CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jill
Saturday
Jill tuned in the AM radio show, Sleepless on the Prairie. A regular, Jack from Waterloo, called to share that he had been awake for fifty-two straight hours and referred to himself as the walking dead. Jill wondered how many hours she’d actually slept in the past six nights. When she tried to add the single-digit figures, one to another, she found she couldn’t run even the most simple of tallies. Her brain felt cottony and even scrunched with the most rudimentary of tasks. She reached to change the station, when her gaze flitted over the little pill cup Jocelyn had taken from the hospital. Valium. Wouldn’t the root of a word like Valium be valor or valiant, as in strong? An old can of Diet Mountain Dew sat in the cup holder next to the pills. Jill lifted it and shook, a swallow at the most. She gulped the first pill with spit and the second with the slags of Jocelyn’s pop.
Dawn from Dubuque reported that she suffered from hypnagogic hallucinations, something Jill had never heard of, but that sounded like a terrifying state of paranoia in the moments before sleep. If she had a phone, she might have called to describe her own current situation, a zombie zone where you become your own worst nightmare. She doubted, though, she’d even get past the screener. Who’d believe her story?
A bell sounded from the Hummer’s control panel and Jill glanced down to read a message, the crux of which was “refuel.” About fifteen minutes later, the car resorted to intermittent belches as it sucked in air with the dregs of the tank. She pulled onto the shoulder as it rolled to a stop with a concluding shudder.
“Well, that’s that,” she said out loud.
Her lids had been heavy with sleep for the past few miles, and had it not been for the racking of the car’s engine, she might have dozed off. Her movements were slow, as if her body were contending with something other than gravity, some counterforce which had her trapped between a state of transcendence and a state of oppression. She turned off the headlights and marveled at the dark surrounding her. The two-lane highway was deserted and void of lights, save the stars above.
Once again, she was aware of a battle within. The car was a cocoon of warm night air and she thought of lying down on the backseat, her silky pajama bottoms sliding over the tan leather bench. Somehow the adrenaline of her flight championed and she pulled the keys from the ignition, thinking Jocelyn might just be onto something in her appreciation of modern pharmaceuticals.
Within a hundred steps of the car, she was aware of the jingling sound the keys made in her hand. What good were they now? The car—not hers, not her responsibility—was useless. Anything behind her was useless. She lifted the keys in her right hand, weighing their heft, and then jettisoned them into the field of corn that lay north of the road. She loved the way they arched through the air, rustled the stalks, and then settled with a muffled thud, with no mile marker, or sign, or distinctive feature to mark the spot. She kept on walking.
The recent rains had brought with them air so heavy Jill’s shoulders sagged. Fee would never speak to her again. That much was clear. She’d screwed up: tolerable when it was your own life, intolerable when you dragged someone else down with you. The secret, the lie upon which she’d so foolishly erected a life, was a blunder of a size and scale defying rational thought.
The backless slippers were impractical walking shoes, designed to shuffle from bedside to bathroom with carpeted stairs or kitchen tile representing the apex of their ability. They hobbled her gait and she was in no mood for delay. She pulled off one and then the other and threw them into what she thought, given the sightless soil of night, was a bean field. The first few barefoot steps were painful and a shock. She was unable, in the dark, to avoid rocks or glass or whatever it was that pierced her stride. She was soon able to strike a compromise. She found that if she concentrated on the very top of her scalp, fixating on the lifting sensation, which felt like an inversion of hair follicles, her feet in turn went numb. Jill was definitely going to ask Jocelyn what else she had in her little medicine cabinet.
She continued this way for several miles until she spied a neon sign for Idabelle’s twenty-four-hour truck stop. A huge black truck, with more wheels than there were inhabitants in the county, was the only vehicle in the lot. It was remarkably clean with bright chrome trim and a loopy purple script on the driver-side door that read MIG’S RIG. She trekked across the blacktop to the restaurant, pausing only briefly at the door to read the “No shoes, No shirt, No service” sign. The door chimes tinkled as she walked in.
A waitress carrying a coffeepot stopped to look her up and down. “Honey, you’re bleeding,” she said, pointing to the ground behind Jill.
