(Received a second place award in the 2021 Belmont University Humanities Symposium Writing Contest)
My name is Lavender J. My dumb bitch of a mother actually named me Nora when I was younger. Nora Jackson. What kind of name even is Nora? I changed my name to Lavender when I got to high school. That was last year. Everyone thought I was cool then, edgy even. They’d asked me for my opinion on what they should change their name to. They wanted fashion advice. They’d invite me to sit with them at lunch to discuss building their ‘brand,’ whatever that meant. Anyway, that all changed when my mother pulled me out of private school. Said she couldn’t pay for it anymore, something about how she needed the money for business ventures. Business ventures my ass. What she really meant was that the remaining money my father left me was going to go towards another quick fix instead of a quality education for her daughter. Fantastic. I ended up transferring to this little public school disguised as a shack right beside the highway on-ramp. It was a dump and I hated it and I hated her for making me go there.
When I transferred, that’s when I started smoking. I would agree to meet some of the seniors behind the bleachers during lunch and in exchange, they’d buy some for me at the gas station across the street. At the beginning it was only one or two a day, but after a few months, I could almost smoke a whole pack in 12 hours. Pretty sick, right? The kids at my new school thought so too. It was the only thing I did that remotely interested them, so I pretty much stopped doing anything else. If one of my classmates walked past me and I had one dangling from my lips, they’d ask what number I was on. And no matter what number I said, they’d hold their hand up for a quick high five, like they were amazed I’d managed to accomplish something as simple as smoking a few cigs when I couldn’t handle completing even one homework assignment. Not that I’d ever seen any of them do anything extraordinary, but somehow, the vastness of my ability to disappoint baffled them beyond anything substantial I’d ever managed to complete. Before, I could never understand why my mother would want to put something that smelled so awful into her body, but now I could see the allure. Eventually the burning went away and in its place was something more comfortable. It wasn’t really a different sensation, but more like an absence of anything at all.
I decided to run away a few mornings ago. It wasn’t premeditated or anything. In fact, I told myself before I even opened my eyes that I was going to try damn hard to be a little less narcissistic today because I thought, you know, it’s my birthday, so I should at least start off with a good attitude. And mom, she always makes heaps of cinnamon rolls for me. Like more than anyone could eat in a whole year. I used to think it was a pretty crappy present, but I appreciate it more now than I used to. She’s always had a thing for celebrating birthdays in an over the top kinda way, but never enough money to execute them. I guess she just wants to show me that she’s trying, even if it’s a lame substitute for a real party. So yeah, I decided that I was going to enjoy it.
I walked downstairs expecting the rattling hum of the oven and the smell of sticky sweet sugar to grip my throat, but all I found was the burning aroma of a piss stained couch as clouds of smoke filled my rib cage.
“Hey.” Her raspy voice made its way up the staircase and jabbed at my quickening pulse. How fucking dare she. I turned to leave.
“Hey!” This time it was harsher, angrier. I know how she gets, and it sucks ass to be at the receiving end. My throat tightened, but I swallowed the tears replacing disappointment with my own bitterness. She was spread out on the sofa, hair in a ratty mess on top of her head, and a tattered string of gauze wound around her arm, like she was trying to keep her sagging skin from slipping past her bony elbow.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said, handing me a wad of cash. $2,000 to be exact. My stomach lurched. She told me to take it down to the abandoned truck stop around the corner. The one that has its perimeter mapped out with caution tape. She explained to me in slurred phrases that I needed to make sure to give it to Barry who would pull up in a red pickup and offer to take me to the nearest McDonalds. That was the code phrase. But I made the choice right then that there was no way in hell that I was going to do that. What kind of mother blows off her only daughter’s birthday to get high? But more than that, what kind of daughter agrees to do a drug deal for her own mom? She literally has 364 other days to sedate herself beyond coherency, but evidently that’s just not enough for a greedy whore like her. I grabbed her knife off of the kitchen counter and shoved it handle first into my coat sleeve. Then, I walked out the front door, throwing up a middle finger in her direction as I closed it behind me. I had nothing to lose. She obviously wasn’t going to be able to stop me anytime soon. $2,000 could take me anywhere.
