The Box
Route 66, somewhere in the Texas panhandle
We were back on the road and Jennifer said, ‘So do you want to know what’s in the box?’
‘Yes!’ I replied instantly and urgently. Enthusiasm is not a good look. I added, ‘I guess. You know, if you’re cool with it.’
‘My mom’s ashes. There. I said it.’
I yelped. I can’t think of any other word to describe the noise. Judging by her expression, Jennifer wasn’t a big fan of the yelp.
‘What did you think it was?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Drugs?’
Cue laser beams from her eyes burning straight through my face. Guilt crept over my body like an army of stick insects. Her mum’s ashes. Not money. Not diamonds.
Five minutes later, on the floor, at our feet, was the brown cardboard box – slightly more battered than it had been in Chicago. And on my lap, a wooden urn.
Out of its packaging, it felt heavier. I tried to keep completely still. I could see Jennifer trembling.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Okay.’
Question: how would you react if you had the ashes of someone’s mum on your lap? In an urn, okay, but still. Growing up, we’re told in school assemblies, is all about learning how to deal with new and confusing emotions. If that’s true, I’d done my fair share of maturing on this trip.
Now I felt a combination of gross out and, like, massive sympathy for Jennifer, whose mum wasn’t only dead but also ashes, which is pretty final.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I won’t open it.’
‘No, you fricking won’t. And I wouldn’t let just anyone hold it, by the way, so …’
To be honest, I wanted to hand it back and quickly. I’m not a robot, though (at least, I don’t think I am), and doing this might have upset Jennifer. Instead I looked at the thing and nodded and said, ‘It certainly puts things into perspective,’ because I remembered Mum saying that when next door’s dog died after eating six chocolate Easter eggs.
Jennifer nodded. Jennifer agreed. It did.
‘How did she …?’
As soon as I spoke, I regretted it. It was so sad, like too sad to comprehend. How could anyone ever cope? Your mum. I should have said something to cheer her up. I hadn’t mentioned the Nicolas Cage picture in Chicago airport. Was that funny? I knew loads of jokes … like the one about the zoo with only a dog in it.
‘She was cremated, Jacob. It’s like five thousand degrees or something.’
‘No, I mean …’
She reached out to place a hand on the urn. I sat as still as I’d ever sat. It would be disrespectful to fidget.
‘I know what you mean.’ She looked directly at me. ‘She was going to the store. She … she just stepped off the kerb. And a car hit her. The guy wasn’t speeding. He hadn’t been drinking or anything. Mom just stepped out. She hadn’t seen him.’ She pulled back her hand. ‘She was going to the store. To get milk. And then she died.’
Language abandoned me. What could I say?
‘That’s bad,’ I said. ‘Like, really bad.’
Jennifer frowned. ‘It is, Jacob.’ Her voice strained with anger. ‘Dad was away. He’s in the army. Was in the army. Because Grandmother—’ Suddenly she softened. ‘You don’t need to know all this. I don’t know. Why don’t we talk about your family?’
‘What’s her problem? Your grandmother? Lex Luthor?’
I wanted to sound interested and caring. Because I was interested and caring.
‘She doesn’t like me. I mean, she thought the best thing to do with a kid who’d lost her mom was to send her to boarding school. In her world, money is what solves things. Even hurt.’
‘I’m sorry, Jennifer,’ I said, imagining dormitories.
‘Not as sorry as me. Anyway, it’s not your fault.’
Obviously she was right. But that didn’t stop me feeling bad. And it also didn’t stop two questions flaring in my mind:
- How did Jennifer’s dad end up in prison?
- Why was her gran so keen to recover the urn of ashes, even sending a US marshal (retired) after them? And he’d said the package was worth more than the hotel and I don’t think he was talking, like, spiritually. I mean, we’re getting away from an actual question now, but you understand my point.
‘That’s enough real talk for today. You’ve seen it. It’s my mom. She’s dead. She belongs with Dad. And that’s where I’m taking her. He got out of the army last month. It’s time.’ Jennifer turned to the view of rolling nothingness through the glass past me and said, ‘I’ve spent years promising myself I’d do this. And here I am. But I never imagined a bus full of musical zombies. I never imagined getting into a fight over a stolen coat. And I never imagined you, my English sidekick.’
Was she crying? Were her eyes watering? Maybe it was the air conditioning? Everywhere is air-conditioned in the States. She was definitely chewing her bottom lip again. I lifted a hand from the urn and put it on her shoulder. It was a strange angle and felt awkward. Jennifer didn’t respond. I patted her once, twice. On the third pat she turned.
‘What are you doing? I’m not a dog.’
I stopped the patting. But it was okay. ‘I’m going to help you,’ I said.
We put the urn back into the box. I tried not to think about home, about how I’d feel if my mum died. It wouldn’t be great, to be honest. I got out the potato chips and offered the packet.
Jennifer shook her head. ‘Is that all you think about?’
‘What?’
‘Food?’
‘No.’
Because it wasn’t. Because we’d not even had a proper breakfast. Because sometimes I think about other things too.