CHAPTER ELEVEN
I pull off I-94 just north of Madison and decide to spring for a motel. It’s not a great one, because my income is never predictable and I like to think I’m smart enough not to blow my parents’ meager inheritance without thinking ahead. But when I get to Inferno, I’ll be staying at Ernie’s rent free. I hate the idea because the place will be rank with memories, but at least I can console myself with the fact that the bastard is finally dead.
The place is tiny but clean enough, and I don’t see any druggies or prostitutes hanging out looking for a good time. Really, it’s just another bump on the long American road. That’s something I discovered when I started rambling away from my old home: Most places are just places. If you’re sheltered, you’ll see anything off your normal center as suspect. But I’ve been everywhere now, and I’ve seen it all. The old me might have questioned a place like this, but the new me understands that the people who run it and the people who live nearby are just people. Everyone gets on as well as they can, and it’s not for me to judge them.
I pay, and then after I find my room, I cover Carl’s cage with a shirt from my backpack and sneak him inside. He’s a loudmouth in the car, but so far has settled down when we’re not moving. He’s also either loyal or frightened, and every time I’ve let him out he’s stuck by me like a dog. It’s as if he gets what this is, between the two of us. Carl can be my ward as long as he needs me, but the minute the cat decides he’d rather be on his own I’ll be inclined to agree and let him go.
I let Carl out inside the room, placing his litter box in the bathroom. I get him a bit of water, lay out some food, then get my backpack from the truck and settle in. My digs here don’t need to be luxurious. The room just needs to have a bed that’s clean and comfortable, and it’s got that. It needs to get me through tonight and into tomorrow. I’m in no rush. There’s still half a country between me and my destination, and I’m used to drifting. I won’t arrive before tomorrow’s done. Tomorrow will be like today, with another motel at the end. A carbon copy of the same day.
I kick off my boots then sit on the bed with my back against the headboard, one leg bent up, and the other straight out in front of me. I stare at the TV for a while without turning it on, as if entertainment might magically appear. Then I succumb to what’s been nagging at me all day, and slip the phone from my pocket.
I download the LiveLyfe app. I don’t want to set up shop here myself, but it turns out I can browse without having an account. So, after spending a few seconds pretending I’ve done this to check on my old buddy Brandon, I type in Maya Holland.
There are a bunch of them. I scroll down, trying to see enough of the tiny photos that go with the names to see which might be my Maya — the girl who used to be my Maya. Annoyingly, a lot of people have used photos of things that aren’t their faces. One of the Mayas is using a watering can as her image. And it looks like just about anyone who has kids uses them as their photo, which seems pretty stupid to me. It’s not the kids’ LiveLyfe account, gals. It’s yours.
I’m about to give up and start clicking Mayas at random — surely, one of these kids could be Mackenzie — when I see her.
Gorgeous red hair. Bright, wide smile.
It feels like I’ve been kicked in the chest. We’ve swapped those few emails, but I could probably count on both hands the number of times I’ve heard from Maya since I’ve left, and this is almost for sure the first time I’ve seen her. I’ve sent plenty of postcards, but those are missives, sent into the world without expectation (or possibility, in my case) of a response. I’ve even addressed a bunch of the cards to both of them, hoping it’s not somehow overstepping a line or insulting. Kids like postcards, don’t they? I loved to get them, once upon a time. The idea of being somewhere else — somewhere not the little one-horse town Inferno Falls used to be — made my spirit fly. I always wanted to see the world, and the postcards I got from friends and relatives only made that wanderlust stronger. I haven’t seen some of the more exotic places yet (London, Cairo, even one from Taipei), but I’ve owned the continental US and have sent enough of my own postcards to prove it.
I click on Maya’s name. Her profile comes up, and I click again on her photo to fill the screen.
My heart seems to skip.
We were inseparable, until I left. Looking into her digital eyes now, it’s like no time has passed. I can remember every detail of our last encounter. I remember how furious I was. And, in turn, I remember how furious Maya was with me. Given the decade between then and now, I find myself recalling it with fondness, not bitterness, as if that final fight was something I’ve spent all these years pining for.
I remember her green eyes flashing. Her red hair jumping as she swore at me, as she stalked, and finally as she sobbed.
I remember how terrible I felt. How anxious. How … how fucking righteous I felt as the selfish young asshole I was back then. We were both seventeen, Maya on the cusp of graduating with her hard-earned scholarship and her ill-fated pregnancy. I hadn’t stuck around to see how big her belly got. She was barely starting to show when I split. I wouldn’t be graduating anyway; deciding that school wasn’t for me was just one more thing that made my asshole uncle decide I was worthless.
I found out what happened and thought of myself.
For the first time since getting that phone call, it dawns on me that Maya doesn’t know I’m coming to town. That should be obvious, seeing as I haven’t emailed to tell her, but it hits me now like a brick to the sternum.
My old feelings for Maya have acquired a nostalgic tint through the drive. I’ve managed to recall all of our good times while glossing over the bad. Somehow, I’ve decided that she’s expecting me, and that those expectations are positive. I’ve never articulated it fully even to myself, and I’m not dumb enough to believe it, but I suppose I’ve been imagining a joyous reunion. Of course she’ll be happy to see me. Why wouldn’t she be … other than that I totally abandoned her?
Maybe she hates me.
Maybe I should obey my original instincts after all, and try sneaking in and out of town without being seen.
For all this time, through all my wandering, I’ve never returned to Inferno Falls. I’ve never even come close. My trek away was a one-way trip. I went north first because Maya read a lot of Stephen King, and King’s characterization of Maine intrigued me. But when I came south again, eventually hitting the Atlantic coast and Florida, I skirted wide to the west. When I left Florida, it was simply outbound, never looping back. And as time’s marched on, I’ve drifted farther and farther away. If I hadn’t had the call about Ernie, I’d have crossed the Canadian border. I’ve always wanted to see Alaska, and there’s not much farther to run than Alaska.
I look at the photo on my phone, and it’s like Maya is smiling at me. The way she used to, before it all went bad.
Before I found out.
Before I blew my top.
Before things with the state became official, and I learned that my time with Uncle Ernie wasn’t just temporary. I’d be his roommate until I turned eighteen, and that was too long to wait.
I flick my thumb and see another picture of Maya … this time with a little blonde girl.
I flick again, and now I’m looking at just the girl, close-in. Her hair is a mess, but not much like her mother’s. Her eyes are big and blue. Maya’s are emerald green, but just as wide when she’s happy. There’s no way to see from this photo, but I’ll bet this girl looks a lot like her mother when she’s angry, too. She’s strawberry blonde in a way that suggests her hair might redden later, but the eyes are already there. With distance, I realize that Maya’s anger made her beautiful. The same would be true for this girl, if she’s ever jilted as Maya was.
Carl hops up onto the bedspread beside me. He’s staring at me like a fucker. Like he’s judging me. Stupid cat.
“You didn’t know Uncle Ernie,” I say.
Carl stares at me.
“My parents had just died. Do you have any idea how stressful that is?” I sigh. “Fine. I’m a coward. I shouldn’t have run. I should have stuck around. Maybe I regret it. Maybe I do think about her more than I’d like to admit. But it’s not like I can turn back time and do it all over. What’s done is done, and if she hates me, there’s nothing I can do to change it.”
Carl raises one paw, licks it, then runs the wet paw over his healing ear like a greaser dramatically combing his hair.
I want to keep arguing, but he’s not buying my bullshit. Worse, I’m not buying it either.
“Damn you, Carl,” I say.