So I took my opportunity to do just that. I walked along the highway towards the truck stop with my left thumb hitched towards the air. I didn’t care where I went, as long as it was far away from Pennsylvania. It only took a few minutes for someone to stop and offer me a ride. He told me to “hop in baby girl,” and I gladly obliged. He seemed a little pervy, but I pushed that thought to the back of my mind and heaved myself up into the cab of his truck. I’d made my decision, and I needed to act on it before the adrenaline coursing through my veins dissipated. I couldn’t chicken out if I was already buckled into a seat beside a stranger. That was the point of irrevocable commitment. Besides, it would be rude to bum a ride off someone then not accompany them the entirety of the way to my destination. Although I didn’t really have a destination. I asked the man where he was going. He told me Illinois. I told him I’d take it.
His name was William, and he fidgeted a lot as he drove. His fingers toyed with his pocket knife, flipping the blade in and out. I secretly kept my own knife clutched in a fist inside my pocket, in case he tried anything funny. But he just continued to let the blade open up, then put it back in its place with his thumb. In and out. I was keenly aware of the stack of cash I had slid in the valley between my boobs which was a little deeper than most, if you know what I mean. I prayed that the fact that they were on the heaftier side didn’t tempt him more than if they’d been cute and petite like some of the athletes and goody goodies I knew from school. Maybe small and perky were more of his preference. God, I hoped so. I briefly considered the fact that if he tried to rape me or even just grope me, he’d surely find the money. What if he demanded that I give it to him? I’d be an idiot to try and fight him off alone. I mean, sure I had a knife, but so did he, and he obviously wasn’t shy about hiding that fact from me. Then, not only would I be out of funds to go anywhere, but whatever mom’s punishment for not coughing up her payment on time, or maybe even at all, would be for absolutely nothing. We’d both be right back where we started. Probably even worse off.
When he wasn’t screwing around with the pocket knife, he was adjusting the radio or eating from the bag of chips he kept crushed between his thighs. He wordlessly offered me one right after he tore the cellophane packaging open at the top. I politely shook my head no. After almost an entire hour of silent driving- I’d been watching the minutes tick by on the clock as my heart pounded in my chest- he finally spoke.
“Why do you wanna go to Illinois?”
I told him that it wasn’t Illinois that I was looking for, but simply somewhere that I can start over. Maybe California if I get lucky enough to make it that far.
He whistled like he was impressed. “California? Damn that’s a long way to go.” He scratched the back of his ear which caused him to drift into the other lane a little. I curled my toes inside of my sneakers. His hand returned to the wheel, and he slowly maneuvered us into our own lane again, but not before we received a few honks from the cars surrounding us. He ignored it and kept talking.
“But, you know that you can’t just escape your problems by running away, honey. Those darn things just follow ya everywhere.”
I doubted that. I mean, if no one knows where I am, if I change my name and my style or develop a fake accent and start wearing sunglasses even at night like those Hollywood bitches seem to, how will my problems even be able to find me? It’s not like I cause them myself. I don’t help my mom stick that needle in her arm everyday, or throw all of our money away on drugs. I didn’t ask for my father to leave me alone with her. I didn’t choose to be a loner, to only be recognized for the intimitading glare permanently pasted on my face at school. If that were the case, his comment would make much more sense; there is no way to escape yourself. But I didn’t want to live this way. God must have just decided that I deserved this life when he planted me here in this hell of a town. In reality though, it isn’t my fault, it’s those idiots around me. My mom and my so-called ‘friends’ and my teachers at school and the bus driver and the grocers at the supermarket and the endless stream of boyfriends knocking on our door and asking for my mom. That’s what I’m running away from. And there is no way any of that can leave Pennsylvania. Not like I can. My life is more liquid than theirs.
In the end, I just said that I know because I couldn’t argue with a man giving me a free ride. That just wouldn’t be right. And I didn’t want to risk finding out how this man solves arguments, even the minor ones could end badly. Luckily, that small bit of talk opened up the floodgates for a myriad of conversations. We bounced from hobbies, to weird dreams, to what animals we would have if we lived on a farm. After a few hours, I regretted initially believing that he was some kind of pervert.
