CHAPTER TWELVE

NOT ASKING FOR A FRIEND

Holly hissed in my ear, “What was that all about? Did you spend your time telling that guy how difficult I am?”

She grabbed my elbow, and I snatched it away. “Leave it,” I said in the way that I’d heard Katie talk to Peanut when he jumped on a visitor.

“Why did he say that thing about me? Did you tell him I was closed off?”

“I know it’s shocking that I might not spend my first-ever shaman visit talking about you, but I didn’t. He must have picked up something from your energy,” I said with barely concealed irritation. “It’s not like you keep your disapproval to yourself.”

“I never imagined you as someone believing in spirits,” Holly scoffed.

“Why not? You think I can’t come to California and get spiritual like everyone else?”

“What I want to know is, how can you gain insight if you’re fixated on how difficult your friend Holly is?”

“News flash, Holly. I do not spend every interaction with people talking about you.”

“News flash, Sammie. It seems like you do. First, Summer making all kinds of comments at the airport, then the two of you up front in the camper with your inside jokes that I can’t hear in the back. And now this guy.”

There was no point in denying anything. She had her mind made up. I wanted to hang on to the peaceful feeling I’d had moments before—but whatever serenity I had gained was lost. “Whatever, Holly. Believe whatever.” I turned toward the camper.

“Do not walk away from me.”

I put my hand up. “I do not have the energy for you. How about we just don’t talk.”

She mumbled something just as Summer zoomed past us and yelled, “Shotgun!” She jumped into the passenger seat, which meant it was my turn to travel in the back of the camper. Thank goodness. I needed some time alone.

“Summer,” Holly said, “we’re not slowing down for any more of your unsanctioned pit stops. You should stay here with your friend.”

“And leave you two to kill each other? No way. I don’t want that on my spiritual conscience. Get in,” she said and thumbed in the direction of the driver’s seat.

I settled myself in the back of the bus, the morning sun filtered through the gauzy blinds. I ran my hand over the soft sheepskin. I wanted to scroll through my phone, read the news, have a chat with my daughter to see how she was feeling. I did not want to listen to Holly and Summer talk. I did not want to think about where Holly and I had gone wrong. All I wanted to do was lie down, consider what Marvin had said about Jeff being gone but my father shouting instructions from the great beyond.

My phone buzzed.

BDREW: How was the Shaman?

Since texting Beautiful Drew, I’d begun to see the value of the low-stakes text conversations where no body language had to be interpreted and you could stop midsentence if you wanted to. Hell, you could type be right back , brb, and it was like freezing time. The other person couldn’t yell at you, grab your arm, or demand attention. Sure, they could call you, but you didn’t have to answer. There was an ignore button, right there on the screen. What was rude to one generation had become to another an appropriate, magical touch on a flat screen.

ME: Startling.

BDREW: How so? Are you free of all ailments?

ME: No. Holly is still here.

Something else that was great about texting. It was perfect for the person quick with a searing comeback who, during a spoken conversation, was just as quick to censor it and regret it later. The privacy of texting, with no chance of anyone overhearing, allowed me to speak.

Holly wasn’t the only one whose mind worked in a flash when properly stimulated. The difference between the two of us wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say. The critical distinction was that Holly let herself say whatever popped into her head while I clamped my mouth shut. I knew that made me more likable than Holly in general. But after years of this practice, I felt like there might be a reservoir of unspoken retorts somewhere in my body, ready to burst. Perhaps sometime in the far future I’d go in to have brain surgery. The doctor would be concentrating and cut into a blob in my frontal lobe and a loud stream of saucy comebacks would scream from within. I pictured the doctor’s hair blowing back, which was silly; they always wore a cap.

Texting Drew softened something inside me. Gave me a gentle outlet, something I hadn’t had much of until now.

BDREW: Haha. But seriously. What did you find out?

Was he interested? Was he being polite? Making conversation?

That was another thing about texting. You could interpret the flat emotion in whatever way you wanted. And afterward you could forget it ever happened because the conversation was vapor. It gave me courage in a way I never braved face-to-face. I decided Drew was sincere, and with new boldness, I started with some backstory.

ME: I was married. My husband died before my daughter was born, eighteen years ago.

BDREW: I’m so sorry.

The typical response to my history was first an apology followed by a myriad of tag-on comments ranging from He’s in a better place to man, that’s a bummer . I waited. When there was no follow up, I responded.

ME: Thank you.

BDREW: That must have been very hard. How did you cope with that?

Wow, textbook correct response. This means I get to decide what to say next. I could joke and write, Wine . Or be a bit more serious and text, Therapy . I could reply with a Hallmark Card version, My daughter gave me purpose. Any one of these responses would be fine and at least partially true, because I’d used all those things to survive.

My fingers touched the screen. I typed, I built a wall . Deleted it. He’d been so nice to keep track of Katie; didn’t I owe him the truth? Did I know the truth? The truth was a puzzle that only made sense if all the pieces were on the table, the first piece shaped like my father. I stalled.

ME: How much time do you have? Haha.

BDREW: I have a lot of time. Just got off call. I’m hanging out with my best friend, coffee. Tell me everything.

The camper hit a pothole, mimicking the bounce of cautious delight I felt by his interest. I almost dropped my phone.

Summer shouted, “Weeee!”

ME: It’s complicated.

BDREW: Go on.

Okay then. And I felt the distance of the internet and Drew’s sincerity make it more comfortable to share.

ME: When Jeff died he left us almost entirely alone. No family to fall back on. No help financially or otherwise.

BDREW: Oh, damn.

His response made me smile because yeah, it was totally not good. Also, this was such a guy response.

ME: It took most of my daughter’s life to dig us out. Not that many people know.

BDREW: I get that.

I wondered at his acceptance. I wanted to know more.

ME: Do you?

BDREW: People judge.

If Drew and I were going to be friends—more?—shouldn’t I try honesty? Build this friendship on truth? But what was the truth? Should I tell him how Jeff broke my desire to trust anyone? How my notions of happily ever after were destroyed in such a way that I wasn’t interested in even a risky coffee date with a new person? Or should I tell him the whole truth? I wasn’t strong enough to get myself out of a bad situation. And I wasn’t going to get rescued by death again.

ME: The truth is I married him too soon. I often felt trapped.

I hit send too quickly. The camper creaked. I waited, my pulse quickening. He could answer in so many ways. He could call me harsh or type ouch! He could disappear and quit talking to me altogether. Instead he wrote:

BDREW: People get married for a lot of reasons. I’ve started to wonder if any of them are good reasons.

I exhaled.

ME: Yes. Me too.

I would give him a second to elaborate. Then I thought WTF.

ME: You?

I thought that was enough. He could go with it or drop it. I held my breath again. Waiting for a text could be as thrilling as watching a movie where a hero has to save the world from aliens.

BDREW: I married my wife because she needed to stay in the country. She’s Canadian. Long story.

I started to type Wow , but he sent another text.

BDREW: Phone call.

ME: No fair.

And he was gone.

I reread my texts. It was all true, but it was ancient history. Why couldn’t I move past it? The thought of a relationship made me nervous, not excited—trapped, not hopeful—but something was happening. A door had cracked open, and new revelations were coming uncomfortably fast. But I had work to do, if I was going to make it through this trip without shutting the door, going home, and breathing the old stale air of sameness.

But now that I had fresh air in my lungs, I didn’t think I could go back.