Up was down was up. My chest imploded. My brain raced at thoroughbred speed, galloping through endorphins and dopamine. My lungs lodged in my ears. The music volume lowered from screech to roar. The dying was nearly done. Our metal cage rocketed skyward, but lost momentum. We slowed to a near stop—the ride giving one final violent jolt—then, blissful stillness.
“You were a banshee in another life, Go.”
I didn’t remember screaming.
I tried to say, “I nearly became a banshee in this life,” but was too hoarse.
The operator presented Rudy his wheelchair. As soon I was unbuckled, I punched Rudy in the arm, hard. The operator laughed. “Dude,” he said. “Nearly every lady punches her man when they’re back on the ground. Mach One’s a humdinger.”
“Oh, we’re not—”
But the kid had already turned to his next victims. I checked to see who might have heard, but no one we knew was in sight.
Rudy tried to brush the comment off. “He says that to everyone.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he does.”
We wobbled our way around temporary fencing, through the ride exit, and down the aisle where we left Becky. The ground was uneven, pockmarked with trash. There was Rudy, handling every small challenge, nothing fazing him, and I couldn’t stop obsessing over the operator’s errant comment. “You want to talk about the kissing?” he asked.
“No.”
“Me either.”
“Good. Maybe I would if things were different, but neither of us is going to make life different during a four-day road trip. For now, let’s say I liked it, you liked it, and Chan would hate it.”
“Agree.”
Despite my frustration at Chan’s behavior and being dumped, Chan was the carry-on bag I’d packed many years ago. You didn’t drop your luggage in Morgantown, West Virginia, because a thrill-ride operator made an assumption. But maybe you dropped it because he dropped you. I’d never been dropped before and didn’t know the rules.
“You clearly loved Mach One,” Rudy said, segueing.
He ducked and evaded my swat with a quick spin that I recognized as a signature Rudy maneuver. “So awful.” Still awful. My body hadn’t stopped pulsing since we landed. The immediate threat of death had diminished, but all systems weren’t back online yet. “Tell me you’re queasy.”
“My stomach has moved”—he gripped his windpipe—“permanently.”
“Good,” I said. “I hope it stays there.”
I nearly tripped over my feet, and he said, “That’s what you get for being mean to me.”
It probably was.
We reached home-base Becky. Chan and Caroline were already there. Caroline’s face was pressed to Becky’s shoulder, and Becky stroked her like a stray she wanted to take home and feed. Chan leaned against an electric pole and had his head on another planet. His Hey! How was Mach One? was frosting sweet, but the real message was loud and clear: Don’t ask me what’s wrong.
Chan came out of the womb reticent. His first words were probably I’m fine. There were generations of Clayton men who’d been taught to nod, frown, or flex in case of rapture or natural disaster. Clayton men saved people with the unwritten caveat that no one was allowed to save them. He’d met his match in me, because I could game that shit step for step when I wanted to.
“I asked about Mach One?” he repeated.
Rudy and I recounted the experience. I didn’t use words to ask if Chan was okay. I opted for a furrowed brow and my own You’ll tell me if you want to look. Our first moment alone, he said, as predicted, “I’m as fine as you are.”
“Yes, I know. Now, what’s wrong?”
“Tit for tat. Have you considered that you have to give to get?”
That silenced me. The first chance I had, I looped my arm through Caroline’s and asked, “What happened on the Gravitron?”
“As advertised; the bottom drops out.”
“Of the ride?”
Her hesitation: an untold story. Her answer: “Yeah. You bet.”
But she was back inside herself, and even Becky and Rudy couldn’t tease her out.