When the sun started to slip behind the fields on the horizon, I pulled out my cig pack.
“You smoke?” he asked.
“Yes,” I told him. “It’s kind of a thing at my school.”
“Well, if you’re going to reinvent yourself, maybe that’s something that the new you doesn’t do. It’s bad for your lungs you know.”
Who doesn’t know that smoking is bad for your lungs? But that’s the trade off isn’t it? Bad lungs for a little sliver of relief. I didn’t tell him that. We were friends now, but not that close of friends.
“Maybe I should,” I said, but I was still a little skeptical.
“Here I’ll help you out,” he told me. He scooped my pack off of the bench seat we both occupied, then leaned over, flicking his meaty wrist right in front of my face, to chuck the whole thing out of the passenger side window into the ditch beside us.
“Now, you can’t even be tempted. You’ll thank me later.”
I flinched as the pack left his grasp. I flashed a damn boy just to get those. But I managed to mask how pissed I was with a tight-lipped grin and a courteous nod. I’d just find a way to get some more when he dropped me off in Illinois.
In the end, I decided not to buy more cigarettes. I figured it was kind of a stupid investment considering I had a limited amount of money and they’re probably wreaking a hell of a lot of havoc on my lungs too. Plus, the sleazy men that hang around here would probably ask for a lot more in exchange for a pack than the boys at my high school did. I figured I could live without them, at least until I settled down somewhere. Belinda thought so too. She’s a mom of five, so she probably knows a thing or two about how children ought to be acting, unlike my mom who literally has no idea what it takes to raise a child right. Belinda says that all of her children are enrolled in accelerated classes and her oldest is set to graduate valedictorian. I was like, no shit? But she said it was the complete and honest truth. I asked her why she drove a truck when she’s got five kids at home. She said they needed the money. So she drives twice a week while her older daughter- her name’s Randy- watches the younger ones. Seems pretty noble to me.
I met Belinda at the gas station where William left me. It was this huge Love’s truck stop, the kind that has two lanes when you turn into their parking lot, one for trucks and one for just normal cars. I asked William to drop me off there because I figured that if I couldn’t find a ride willingly, I could sneak my way into one of those giant ass semis. I was standing in the snack aisle, staring down the bags of chips like the flavor I chose would determine the rest of my life. But really at this point, it seemed like every decision I made did. Belinda stood beside me, also contemplating, but I didn’t pay her much mind.
“I always go with the plain ones. It’s just something about the simplicity that gets me. Melt in my mouth every time,” she said.
I told her that she was right. I did always end up going for the original flavors. You really just can’t beat’em. She laughed and stuck out her hand for me to shake, I took it awkwardly in mine, and she pumped our embrace up and down with enthusiasm. The skin below my arm jiggled from the force. Despite the fact that overly excited people usually turned me off, I was immediately drawn to her excitement and zest. It was infectious. I decided to take the risk. It never hurts to ask, right? Well this time it paid off. Turns out Belinda was heading to Alabama, not exactly west, but I’d take it. It was still away from Pennsylvania. I wondered then if my mother had thought to look for me yet. Maybe she’d put in a police report, said I was missing. Maybe my face was on a screen somewhere and people would recognize me and try to take me back. But the instant those thoughts entered my mind, I almost choked trying to swallow my own snort of amusement. I doubted it. She was probably grateful I was gone, except for the fact that I had stolen a few months of a paycheck from her. Still, I hoped that she was safe. Sometimes her drug deals led her into some pretty sketchy situations, and even though I didn’t like living with her, she was still my mom, you know? Like I didn’t want her to die. Maybe I should have met Bobby or Billy or whatever his fucking name was and paid him just to keep him from hunting my mother down. Dealers tend to do crazy shit like that to get their payments. I pushed my hand into my coat pocket to check that the cash was still there. It was. Maybe I’ll call and check on her when I get settled in. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I mean, I’m sure she’s fine, but I can still check. I’ll just dial her number, then when she says hello, I can hang up right away. I only need to make sure she’s alive, nothing more.
