Speed of Life (24 page)

Satisfied I'm just an idiot in a powerful car, she writes me the biggest ticket anyone's ever gotten and tells me to have a nice day.

After the cop leaves, I sit there staring at the paper in my hand but not really seeing it. And then a tear falls onto the citation—​one big splotch. I'm probably not the first person to cry on a ticket. Pretty soon there's another fat drop. And then another. After a minute, the tears are falling so fast I toss the ticket onto the passenger seat before it disintegrates.

I slump forward, sobbing. My body shakes and convulses, shuddering, causing my head to bang against the hard wood of the steering wheel. It's been over a hundred degrees outside all day, probably hotter in my car, and yet I'm shivering. I rock myself back and forth, the shame cascading off me in salty tears, the humiliation pouring out through my sweat glands, self-righteousness dripping under my arms, soaking my tank-top, the smell of failure stinking up the car.

After years of berating Amber for sleeping around, of threatening to abandon her if she ended up pregnant, of dragging her home screaming when she was too drunk to say no but not too far gone to fight me, of covering her up with my flannel shirt after she'd danced a striptease on a table, after all that, I was the one who messed up our lives. And did she abandon me?

No.

Did she let them take Nat away when I said they could?

No.

Did I ever thank her for that?

No.

And if I hadn't had Amber that first month, what would've happened to Natalie then? Or to me? What no one knew is that while I was in bed refusing to acknowledge my daughter, I was also trying to convince myself she was actually Amber's child. I was a traitor even back then, and the whole time, my sister took care of the baby anyway. She fed her and changed her and whisked her out of the room when she cried, so I could sleep.

And then Amber came up with the idea that saved us all. She offered to raise Nat with me. She told me we'd graduate, meet new people, and after a while no one would even remember I was the one who'd given birth. We'd never mention it. Natalie could call us by our first names, as if we were both her aunts or something. For hours, days, weeks, Amber sat by my bed, telling me how we could do this. And slowly, over that summer, we remade our plans. And how did I thank Amber? I applied to McPherson, lied about it, and ran off, leaving them both the first chance I got.

After a while, I realize my tears are drying up, but I feel like I might barf, so I pull myself out of the car and stumble around to the side of the road. I kneel on the still-hot ground, dry-heaving. When did I last eat? A bean burrito at Taco Bell this afternoon? Or was that last night?

The storm is still in the distance when I first collapse in the dust, but after a while I notice the air has gotten cooler and the sky is almost black. I try to stand, but my knees buckle and I have to lean against the fender. There are bits of gravel and glass embedded in my shins, and I gingerly brush them away. Little spurts of blood appear and there are deep, angry imprints in my skin. Nothing less than I deserve.

Back in the car, I sit there as the rain starts to fall, plopping onto my windshield and leaving streaks through the dust and grime and dead bugs splattered across it. The weather is getting really cold now, and my throat is dry and scratchy. The half bottle of water I have left is tepid, but I drink it anyway. I need to find food and somewhere to sleep. After driving along the deserted road for another hour, I see a roadside motel and pull in. I've given up on camping because of the rain. The motel's like the one in that old movie
Psycho.
Perfect. Maybe if I'm lucky someone will jump into the shower and stab me to death. I get a room from a woman in the office who never takes her eyes off the TV, which is good because mine are all puffy and red, making me look like I'm stoned.

There aren't any restaurants around, so I get a couple of candy bars from a dusty vending machine and two more bottles of water. My room's actually nicer than I expect—​clean and with a Southwestern theme. Lots of cactuses everywhere . . . on the sheets, the bedspread, the towels, the wallpaper.

I stretch out on the bed and eat the candy and drink the water. My mind is swirling, a hot mess of emotions and memories. But I can't take any more tonight. I stare at a black-and-white photo of a cactus silhouetted against the setting sun until I can't see the picture anymore . . . it's a blob of blankness and forgetfulness and nothing.