Jill turned and was shocked to see a trail of bloody footprints leading from the door to the spot where she stood. She lifted her right foot, and then her left, noticing several cuts on each.
“You need shoes to come in here, plus you’re not dressed,” the waitress said irritably.
Jill pushed through the haze that held her in its mist. She spied a solitary figure at one of the booths along the window. “I’m with Mig.”
She walked with all the determination she could collect and scooted into the booth across from the man she hoped was indeed the Mig of MIG’S RIG. He was clearly startled by her appearance and juggled his coffee mug from one hand to the other before setting it down on the sparkly laminate surface. He was younger than Jill, probably in his late twenties, but hard-looking with small black eyes, long dark hair, a sweat-stained white tank top, and a large eagle tattoo the wings of which spanned his entire back and folded up over his shoulders.
“What the hell do you want?” he said.
“I need a lift,” Jill said. “Which way are you going?”
Mig looked at her for a long time, taking in the silk pajama top and even ducking his head under the booth to her swollen and bloody feet. “Sioux City, and then Casper, but I ain’t no damn Greyhound Bus.”
Jill ran her left hand through the back of her hair. She could feel wet tangles that clumped at the nape of her neck. Even though the Valium had rendered everything cheerier and easier, the gash on her right toe was starting to throb. She looked down to her hands folded across her lap. Her pj bottoms were ripped at the knee. She vaguely remembered falling. She fingered her father’s watch, flipping it one full rotation and then lifting its clasp. The door chime sounded again and another trucker, an old guy with gray hair and muttonchops, took a seat in the booth next to them.
“I don’t have any money, but I could pay you with this.” She slid the watch across to Mig’s side of the booth. “It’s Swiss and vintage. I admit it’s not working at the moment.” She bit her lip. “But it’s valuable, very valuable.”
Mig lifted the watch and turned it over in his hand. There was black grit under his nails and deep in the crescents of his cuticles. He stood and dropped the watch into the front pocket of his jeans. “We leave in five. I’m hitting the head. I suggest you do the same.” He strode off toward the back of the restaurant.
“You want a cup of coffee?” The waitress stood over her with a steaming pot and a clean mug.
“I don’t have anything to pay you with.”
“I’ll stand you one,” the waitress said, her tone softer than before.
“Could I also trouble you for the time?” Jill asked. It was still full dark. “My watch stopped and I lost track.”
The waitress looked down to Jill’s bare arms. A question seemed to be forming, but then she said, “Almost three-thirty.”
Jill’s head felt gaseous, as if tiny blasts of air or vapors were popping randomly. This time tomorrow, she thought, I’ll be in Wyoming, a state she’d never visited. Of course, there were scads of places she’d never visited given the endless demands of motherhood and the inn, and compounded by finances. She didn’t know how much of the road she’d see this trip, though; she needed sleep badly, very badly.
“Wake up.”
Jill tried to ignore the intrusion.
“Wake up.”
There were sandbags pressing down on Jill’s chest and she shielded her eyes from the sun streaming through the window. Her cheek pressed into a small puddle of drool she’d left on the vinyl surface.
“Your name Jill?” The waitress looked down at her, resting the ever-present coffeepot on the table.
“Where am I?”
“Exactly where you were three hours ago when you showed up here in nothing but your slinky little nighty-night.” The waitress gave her a long look: not harsh, more puzzled. “Are you one of those crazy sleepwalkers?”
“No,” Jill said. She was still too muddled to sit up.
“Well, if you’re looking to be found, there’s a guy here looking for someone named Jill. You fit the description.”
A headache was brewing at the base of her skull; with the pain came memory. “Where did the trucker go?”
The waitress laughed. “He took off hours ago. You were passed out by the time he got out of the can. Anyway, I told him he had no business giving you a ride anywhere. You were in no condition.”
“Oh.”
“He left you this.” The waitress pulled Jill’s watch from her apron pocket and placed it on the table. “You’re lucky. He may look like trouble, but he’s as honest as the road is long. Still, whatever game you’re playing at, it’s dangerous.”