I told Belinda all that right after I hoisted myself into her semi. She turned the key in the ignition, prompting the beast to roar to life. I enjoyed the little rumble in my spine as we idled in the parking lot. Belinda said she didn’t like to drive and eat. Made her too nervous. Besides, we had a few minutes before she needed to be on the road anyways. And I don’t know why, but the way she looked at me as she shuttled chips into her mouth, like she knew I wasn’t telling her something, made me feel so guilty. It all just sort of spilled out of my mouth, and of course, I couldn’t even try to shove it back in after I started. But she sat there and nodded along as I spoke without interrupting once. Finally, when I had finished, we sat silently for a minute, chips crunching between our teeth and flying from our lips. After a while, Belinda must have finally come up with the right words to say. She inhaled so that her chest caused her seatbelt to rise a few inches before she spoke.
“Your mother actually made you buy and sell drugs for her? That just is not right. Women like that do not deserve to have good babies like you.”
I shrugged. Maybe I wasn’t a good baby. For all I know, I killed my mother. Or at least caused someone else to. Maybe I had gotten exactly what I deserved. Who knows?
Once we started moving and the conversation wound down, Belinda clicked the radio on, turning the volume dial almost a full turn towards me. The bass pumped through the souls of my shoes and interfered with the steady tick of my heartbeat. She listened to those classic rock hits. Like The Eagles and Journey and The Doors. It amused me to an extent. She didn’t seem like the type of girl who smoked weed at outdoor concerts when she was in college. The one who sat on top of a random boy’s shoulders, and screamed the lyrics as loud as her smog filled lungs would allow. Not that all rock and roll fans followed that stereotype, but it was just funny to picture her like that, young and wild. It gave me a little hope for myself.
Eventually, my hands started shaking. Nothing too obvious, just enough to make me crave a smoke. I bought a pack of nicorette gum instead- well actually Belinda got it for me, but I paid her back- and a rubix cube. It gave my mouth and hands something to do besides light up a cigarette. I just hoped the beat like a bass drum in my head would dissipate soon. These migraines from hell made me hate William even more than when he threw out my pack, but I am too competitive to give up my streak already. I would rather die of withdrawal than let myself be controlled by a little stick full of chemicals. As I passed the cashier some dollar bills for the rubix cube, a warm surge of pride flashed through my chest. I did the one thing my mom couldn’t. I guess I’d just always assumed I’d end up like her. I’d become addicted to something, a boy, a drug, an idea, and never be able to stop chasing it. Maybe it started with cigarettes, but what if it eventually blossomed into something else. Something worse. But I refused to let her decisions define me now. In a way, that was my first step towards a new life.
I searched for hours for another female driver, turning away multiple men before finally giving in and accepting an offer from Denver. He looked the least threatening out of all the people roaming around the gas station that night, so I guess that counted for something. In a perfect world, I would have found myself another woman driver just like Belinda. Sometimes though, we gotta take what we get and- well, you know how the saying goes. Denver was nice enough, although he did put his hand on my knee a couple hours into the drive. Nothing more. And it wasn’t like a threatening grip or anything. More just like he went in for a friendly knee pat, and then forgot to take his hand away. I let him leave it there. I figured it was the least I could do to repay him, as long as he didn’t try anything else. He was probably just lonely. I bet being stuck on the road all the time did that to a man.
He was pretty chatty, despite the awkward position we were in. He told me about his hometown: Colorado, ironically, but not Denver, so as to not be too cliche. He was from a little town about an hour outside of Denver called Watkins. He said that he had two brothers, one younger and one older. The younger one was a senior in high school and the older one had three kids, each with a different lady. But he liked being an uncle to them anyway. Said it was better than having your own kids because, as an uncle, you can leave whenever you get tired of having them around. Gave you more time for ‘adult activities’ when you didn’t have kids. He said he’d probably never want to have his own.
He told me that now he is twenty-one and that he just obtained permission to drive his truck over state lines last week, right after his birthday.
“Why didn’t you go to college?” I asked him.
