welcome to life on the road.
Chapter 11