Jill heard the door chimes, but she was still too groggy to pull up.
“You didn’t answer my question,” the waitress said. “Are you looking to be found?”
Jill poked her head up over the booth. She saw Keith standing near the counter and talking on his cell phone. Their eyes met and a look she couldn’t read washed over his face. He walked fast in her direction.
The waitress lifted the steaming pot and walked off, saying, “Looks like you’ve been found.”
Icy terror pained Jill’s throat. She looked down at her embarrassing attire and blood dried hard and black on her feet and knees.
“Jill. Thank God.” Keith stood looking down at her as she pulled to an upright position.
She had no reply. Was completely bereft of strength. She turned to the window, drawing her legs tightly up to her chest. She knew it was a ridiculous head-in-the-sand response, but she couldn’t help herself. Facing Keith in such a state was beyond her current capacity. Within moments, her knees were wet and she could feel her body convulsing. The padded bench depressed as Keith took a seat next to her.
“Thank God you’re okay,” he said. His arms encircled her back. “You don’t know how scared you had us.” He matched her shaking with a rocking embrace. “I just woke up some trucker in his cab and he said he saw you sitting with some long-hauler who took off a couple of hours ago.” He patted her back and then tried to turn her face toward him with his hand. She resisted, keeping her face to the window. “Jill, what is it? Are you hurt?”
“No.” Her voice was blubbery.
Keith took a handful of napkins from the tabletop dispenser and pushed them into her hand. “Where were you going?”
She wiped at her face and noticed the paper napkin went brown with grime. “Nowhere. Just turned left.” She still had her face to the window.
“I know, or I guessed anyway. You went west. Due west. That’s how I found you.”
“I can’t even run away right,” she said flatly.
He turned her head toward him and this time she didn’t stop him. She faced forward and lowered her feet to the floor. He took the napkin from Jill’s hand and wiped gently at her cheeks. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Looks like you’ve done a pretty good job from where I sit.” Unblinking, he held her gaze; two of the lashes above his right eye were crossed. “How about I take you home?”
“What’s the point? It’d be empty. My mom’s in the hospital, and I’ve screwed up with Fee—probably lost her forever.”
“She’s not lost. She was with Jocelyn. I’m sure there were some unpleasant words, but she’s not lost. As a matter of fact, she was worried about you. So, how about I take you home?”
“I don’t have a home. I gave it to Jocelyn, but the bank will probably take it from her.”
He nodded his head in appreciation. “We make quite the pair. Jack and Jill at the bottom of the hill.” He leaned back against the booth’s padding with crossed arms. “You’ve got nowhere to go, and I’ve got no one to go to.” He scooted toward her, looping an arm over her shoulders. It was warm and heavy, and she felt herself sag under its heft. “Why don’t you be my someone and we’ll work out the somewhere.”
“Why would you burden yourself with me and my troubles?” Jill asked. “I’ve screwed up in every way.”
Keith straightened in his seat. “A long time ago you asked me a question. You asked if I could manage without you. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“It turns out I can’t. I thought I could, or should, but I can’t.” He lifted his arm from her shoulder, taking her hand and pulling it into his lap. “Besides, knowing now that Fee is my half sister, I think I should stick around.”
“Knowing?” Jill felt it needed repeating.
“She does look like a Fraser.”
“She hates me.”
“Give it time. She’ll come around. You’ll get past this. We’ll all get past this.”
“We’ll?”
“I want to try again.”
Jill could think of no reply. She lowered her eyes, spying her left hand in his right, but viewing it as something foreign and unfamiliar. “I missed you so much.”
“I asked Jasper to contact you about the wake,” Keith said. “I needed an excuse to be near you. And I wasn’t sure you’d come to the funeral. I took one step inside the town limits and all I could think about was you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“I died the day you left,” Jill said, looking into his eyes.
“And I’m alive for the first time in years.”
Jill felt fresh tears trail down her face. Keith put a finger under her chin. He kissed one cheek and then the other. When he finally kissed her mouth, she tasted a warm mixture of salt and sweetness with just a slight crunch of road dust.