“I wanted to take a gap year, you know? To see the world. Like those rich spoiled brats do. But, unlike them, I didn’t have a trust fund to fish money out of. So I picked up this job to make a few extra bucks. Who knew I’d fall in love? Getting paid to see the world, how sweet of a gig is that? Now I think I’ll probably never go to college. What can I learn at a desk that I can’t learn out here on the open road? Nothing, that’s what.”
I decided I couldn’t argue with that. I even briefly thought maybe I should look into being a truck driver. I filed the idea away in the back of my mind for when I turned eighteen.
“So, what are you doing out here hitchhiking all alone? Aren’t you a little young?”
I laughed at his obvious ploy to get me to tell him my age. I gladly obliged. I guessed that his flirtiness was growing on me a bit. He wasn’t too bad looking, with his dark curly hair and fair skin sprinkled with freckles. Maybe a little bit too white and nerdy for my taste, not that I could be too picky. I’d never had a boyfriend before or even kissed anyone, so really anything I could get was fine by me. I didn’t tell him that though. I wanted him to work for it.
“Sixteen, huh?” He said. “Damn, that’s rough. When I was sixteen I was heavy into that gaming shit. My mom used to pound on my door after I’d been locked in there for like, over 24 hours. I’d only get up to pee and swipe a bag of chips off the kitchen counter. Talk about sustenance. But then I’d go right back to my PlayStation remote.”
“Didn’t you ever get bored?”
“Yep. That’s why I got out of there. It was turning me into a lazy ass. I always thought that I’d be one of those people who left my home to roam the globe. Then one day my mom was like ‘“Denver you need to start applying for colleges if you ever wanna do anything with your life.” I don’t think she ever really believed I’d amount to much, but she liked to encourage me anyway. But, that made me think, shit, why would I waste my time in college when I could be out there now. And that day I applied for my CDL. Mom wasn’t really thrilled about my gap year prospects. I think she felt like it made her an inadequate parent. Like it was her duty as a mother to make sure I got a quality education. She just wanted to give me my best shot at life, even if she believed my best shot would be the equivalent to a normal person’s average. She just loved me like that, you know?”
I almost told him that I actually didn’t know. That all I’d ever known is a shitty mom. But I was inspired by the way he’d turned his life around. Just talking about it made his eyes shine a little brighter somehow, and the way they twinkled when he spoke did something funny to my chest. So I didn’t say that. Because I’m sure that’s definitely a turn off, girls who have a nonexistent friendship with their own mother. I always have had the notion that guys go for momma’s girls, so I figured that maybe it was best to just keep my estranged relationship to myself, indefinitely. Besides, that’s not something anyone wants to admit outloud, even to themselves.
“Oh, yeah.” I said. I’m not sure if it was convincing, but it was the best way to just keep moving the conversation along. I decided we didn’t need to dwell there.
When we got to the next stop in New Mexico 19 hours later, Denver left me at a McDonalds that was right off the exit. I really didn’t want him to go. Over the course of the trip, his hand on my knee eventually migrated to his fingers interlocked in mine. It was all very innocent, but I liked the warmth of his palm against my palm. My own feelings repulsed me a little though. I never have understood the obsessive need instilled in girls to pine over a boy. Like those girls at school who would kiss their boyfriend outside every classroom door or cry in the hallway when the boy said that he had basketball practice after school so he couldn’t take her home. Like even a second apart would absolutely kill her. It was sickening really. But I guess this wasn’t like that. That was attention seeking. I just didn’t want to be left alone again.
I mean, if I were given the chance, sure, I’d go for him. He’s older and he’s got a steady job, and he doesn’t even expect the woman he ends up with to push out a kid, which is a rare breed these days. I’m not saying that I regretted meeting the boy, I just wasn’t sure if I would have been different had I not met him. He could have been anyone and they still would have left me in a McDonalds. But the same probably goes for him. I’m just a crazy rescue story he will probably tell his parents when he gets home next week, maybe leaving out some of the physical details, and that is all.
