Amy And Roger's Epic Detour Part 3

-A.E.C.

"That's okay," I said, but I had a feeling this statement was belied by the fact that I had to squint to look up at him.

"Really?"

"Well," I said, trying not to squint, but finding it physically impossible, "I don't actually have any right now."

"They had some in the gift shop," Roger said. I'd seen them-they were mostly the sporty mirrored wraparound kind that people who were actually going to be climbing mountains bought. But I didn't want any sungla.s.ses.

"I'm okay," I said firmly. Roger looked at me for another moment, then shrugged, heading to the car.

I closed my eyes and tipped my head back. It felt nice, like it had been awhile since I'd felt the sun on my face.

"Amy?"

I opened my eyes and saw an older woman standing in front of me, looking at me intently. She was standing right in front of the sun, and I could barely make her out. I stood up to see her more clearly. She was wearing hiking gear with a windbreaker tied around her waist, and she had close-cropped, curly gray hair. I took in all these details before something clicked into place in my memory. This was Cathy ... Something. By coincidence, she and her husband had followed the same schedule as us for years. We'd always run into them when we were here, and we'd usually all end up sitting together in the dining hall. I think they'd even sent us a Christmas card once. Happy Holidays from the Somethings.

"Hi," I said, trying to look like I hadn't been just trying to place her. "Cathy," I said, hoping that I'd remembered her name right, and dropping my voice a little on the last syllable in case I hadn't.

"It is you," she said, reaching out and hugging me quickly before I realized what was happening. "I'd recognize you anywhere, though my goodness, you've grown up! You're such a beautiful young lady!"

Why were older people always saying things like this? Even after they were always telling us not to lie. I just nodded, because what was I supposed to say to that?

"So where are the rest of you?" Cathy asked, looking around. "Your brother and father? Are they inside?"

I could feel my heart begin to hammer, and I was starting to get the panicky feeling that I always got whenever I thought I might have to Tell Someone. I hadn't had to say the words out loud yet, and I honestly didn't think that I could. Even the thought of saying them made me feel panicky.

"Oh," I said, hearing how my voice was already strained, feeling like my throat was closing around the words even as I tried to force them out, and hating myself and the fact that I couldn't even form a simple sentence. "They're not here this trip." I was blinking very quickly, looking down at the scratched wooden deck, hoping against hope that Cathy Something would leave it at that and go away. In my peripheral vision, I saw Roger, sungla.s.ses on, heading toward me from the car, slowing slightly when he saw me talking to someone.

"Oh, that's too bad," she said. "Your dad was always such fun to have at dinner! How's he doing? He's well?"

"Um," I said, feeling my breath come shallowly and furiously blinking back tears. I wanted nothing else than to just disappear, go back home where I was alone and there was n.o.body to make me feel these things. I could feel myself very close to losing it, breaking down right on the spot, in front of Cathy. But it wasn't like I could escape-I had to stand there and let it happen. And knowing that was only making it worse. I could feel my pulse beating in my throat, and it was getting harder to breathe. The underwater feeling was creeping in. "Um," I said again, my voice breaking. Cathy seemed to notice that something was wrong-her eyebrows went up, and she frowned slightly. "He's actually ... he's ..." A strangled sob escaped my throat, and I looked away, knowing I wasn't going to be able to continue.

"Hi," I heard Roger say, as he approached Cathy's other side. He stuck his hand out, turning her away from me. I noticed, even though my vision was blurred, that he was watching me over her shoulder. "Roger Sullivan. I'm a friend of the family."

"Cathy Summers," said Cathy, and I registered the last name dully in my head, crossing my arms and pressing my lips together as hard as I could. Despite this, I could still feel how they were shaking, how my chin was trembling uncontrollably. "I was just asking about the other Currys," Cathy said, her voice rising on the last word, making it a question.

Roger looked over at me, and I looked straight ahead, blinking fast, trying to force this back into retreat, trying to find the edge of okay and hang on to it. Roger took a step closer to Cathy and lowered his voice a little. "It's actually ...," he said, then paused and cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, Mr. Curry pa.s.sed away recently."