I'm hot and sweaty, and sometime during the night I've gotten under the covers. I kick them off, but they cling to my sticky legs, confusing my dreams. The room is warm and stuffy, and it's like a drug to my body. I can't wake up, and I don't want to anyway, so I roll over, pulling a corner of the sheet over my eyes to block out the light from around the curtains.

I'm having those weird half dreams where I'm up and awake, but then I realize I'm still on the bed and sink back into sleep until it happens again. I think my eyes are open, but they're not, and down I go again.

And again.

And again.

A jolting rap like a car with serious engine knock penetrates my murky sleep. And then there's the sound of a key turning and a door opening. I roll over and manage to pry my burning eyes open. A short, dark woman with streaks of gray in her black hair is peering through the three-inch gap the security chain allows.

“You are okay?” she asks in a sharp voice.

“Yeah, just tired.”

I stumble to my feet and open the door for the stranger, who comes into the room all bustle and efficiency. She tells me she's the owner of the motel and that checkout was at eleven. It's now three-fifteen. The maid didn't show up today and I'm the only guest, so no one realized I was still here until they noticed the Mustang.

“No see car from office,” she explains. “My nephew come with mail and ask ‘Whose car?' ”

“Oh.” I'm still kind of out of it, and my eyelids feel hot and swollen from crying and sleep.

“He love cars.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

While I've been standing there in a daze, she's come in and made the bed. She even picks up the candy wrappers I left on the end table, tossing them in the garbage can, making me feel like a total slob.

“Can I stay another night?”

“Yes.
No problemo,
” she says. “You are hungry?” I'm weak with hunger, and she can see it, so there's no point in denying it. I nod. “Come with me.”

I slip on my shoes and follow her across the parking lot. She leads me into the little lobby where I checked in the night before and through a door marked
PRIVATE
. It's like another world in here. Her apartment is small, tidy, and covered with crocheted afghans. There are dainty little cups in a china cabinet, and everything is spotless. Dust doesn't even float through the shaft of sunlight coming in the kitchen window.

She sits me down at a round wooden table, deftly dropping a placemat, cloth napkin, and silverware in front of me.
“Agua?”
she asks. “Water?”

“Sí,”
I say, smiling. “Please.”

It's cool in here, the air conditioning whirring away in another room, and I relax a little. After a few minutes, she puts a plate in front of me. “My nephew,” she says, “he eat all the
carne
—​meat. Sorry. But here is chile rellenos. Is good too.”

“Oh, that's okay. I don't eat meat anyway.”

She raises her eyebrows at me.
“Vegetariana?”

I nod.

She purses her lips and studies me like she's considering something. “I make vegetable tamales for your dinner.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “You don't have to cook for me again. This is great.”

“No restaurant here,” she says. “You eat with me and Ramon.”

The food smells so delicious, and I can tell there's no point in fighting her, so I give in. “Umm . . . okay. Thanks.” I take a bite of the steaming chile rellenos and cheese slides off my fork. It's so good I almost start crying again. And then the spicy heat hits me like I've swallowed fire, and my eyes start streaming.

“Too hot?”

“No, no.” I gasp, trying not to cough. “It's great.” Because it
is,
but
oh my God.
Every cell in my mouth's screaming in pain. I try to hide my agony by smiling, but she can totally tell, and she rushes to get me a big glass of chocolate milk.

“This help.”

I drink half of it down without stopping, and she laughs. But she's right, the sweetness cuts the heat, and I'm able to breathe again. She tries to take my plate away, but I say no, I want it.

“You are sure?”

“Yeah.” The food is killer, but it's really delicious.

She brings me some salad to help cool down the dish. While I eat, we talk. She tells me she's Mrs. Gomez, a widow, and she owns the place with her nephew. I give her the sanitized version of my story: I'm Crystal, driving myself to college, just another student on the road. She gives me a lecture on driving so far without sleep, and I meekly apologize. It doesn't stop her from sending me back to my room for a nap, though.

I'm not sleepy, but I do stink, so I take a long, hot shower. By the time I get out, the window air conditioner has kicked in and it's icy cold in my room. I watch TV so I don't have to think about anything real. Around seven o'clock, someone knocks on the door. For one crazy moment I think maybe it's Amber, that she's tracked me down, and I leap off the bed and race across the little room.