The goodbye was awkward. I think maybe he considered kissing me, the loneliness of the road whispering to him that this may be his only chance for a while to get any action. But, while resting his palm on my leg may not have been crossing the line, he must have decided kissing a near stranger was going a little too far. Perhaps he simply figured that kissing was inappropriate for a goodbye that was never even meant to be a hello. He went with a handshake. I grimaced a little when he stuck out his arm towards me.
“I hope you find that adventure you’re looking for.”
I told him I’d try. And for a second, as he gave my hand one last squeeze, I almost asked if he’d take me with him. The words rested right on the tip of my tongue. I mean Colorado wouldn’t be so bad. And we could travel the world in his truck together, his fingers interwoven with mine for the rest of our lives. He seemed so different from the other boys I’d met in school, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to give that up yet. Instantly I knew I was being ridiculous. I was almost repulsed by my weakness. I pushed all of that out of my mind and instead followed up with, “you too.” He smiled at me, one of those ‘bless your heart’ smiles that old women do when you tell them you dropped out of college to pursue your dreams. I briefly thought that he was probably really used to getting those looks. I watched quietly from the table in the corner, swallowing hard to push down the growing lump in my throat as he bought a large coffee for the road and left.
I waited in the McDonalds for a few hours with no luck. People going in and out were either uninterested in helping me, or just not going anywhere but back to their home a few blocks away. I decided to test my luck outside. The thought of walking down the road did frighten me a little, not going to lie. I mean, what if a driver didn’t see me and I was hit by a car? Or what if I was kidnapped, just stolen right from the curb? And no one would ever know. That’s the part that scared me the most. I wasn’t about to be some asshole’s puppet for the rest of my life, like those kidnapping stories you see on the news. But I had to keep moving, and this was my only choice. I walked towards the interstate ramp, left thumb up and right hand clutching the knife in my pocket. They shook pretty violently, either out of fear or withdrawal, I wasn’t sure. Probably both. I mentally checked off the days I’d been cigarette free again, just to take my mind off of being on edge. It was three. I bet William would be proud of me if he knew. Or maybe not, but thinking that he would made it easier to stay on track.
Lots of people shouted out their windows at me, offering me rides to the next town over or to their home for the night. I tensed my right hand a little in my pocket each time a car slowed and the driver rolled down their passenger side window. Multiple times, it was just a truck or a minivan stuffed full of drunk college kids looking for entertainment. They didn’t really want to help me.
Finally, Abner came along. He said he was headed to Cali. I accepted the invitation. In the first few minutes on the road together, Abner relayed his entire autobiography to me. He was retired. His daughter lives in California. She is an aspiring actress. He tries to get over there every chance that he gets because he is growing old and he doesn’t know how much time he has left. He wants to make the most of every second he still has with his children. A very familiar narrative for a man in his seventies. But what I wasn’t expecting was his hobby. Martian hunting. He told me he kept his gear in the back seat. I peeked at it through the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the entire row was piled high with gadgets: recorders, headphones, a metal suit, night vision goggles, the works. I’d heard of people like him. Those crazy old geezers who really believe that the government is hiding alien life from the average citizens. And those even crazier people who wear tin foil on their heads to protect themselves from being abducted or something like that. As he continued to explain, I studied the profile of his face. He didn’t seem like a quack. Some just must be better at hiding it.
“And might I ask why you’re out here all alone?” He finally said. By then I’d come to terms with the fact that they all will eventually ask. It’s only natural, I guess, to want to know everyone else’s shit. It makes you feel better about your own. But only for a minute. Then you have to go back to feeling sorry for your lame ass self.
I thought about his question for a moment, fingering the edge of one of the bills in my pocket, thankful that they were still there, while my other hand absentmindedly spun the top layer of boxes around counterclockwise on my rubix cube.
“I really don’t know.” And I really didn’t. I wanted to escape my mom, but every time I tell and retell the story of running away, I realize that she’s more relevant now than ever. When weakness threatens to overcome me, when my head throbs so violently that I can feel it in my stomach, I remember the person she became after that first hit, and it makes all the withdrawal symptoms a little less painful. Because nothing is more painful than that. I need her now. “I guess I just wanted a fresh start.”