It was all I could stand to hear. I walked toward the lodge, keeping my head down, and yanked the door open, but not before I heard Cathy's shocked gasp and the sympathetic sounds that followed. I walked as fast as I could toward the bathroom, not needing to be there to know what would follow. How shocked she was. How it was such a tragedy. And then, of course, the Question: How had it happened? Roger, at least, didn't know the answer to that one.

I pushed open the door to the bathroom, which was thankfully empty, and locked myself in the nearest stall. Then I leaned back against the cold metal door and let the crying take over. I cried into my hands, big, horrible sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside. I'd never cried like this until it happened, and I hated it. This crying was huge and uncontrollable, and it also never made me feel any better. It only reminded me that I hadn't cried much yet, and so of course when I did, it was wrenching and violent. The crying attacks just seemed to point out that as much as I might want to pretend otherwise, there was a big, gaping hole in my chest, one I'd tried to cover over with leaves and a few branches. The pathetic camouflage that wasn't even fooling myself.

When the worst of it seemed to be over-when my breath was coming more regularly, with only an occasional hiccup in the rhythm-I wiped my hands over my face. Then I unlocked the door and stepped out, wincing when I saw my reflection. My eyes were bloodshot and puffy, my nose red, and my skin blotchy. I ran my hands under the water, as cold as I could get it, and splashed some on my face. Then I patted it dry with the scratchy brown paper towels, which actually seemed to make things worse.

The door swung in, and a mother entered, shepherding her little girl toward the sink. She stared at me, then looked away quickly, and I knew hiding in the bathroom all day-appealing as it sounded-wasn't really an option. I pushed open the door and almost tripped over Roger, who was sitting on the floor to the right of it.

"Hi," he said, standing, and I saw he had my purse with him. "Um, you left this outside."

I nodded and took it, staring down at the gray-brown carpet. "Thank you," I said, hearing that my voice still sounded raw. But thankfully, no longer out of control.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Since the answer was so clearly no no, there didn't seem to be any point in telling him that I was fine. I didn't think I was that good an actress. I just shrugged.

"Well," he said, then paused a moment before going on. When he did, it was hesitantly, like he was searching for each word before speaking it. "If you ever want to talk-or just want me to listen-I mean, I could ..."

"Who told you?" I asked, saying the words very quickly, as that seemed to be the easiest way to get them out. "Was it your mom? Or the program on the fridge?" I didn't trust myself to look up yet, so I asked the carpet these questions.

"My mom," Roger said after a moment. "I think she went to ... to the service." She might have. She might have ridden into St. Andrew's on an elephant and I wouldn't have had a recollection of it.

I nodded. "Do you ..." I took a breath and forced myself to say it. I didn't think he knew. But I needed to be sure. "Do you know how it happened?"

"No," he said. "Do you want to tell me?" I shook my head, just once to either side. I could feel my lip begin to tremble again, and I bit down on it, as hard as I could. "Well," he said, after a moment. "We should probably hit the road, don't you think?"

I nodded, and when I looked up, I saw that Roger was holding out his sungla.s.ses to me. I didn't even think about refusing, just took them and slipped them on. They were too big for me, heavy square guy sungla.s.ses, and they slid down my nose. But at that moment, I was just grateful to have a bit of a barrier between my face and the world, if only so I wouldn't frighten Yosemite's children. We headed out of the lodge, and I gave it one last look before I stepped outside. It no longer seemed like the cozy place it had this morning. I let the door slam behind me and followed Roger to the car.

2.

The Loneliest Road in America

Long-distance information, give me Memphis, Tennessee.

-Elvis Presley.

FEBRUARY-FOUR MONTHS EARLIER What do you think?" my father asked, turning from me to Charlie, looking incredibly proud of himself.

I glanced across the dinner table at Charlie, then to my left at my father, who was smiling wide. Then I looked down at the gift I'd just unwrapped-a Frommer's guide to Memphis, Tennessee. Charlie looked similarly puzzled by his present, a book on the history of the blues.

My mother, coming back to the table with her mug of tea, smiled and shook her head. "I told you they were too abstruse, Ben," she said. I didn't know what that meant but, as usual, Charlie seemed to.

