It’s Blair Witch Project–y as fuck out here in these high-beam-lit woods. The rocky, narrow path from Marco’s driveway to the nearest street stretches on for a thousand miles. The sun was barely setting when we left. Now we’re in total darkness.
I’m trying to look up tweets and news on Marco’s phone, but this is that part of the woods where there’s no actual service. What a cruel joke. I finally have access to a phone, and it can’t even connect to the internet.
I look at the time on Marco’s dashboard. Just past seven.
“When do you think we’ll get to Bayonne?” I ask him.
“Usually takes at least four hours.”
“When did Mom leave?”
He keeps his attention forward.
“Honestly?” he says. “If that’s where she was going, she’ll probably be there soon.”
I was worried that would be the case.
“What happens after we get to the police station?” I ask. “Like… do I just go up to the receptionist? My mom and I are wanted for arson. I believe she may already be here?” I pause. “What happened when you got arrested?”
“It’s been eighteen years.” He sighs. “But I guess — uh — they take your fingerprints and all that. They’ll probably throw you in a holding cell for the night.”
My throat twists up like a piece of rotini at his mention of the word cell.
“I was in there for like a day before I saw a judge,” he continues. “You just keep to yourself. Do what they tell you. It’ll be over quick.”
It’s clear from his ultra-careful speech pattern that he’s leaving out certain key details in an effort to keep me from totally unraveling. I can’t tell if I’m grateful for this.
“You’ll be fine,” he adds. “This will barely be a blip on your record.”
I wish I could believe him. I wish I were still ten years old. Then I would — no questions asked. But I’m not. So I can’t.
“Thanks.” I wince as I remember that his Google search earlier already gave me a sentence of twenty-five years. “Fingers crossed.”
Marco turns on some music. Bruce Springsteen sings that song about the screen door slamming and Mary’s dress waving. How appropriate. I’ve spent the past eight years covering my ears whenever this song comes on — as it often does — in public spaces throughout New Jersey. It brings up too many memories. Marco used to play it around the house every Saturday morning during chore time. Hearing it now slaps me with an image of Mom sweeping the kitchen while he loaded the dishwasher and I aggressively doused all wood and/or imitation-wood surfaces with Pledge in the living room. It’s a far cry from the Playlist, that’s for damn sure.
“You used to love this song,” Marco says.
“No, I didn’t,” I lie.
“Yes, you did.” He laughs. “Maybe you don’t remember. You used to call it ‘Mary’s Dress Waves’ instead of ‘Thunder Road.’ You begged me to play it every weekend.”
I can still smell the chemical lemon scent of the Pledge. As a kid I always thought Mom and I loved those mornings in equal measure. Until the day she started hating them. But maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe she was just weak and got caught up in a series of mistakes and couldn’t find her way out. Maybe we trashed Leo’s condo not only because he cheated on her — but because she missed those mornings just as much as I did.
“Whoa!”
My eyes are jolted open by Marco’s booming voice as he jerks the truck to the side to avoid a pair of oncoming headlights. We barely evade contact with a tree by the time he’s done slamming on the brakes. The song ends right as the dust settles.
“You all right?” he asks.
I nod gravely and turn around to see if the other car stopped.
“Oh, my God.” I recognize Nonna’s Sicilian flag window decal immediately. “Mom.”
Marco and I unbuckle our seat belts and eject ourselves from the truck so fast you’d think it was going up in flames.
“Gia!” Marco shouts as she swings the driver’s-side door open. “You okay?”
“Joey, thank God.” She runs over and pulls me into a tight hug. The scent of Biolage leave-in conditioner in her hair immediately steadies my heart rate. “I’m so sorry. I was scared you’d be gone when I got back.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Even though she’s squeezing me so tight my organs are about to fold into themselves, I can finally exhale for the first time since this morning. Being without her all day was like holding my breath. “I shouldn’t have blamed you for everything. That fight was so stupid.”
“I was on the highway and thought, ‘Why am I doing it this way? Who the fuck leaves a note at a time like this?’” Her voice is on fire, like she needs to get this out before she explodes. “I just kept thinking to myself, ‘What if that note was the last thing he ever hears from me? What if I go to the police and they don’t believe I did it all myself? What if they go out looking for you, and I’m not even there to protect you because I’m locked up? What if we end up telling them totally different versions of the story? What if you get into even more trouble because I did it this way?’ I just…” She throws her hands up. “I don’t know what either of our next moves should be. But we need to figure them out together.”
She takes a step back and looks up at Marco. “And I’m so sorry. I lied to you about why we came here. Joey and I —”
“He told me,” Marco interjects. “All of it.”
“All of it?”
Her eyes dart between Marco and me. “This whole week was so fucked up,” she finally tells him. “I’ve been horrible to you. Honestly? You were right last night.” She chokes on her breath. “All you ever did was try to love me. And I fucked it up.”
“I’ll go wait in the car,” I say before she keeps going.
It feels like they’re about to have the type of conversation I should only hear about from her after the fact. Not while it’s actually happening. Or maybe it’s the type of conversation I shouldn’t hear about at all.
I slide into Nonna’s passenger seat. The ratty cloth interior has that same calming effect as the scent of Mom’s leave-in conditioner.
There’s no music on in here. Was she seriously driving around in total silence for the past four hours? I catch a glimpse of them through the side-view mirror to my right. It’s like they’re the lead couple in a play. The taillights of their respective vehicles provide the perfect amount of spotlight on their stage of dirt, rocks, and fallen branches. Mom looks like a tiny little ballerina next to Marco — she barely comes up to the chest pocket on his button-down plaid shirt.
And now they’re hugging.
I hope this isn’t a good-bye hug, even though I know it is.
We shouldn’t need Marco to come back with us, but he does seem to know a lot about the criminal justice system. And he’s the only one with a phone.
They both start walking toward me. Marco taps my window from outside.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “You got that?”
“Yeah.” It’s clear he’s not planning on coming, and I don’t fight it. Whatever disaster unfolds from here on out is purely Mom’s and my problem. Which is probably how it should be. “Thanks for everything.”
“Anytime.” He gives a dark half-smile. “Well. Not quite under these circumstances — but. Well. You get what I mean. I’ll see ya.”
He taps the hood of the car and runs back to his truck.