“Well Cali sure is the place to do that.” He patted my knee sympathetically.
“Do you wanna be an actress too?”
“Something like that.”
His hand didn’t feel quite as good as Denver’s, but I guess I didn’t mind. His touch was calmer, more soothing. It felt nice to not be the only one who felt sorry for me. I eased up my grip a little on the cash.
As we crossed the state line to enter California, I exhaled with a sigh of relief. It felt like I had just crossed the finish line at the end of a marathon. The only problem is that I’ve never run a marathon before, so I wasn’t prepared for the exhaustion that came with it. And I was exhausted. My back was more than likely permanently curved into a C from being molded by car seats for three whole days. My ass was numb and my eyes burned around the edges from lack of sleep, not only because I suck at sleeping in cars, but also that withdrawal insomnia is a bitch. When we arrived at the rest stop, I hopped out of the car, desperate for a restroom. We made great time though. That old man must have the world’s biggest bladder. I thanked him quickly then bolted. As I pushed the bathroom door open, I sent up a silent prayer that he’d make it to his daughter alright, you know, a repayment of sorts.
But to my surprise, when I stepped out of the restroom, wiping my damp hands on my jeans, he was still there, standing patiently beside the water fountain in the corridor between the men’s and women’s doors.
“Sure you don’t want me to drop you off somewhere else?” He must have noticed my surprise because after a brief pause he added, “Or, I mean, if you don’t have anywhere to go, you could always come with me. I swear my daughter wouldn’t mind.”
My chest warmed as I watched this old man before me wring his hands together like a nervous school boy asking me on a date. I wanted to go with him, I really did. To have a family that cared for me like he obviously cared for his would be my actual dream come true, but you can’t just weasel your way into a bond like that. No, as much as I had begun to adore Abner, I needed to create my own family.
“I’m sorry-” I began, but he cut me off before I could even think of a good excuse.
“It’s okay honey, I figured you’d say that, and I understand.” He winked at me then handed me a white envelope.
“I can’t just leave you here all alone with nothing. Don’t worry, my daughter will cover me.” And with that, he turned and left without another word. I didn’t even get the chance to thank him for the money. I was too stunned to speak.
I sat on the same bench outside the same information desk at the same rest stop where Abner left me for hours. New people continued to step over the threshold of the sliding glass doors in front of me, and a few minutes later, they’d exit again. Toddlers cried as mommies drug them to the restroom for a diaper change, teenage boys walked all the way to the men’s room without looking up from their phones, and I watched fourteen dads come out of the bathroom wiping their hands on their pants like they’d never used a paper towel before in their lives. After a while the sun began to droop down until its rays were peering through the windows almost as if they were looking at me, taunting me. In a way I envied all of those travellers going in and out of the doors, setting off a prerecorded ding dong every few seconds. They knew exactly where their destination was, what direction they were headed: Panama City, Los Angeles, New York, or even just the next town over.
I still don’t know where I am going or how I am getting there or what my life will be like after this moment. What I do know is that I can’t go back. Maybe I will become an actress like Abner suggested, a movie star even. Maybe someday my mother will see me on that screen and wonder how she ever got to be so lucky to have a beautiful and talented daughter like me. Maybe she will be shocked to find out I’m even alive. Maybe she won’t even remember me. Perhaps she will look at the screen and briefly wonder why she can’t look like the girls they cast in those films or T.V. shows, then move on with her day without giving those women, her own daughter, another thought. Or maybe she will be dead. But it won’t matter because I will probably never see her again. Did I even want to? A little, I’ll admit, even if it is only to show her what I managed to overcome, and maybe to thank her too. Thank her for being a constant reminder of the life I wanted to avoid. Thank her for letting me go when I had the chance to escape. Thank her for being my mother, even if she was a crappy one. She deserves that, you know? A little bit of recognition for the things she did manage to get right. But for now, I can only move forwards. What do they say? The world is my oyster, I think. But that’s a shitty saying. Maybe it should be more like ‘The world is my cigarette’. Yeah, that’s more like it. Bitter. Harsh. But it makes you feel good. More human. But also less human. The world is my fucking cigarette.
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