"They're clues clues," my father said, not seeming to be put off by our reactions at all. "To where we're going this summer."

I held up my book. "I'm guessing Memphis?" "Yes," said my father with exaggerated patience. "But not just anywhere in Memphis...."

Charlie rolled his eyes and set his book down. "Graceland?" he asked, and my father nodded. Seriously? Seriously? he mouthed to me across the table. I ignored him. he mouthed to me across the table. I ignored him.

"Yes!" my father said, taking the book from me and flipping through it. "I was thinking about July. So clear your calendars, you two, we're calling on the King."

Charlie shook his head and pushed the book away. "No offense, Dad, but Graceland's kind of lame."

"Lame?" my father asked, mock-outraged. He turned to my mother for support, but she just smiled and shook her head, already flipping through the my father asked, mock-outraged. He turned to my mother for support, but she just smiled and shook her head, already flipping through the New York Review of Books New York Review of Books, staying out of the conflict like she always did.

"It's not lame," I said, taking my present back from my father and paging through it.

"Have you been there?" Charlie asked.

"Have you?" I retorted, glaring at my brother. I didn't know why Charlie always had to be so difficult, and why he couldn't just go with something for once. It wasn't like Graceland was the first place I wanted to go either, but clearly it was important to Dad. Which, as usual, Charlie didn't seem to care about.

"Your sister makes an excellent point," my father said, and I heard Charlie mutter, "Of course she does," under his breath. "As the only one sitting at this table who has been to Graceland, I can attest to its non-lameness. It's an American inst.i.tution. And we're going. We'll pack up the car-"

"Wait a second." Charlie sat up straight. "We're driving? To Tennessee Tennessee?"

"We're going to discuss that," said my mother, looking up from her paper. "It's a long way, Ben."

"No better way to see America," my father said, leaning back in his chair. "And when we get to Memphis, we'll see Beale Street, and the ducks at the Peabody, and get some barbecue...." He turned to me and smiled. "You ready to navigate, pumpkin?"

She's gonna make a stop in Nevada.

-Billy Joel.

"Are we headed the right way?" Roger asked, glancing over at me. I pushed his sungla.s.ses up and rotated the map. I had directed us out a different way, since it had looked easier to leave through the other side of Yosemite, rather than retrace our path to the park entrance.

"I think so," I said, looking at a sign as we neared it. But it was completely covered by the branches of the tree next to it. I could only see a strip of green at the top. "Oh, good," I muttered.

"I'm just a little turned around," said Roger, peering ahead of him.

"We're okay," I said, seeing, relieved, a sign that wasn't overgrown with branches and told us which way to get to the highway. "Just take the right up here."

"I'm glad you're on top of this," he said, making the right. "I'm not the greatest with directions. And I can never tell when I'm lost, either. It's a bad combination, because I always think that if I just stick with the road long enough, it'll all work out."

"Well, I'm good with maps. So I'll navigate," I said, speaking around the lump that was threatening to form in my throat.

"Excellent," he said. "You'll be my Chekov."

I looked over at him. "Anton Chekhov?" I asked. "The playwright?"

"No, Chekov, the navigator of the Stars.h.i.+p Enterprise Enterprise," he said, looking back at me. "From Star Trek Star Trek."

"I've never seen Star Trek Star Trek," I said, breathing out a tiny sigh of relief. Maybe Roger wasn't quite as cool as he'd first seemed.

"Now that's a tragedy," he said. "Though I must admit, I've never read your Chekhov."

The road, as we left Yosemite, became more winding and more deserted. It was just a two-lane road, and as we made increasingly sharp turns, it became clear that we were in the mountains. As I looked at the pine trees surrounding us, it seemed impossible that we were still in the same state we'd been in yesterday, with freeways and palm trees.

"You ready to put on some of your music?" Roger asked, as his mix started over again.

"That's okay," I said. My suspicions that Roger didn't like musicals had been confirmed when I'd seen his playlist. He seemed to like the kind of music that the in-the-know people at school always seemed to be talking about, the kinds of bands with names that didn't even sound like real names at all. Someone Still Loves You, Boris Yeltsin? That was a band? A real band, with fans other than Roger? So I had a feeling he wasn't going to be into my selection of Jason Robert Brown and Elvis. And I wasn't listening to Elvis anymore, anyway.

