Parts Unknown

Chapter 18





We drive north on Interstate 5, which cuts a straight, brutal swathe through the Central Valley, bookended by treacherous, winding hills on either end of the drive. Lucy is already restless before we even get over the Tejon Pass that carries us out of Southern California. I toss toys and coloring books in the back seat to amuse her; I have her favorite “Songs from the Farm” CD on endless repeat. But “When are we getting there?” becomes her constant, irritating refrain as she flings each offering contemptuously to the side, never satisfied. Finally she falls asleep, and I gun the engine, straining to 90 miles an hour so we can get there faster, not sure why I’m in such a hurry. Meanwhile, hordes of suicidal gnats hurl themselves at my windshield, splattering it in gore. I remember too late to press the inside-air-circulation button around Coalinga, and the horrible stench of the stockyards fills the car. I try my hardest not to look to my right, at the jam-packed, desperate cattle stretching east as far as the eye can see.

Lucy is still asleep, and I press hard on the accelerator, flying down that road that offers no certainties, in any possible direction. Even in April, the scrub brush is brown and dry. Empty hills rise to the left. Wind whips the car. Then all of a sudden, once I exit I-5 onto the Pacheco Pass route, I’m in the Bay area. As if by magic, the desolate Central Valley plains give way to verdant mountains and fields dotted with bright yellow mustard flowers. Clumps of orange poppies wave—flags, welcoming me home. Maybe I can clutch them like a flimsy shield, to absorb memories, failures, lifelong detours.

I sag in my seat, loose-limbed. It doesn’t matter where we end up; my world is contained fully inside this car. Me, Lucy, that duffel, my art supplies, and the question mark in my belly.

~ ~ ~

Back in that narrow Victorian house, the glow-in-the-dark stars are still stuck to the ceiling in my childhood room. Damp canvases in acrylic and oil rest against the wall, turpentine stinging my nose—the sharp smell of regret, and of success. I’ve finished the Incineration series, at last.

When I go to sleep at night, I wrap myself in memories of long ago. Light sluicing off the children’s heads as they whirl around the fountain. The moment when present collided with future, when I could have chosen differently.

In my dream, I shake his hand.

Get up.

And walk away.





Acknowledgements

I owe many thanks:

To my amazing reviewers: Benjamin Davidson, Nathan Davidson, Grace Lynch, and Laura Pina. Your incisive suggestions made this a much better book. I couldn’t have done it without you. Special thanks also to Benjamin for showing me that map, and to Nathan for his constant support.

To my high-school English teacher, Dr. Daniel Victor, who believed in my writing.

To my talented cover designer, Andrew Brown of Design for Writers.

Most of all, to Karl and Rachel, the lights of my life.