Of course it's not Amber, but I've already flung open the door and now I'm face-to-face with a guy who's about my height, which makes him pretty damn short, but he's also stocky and barrel-chested with huge muscular arms. God, I'm so stupid sometimes! What was I thinking opening the door? My body tenses, ready for a fight. He's also a lot older than me . . . maybe forty? His black hair and eyes are shiny, reflecting the light from my room. I'm freaking out inside, but then a tiny bit of relief seeps in because he's smiling at me.

“Hey,” he says. “You're Crystal, right? I'm Ramon. The nephew. It's time to eat.”

All the tension dissolves, and I hope he hadn't noticed I was afraid at first. “Oh, right. Okay.”

When we go through the lobby, the lady at the desk—​the one who checked me in the night before—​has her attention glued to the TV again and still doesn't look up. We walk into the private apartment and sit down at the kitchen table. Mrs. Gomez sets a steaming plate of tamales in front of me.

“Good?” she asks after my first bite, which isn't spicy at all.

“Amazing. Thank you so much.”

Ramon asks a lot of questions about my car, and we're already eating our ice cream before he runs out of things to say. It's still light when we go outside and I open the hood, letting him check out the engine. I can tell he wants to go for a ride, but I can't do it. After last night, I'm too scared to get behind the wheel. What if I lose control and try to fly again? I think I might have to stay here, at this motel, for the rest of my life. Or at least until my money runs out.

I ask Ramon if he's got a license and he says he does. I let him drive my car. No one but me has ever driven the Mustang, except for the time Han took us to the hospital, but for some reason, I don't even care. It doesn't seem that important anymore. I sit on the curb, waiting for him to come back.

He's only gone about twenty minutes, and when he gets out of the car, he's grinning like Bonehead does when Amber brings him a bit of steak from work. I let Ramon go on and on about the Mustang's power for a few minutes, and then I interrupt and ask about the motel's Internet. Until a little while ago, I'd forgotten about my computer and email. Maybe Amber's changed her mind and wants to come with me.

“Internet? Sure,” he says. “Free in all the rooms. You got a computer?”

“Yeah.”

He can tell I want to go inside, so he thanks me again and adds, “It was really cool to drive your car.”

“No problem.”

He goes back to his aunt's, and I dig the computer out of the trunk and carry it into my room. It takes me a while to figure out how to get online, but once I do, I'm super excited. There
is
an email from Amber! Han must've let her use his laptop.

When I open it, there isn't any message, just a bunch of attachments. I click on them one at a time. They're all pictures of Natalie. The very last one is of the three of us. Me and Amber are in our graduation caps and gowns and Nat's gotten a hold of my tassel. I guess Mom did get that picture after all.

Amber's laughing, looking up at Nat. Our baby's eyes are wide and full of spark, and I have a look of surprise on my face that's turning into laughter. As I sit there on the bed more than six hundred miles from my baby, my mind fills with more images of Natalie. It's like one of those montage videos on YouTube. First she's tiny and red with a scrunchy face and baby acne. In the next memory, she looks like a totally different kid. She's got milky white skin, so pale you can see the veins underneath. Amber's dressed her in a tiny jumper with strawberries for buttons. My sister holds Natalie out to me, but I refuse her, turning my face away. She must've been a few weeks old by then.

After that, it's a blur of images playing across my mind. Smiles and spit bubbles, screams and whimpers. Poopy diapers and bare-naked legs kicking in the air. And then I remember last winter when we had the flu and I was afraid we'd die and she'd never know how much we . . . I . . . loved her.

I quickly try to replace that memory with something better, and a picture of her in that awful red velvet Christmas dress Han bought her makes me laugh. God, she looked horrible in it! I giggle a little, remembering.

“Look at you,” Han had said. “Aren't you gorgeous?” He held her up over his head, and she smiled down at him, her big blue eyes wide.