"Really?" he said. "I don't want to keep hogging the DJ job."

"It's fine," I insisted. I didn't want to have to watch him pretending to enjoy my music, or just tolerating it, waiting until he could switch back to his stuff. It was easier to keep listening to his. And I found that I actually liked a lot of it.

"Want to at least give me an indication of what you like?" he asked.

I shrugged, wis.h.i.+ng he would stop grilling me about this already. "I like everything."

Roger shook his head. "Such a cop-out," he said. "If you like everything, that's basically just saying that you don't really like anything."

"I like stuff," I snapped, sharper than I meant to sound. "I just don't care, okay?" I stared out the window, immediately regretting my words. I did this a lot lately-I would suddenly get angry for no reason. That was why it was easier just not to talk to anyone.

"Well, okay," he said after a moment. "When we reach civilization, I'll make a mix."

"Just no Elvis," I said, looking out the window.

"Not a fan of the King?" he asked, and I could feel him looking at me.

I shrugged and pulled my knees up, wrapping my arms around them and staring out at the scenery pa.s.sing by. "Something like that," I said.

Two hours later we had pa.s.sed through the towns surrounding Lake Tahoe and were heading toward the Nevada border. When it had become clear after about an hour or so that civilization was not going to appear right around the corner, we had pulled over to the side of the road and Roger had compiled his new mix. While I had known California was big, I had never realized just how big until now. It seemed impossible that we were still in the same state. We'd had a lot more mountain scenery for a while, more rocks and pine trees and sharp turns. But things had begun to flatten out a bit, and Highway 50, the winding two-lane highway we'd been on since leaving Yosemite changed to four-lanes, with two going each way.

As Roger's new mix started for the second time, he slowed the car down and pulled it over to the side of the road. I looked over at him, and he nodded ahead of the car. "I thought we had to stop and mark this moment," he said, pointing. "Check it out!"

I looked, and there it was-a smallish white sign, with blue letters that spelled out WELCOME TO NEVADA WELCOME TO NEVADA. And then, below that, the silver state . ."Wow," I said, staring at it.

"Leaving California," Roger said. "How's it feel?"

"Good," I said, without even stopping to think about my answer.

It did feel good. It was what I'd been thinking ever since I'd felt the desire to get out of Yosemite. It was the impulse to turn a new page, to put some distance between myself and California and everything that had happened there.

"So," said Roger, reaching into the backseat and picking up the atlas, "do we know which way we're going?"

"Yes," I said, taking the atlas from him and flipping to the page for Nevada, which suddenly looked worryingly big. And we were crossing it at the widest point, not the little tip of it you'd drive across if you went the southern route. "So here's the thing. There are only two interstates that run through Nevada. Eighty up by Reno, and 15 down by Vegas."

"Vegas?" Roger asked, peering at the map.

"Right," I said. "The Reno one is closer to us at this point, but it's still out of the way. And that puts us way up by Salt Lake City, which seems really far out of the way."

"So what's the plan?" he asked.

"Well," I said, tapping my finger on where we were, "right now, we're on Highway 50. And it looks like that will take us all the way across Nevada and into Utah. And then a little ways into Utah, we can get onto Interstate 70."

"There are no interstates that go through the middle of Nevada?" Roger asked, looking over at the map. "Huh," he said, after staring at it for a moment. "There really aren't, are there?"

"But I think that's our best bet," I said, studying the map. As I did, I realized that in terms of logistics, Yosemite hadn't been a great pick. It had taken so long to get to, and so long to get out of, and now it seemed it was going to be challenging crossing Nevada. Apparently, not many people chose to leave California by way of a national park. "Think we're still going to be okay with the time-line?" I asked, acutely aware of the fact that we were supposed to be closing in on Tulsa at the moment, not just venturing out of California.

"Probably," said Roger, still looking down at the map. "I'm sure we'll be able to make up the time. And I think your mother will understand if we're a day late."