“I brought you some orange juice. And crackers.” Amanda peeked into the hotel bathroom. “Since you missed break-fast… and lunch.”
Head resting on the side of the toilet bowl, Marianne slumped against the marble tiles. Dark rings formed semicircles under her eyes.
“Leave them by the bed,” she whispered, her pallor a distinctive green. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“No hurry. I’ve got some Imodium too, if you want it.” Amanda softly closed the door.
“No, I”-a choking cough, then a splash. A flush, water running-“need to let this run its course.”
Amanda clicked on the television to muffle Marianne’s misery and afford her some privacy. Maps of the coast splayed over the screen. The weatherman circled the Gulf Coast with a pointer and swooped toward the south.
He chattered on in Spanish, but Amanda watched where he pointed the arrow. Looked like a storm blowing in, a considerable distance from Laguna Madre. Clips of old hurricanes cut back and forth, images of ravaging winds and floods. The weatherman looked serious, unsmiling.
Marianne emerged, her hair wild, walking with the gait of an old woman. She peeled back the comforter and lowered herself by degrees onto the bed.
Amanda pressed the remote. “Looks like a storm’s coming.” She stood by the balcony, the afternoon clear as cut glass. Prisms danced on the waves as they calmed from the day’s activity. The white beach looked like a bride’s smooth satin, wrinkled here and there in tiny waves. No signs of a storm.
“From what I could make out, it looks like it’ll hit south of here. Still, could be bad. Do you think we should leave? I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.” In the van, her albatross.
Amanda glanced at the pad of paper next to the phone, where she’d doodled through countless calls to Mark, last night and this morning. Sitting at the desk, she’d written, please, please, please, over and over, blue scrawls on the square white page. Superscripted, outlined, underlined. Surrounded with frantic flowers. Anxious daisies.
He hadn’t answered. Not even in the darkest hours of night when she cared for his vomiting mother, when he should be home asleep. Not in the morning, long before his workday began.
The breathtaking view stretched beyond the window. The same view as her own room.
Paradise.
Prison. Held in a cell of her own choosing, longing to break free. She wanted to go home, but home apparently didn’t want her.
“I couldn’t possibly travel today.” Marianne covered her eyes with the back of her hands, as if daylight hurt. “You can go if you want.”
“No.” Amanda drew the curtains. “We’ll stay.”
THE TOYOTA GAVE out in Berna Lista, Texas. After pulling away from Officer Martinez and the near ticket, Mark pressed ahead, staying under the speed limit, searching for the next town. The heat mesmerized him, the road lulling him to a half-aware state, so he hardly noticed the change. No warning light flashed. The engine didn’t bang or smoke. It simply lost power, coasting to the feeder, until it rattled to a stop.
Watch that fluid, Jimmy had warned.
Mark sat in the car, narrowing his eyes against the sunset. A front of clouds rolled in, riding, floating, moving faster than clouds should. Perhaps it took minutes, perhaps an hour. The gray-black eclipsed the brightness.
Could get ugly, Joe Don had said.
Mark knew only the purrs of Mr. Chesters asleep in the back, the throb of a headache in his forehead and the bitter taste of yet another failure.
It had all been so clear before.
His bladder pressed in discomfort. He creaked the door open and stood on the side of the road, oblivious to the occasional car as it zoomed by. There was, literally, no place to hide anyway.
Zipping his fly, he turned to the familiar sight of flashing lights slowing to a halt behind the hatchback. No siren.
Officer Martinez heaved himself out of the vehicle and crunched toward Mark, shaking his head. “I thought I told you not to break any more laws today. Could cite you for indecent exposure, you know.” Martinez stared at the Toyota. “Run out of gas?”
“I don’t think so.” Mark stared with him. “I think it’s worse than that.”
Martinez lifted the radio from his belt. “I’ll call you a wrecker, see what we can do.”
Two hours later, in a shop that smelled of gasoline and cigarettes, the mechanic wiped a rag over his sweating forehead and pronounced the verdict. “Transmission’s out. Had a leak. Good-size one if your friend topped it off two days ago. Need to replace it.”
“The transmission? The whole thing?” Mark set the three-year-old Readers’ Digest back on the wobbly table.
“We can get the parts, start work in the morning.”
Mark checked the clock and the full dark outside. He knew the shop should have closed, but the owner, Tony, stayed late as a favor to Martinez. So many favors.
He felt his luck running out, slipping away as he spent his favors one by one. “But I can’t. I don’t have the money… the time. There’s a storm coming and I need to get to Mexico.”
“I’m not sure this vehicle will get you there.” Tony rubbed his stubbled chin. “Course you could just load up on the fluid, keep her full. Still, it’s ill advised.”
“No offense, mister, but right now my whole life is ill advised.” Mark opened his wallet, counting his remaining cash. “I’ll take the transmission fluid, to go. As much as you’ve got.”