The airbag didn’t deploy, though it should have. I get out of the vehicle to see what I hit. My legs are numb but seem to take to the ground. I brace myself against the driver’s side and look at the road. My tyre stains like smeared eyeliner. I walk to the hood and see no damage to the grill, but there’s smoke. Fuck. I look underneath to see some fluid leaking, fuck. I pull out my phone and search for repair, ping, a few miles away. Maybe. I head back into the driver’s seat and debate about calling my husband. I can’t yet; I don’t want to wait here till dark for him. I pull off the shoulder and watch for the redirecting to tell me left. Then, right, to a small side street. I look outside and remember home. There’s a white garage with a cartoon wrench with a thought bubble: repairs.
I park at the end of the driveway. I don’t even know if this is a still-functioning garage. A man comes out from what appears to be the main house. I wave.
“I had a bit of an accident,” I say.
“Did you hit something?” I shake my head. “Okay, pull into the garage, let me take a look.”
I do as he says because he’s kind enough to help. He asks me to open the hood. Shit, I think. I walk out of the garage to get some fresh air. I don’t need to look over his shoulder. There’s a breeze that hits above my cheekbones near the temple. He comes out to meet me.
“Is it okay?”
“Well, I have some things, but not what you need,” he says. “I could order the items to arrive tomorrow, but it might take another day. Two days max.”
It’s a long drive home and back. “Is there a hotel nearby?” He shakes his head.
“After Blair died, the daughters sold the hotel to a chain. Now the place is for long-term housing rather than short stays. If you want, I have a guest room that my wife made one time.” I wonder what I look like to him. My entire outfit is screaming that I’m not from around here, with leather that can scrape past branches, to white shirts impossible around this dirt. He knows I’m out of luck and can only take the offer.
“Thanks, yeah, and I’ll…”
He waves his hand. “Let’s get you inside, you don’t look so well.” I follow behind him as I take off my sneakers and leave them at a small vacant spot on the wet mat. He points down the hallway. “The first door on the left. Bathroom is all yours.”
“Thank you. I should call my husband and tell him what happened,” I say.
I should.
“Sounds good, I’m going to put the order in and get started on the car, make yourself at home,” he says before going to a desk in the living room. I leave him to call and head to the room.
I’m calling, there was an accident, I’m okay.
Ok
Let me go somewhere quiet.
ok
“Hey, babe,” I say, “so I drove off the road,”
“Did you hit anything?” he says.
“No, I think I was avoiding something, but I can’t,” I say because I can’t remember.
“I’m glad you’re okay–did you want me to pick you up?”
“No, I’m okay, I’m in a small town, just before the highway. Still a couple days out from you.”
“I can fly in and be…”
“Don’t be dramatic, I have the car at a repair shop and staying in a guest room for a couple days, like a retreat.”
“Are you serious?”
“Do you need me home?”
“Well, no, I guess a couple days is okay if you’re safe. But send me where you are and stuff,”
“Of course, I’ll relax more when I get home, but right now, things could be worse.”
“Yeah, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks, baby. Okay, I think I’m going to get my bag out of the trunk and start on dinner. I’ll message before bed?”
“Sounds good. Love you.”
“Love you too, bye-ie”
I look up from the bed to the small vanity and leave my phone near the mirror. It feels like a different time, when finding a place to see yourself was somewhere in the comfort of home. I look at the bed and see the sheets are bare. There must be another fresh set somewhere. I open the bottom of a set of dresser drawers to find an azure blue sheet set, complementing the room that I now notice is painted green. A slight hue darker than the horizon. I leave the sheets on the bed and head to the hallway. I really should get my stuff before it gets dark. Before I go through the front door, I hear him on the phone. He’s asking the parts place about his grandchildren and promises him that he’ll visit when he’s over that way. I look outside, and there really seems like a single direction. I open the trunk and take out my overnight bag and a large tote. I always pack extra because I anticipate being stranded; the idea of arriving somewhere on time is behind me.
Once the bed is made and my items intact, I head towards the kitchen. I see he’s in the garage, as the kitchen window can pick up the light. I open the fridge to see what he has that I can prepare. There’s a large piece of beef to expire and a couple of potatoes. I turn on the oven and dig around for a dish. I find a white Corning dish with a pair of geese in a straw hat; I mean, I guess in theory it’s for the oven. I rub some butter on the pan and toss in the diced potatoes, then season the beef with some rosemary before placing it on top. I add olive oil and some broth before putting on some tin foil. As I close the door, I pick up my phone from the thin wooden table. I set a timer. It’s still light out. I head out to the porch to get some air. I haven’t smelled the change in the ground for years. The closest we got was in the Atlantic over one of my birthdays, in a small Basque town. The way the end of the day blew softly over your shoulders, carrying the smells of a night to come.
“Food smells good,” he says, coming to join me on the porch, “you’re kind to help.” “Oh, please, I’m trying to figure out how not to be in your way,” I smile. “Should be another 30 minutes before dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I hear the doors close along the hallway. I watch the sun glowing above the treeline. The circle appears like a drop of serum across these plains as the fields get retilled into youth. My phone vibrates, timer off. I head back inside to hear him in the kitchen.
“My timer went off, should be ready.” I say, he nods and takes up the oven mitt. He places the dish on the stove as I peel back the tin foil. The steam warms up my nose. “Perfect.” He sets up the table.
“If you want to eat alone, I can eat in the living room. I have a dinner tray.” he says, looking towards the side of the couch.
“No, this is fine, not like the internet is that reliable here to watch Netflix.” I smile. “Shall we?” I place our bowls on opposite ends of the 4-person table. He has napkins and a salt shaker on the table. The broth should be enough salt for the meal. After a couple of spoonfuls, I see he agrees.
“Your husband must be fat,” he says well into the 5th, I laugh.
“I like them plump too,” he laughs.
“My wife didn’t, she liked them lean, like they skipped a couple meals but had time to carry something.”
“What did you carry?”
“A son from a high school sweetheart,” he says, “she died from a drug overdose when he was a small boy. The court said I had to find somewhere to raise him or they’ll put him in the system. So I found this house, and then my wife found me.”
“Found?”
“Well, she liked to get around and I guess I wanted a mother for my son, so I thought whenever she was around was better than nothing.”
“What happened to her?” I say as there’s no evidence of a female presence in the entire layout of the house.
“Oregon. I lost her there after I asked for a visit. Imagine not wanting to see your husband?” he says. I imagine the few moments when I am trying to create, that the thought of him coming into my vision would throw me into a loop. “What is it your husband does for work?”
“Tech,” I say almost in reflex after I’m asked about him. “He likes it.”
“That’s good, it’s always good to do what you enjoy.” I nod. He knows not to ask what I do or where my kids are; he knows enough not to ask.
“Yeah, we get a chance to see the world, we never wanted kids, so this kinda happened in our favour.”
“I always wanted to travel to Europe. My son did and had stories for days on what they did, ones you don’t get here. Those were stories; here it’s gossip,” he says. With an empty bowl in his hands, he stands at the table, “I’m going to head into the living room for a bit, you can put on what you like.”
“It’s okay, I’m going to head to bed. I’m still a little shaken by the accident.” I say, he nods. “Goodnight.” I wave him into the living room and finish my bowl. I leave the items soaking in the sink. I’ll clean them tomorrow. I really should lie down.
Babe, I’m exhausted.
I’m going to just pass out.
(I pull the blanket and slide into bed. In the lamplight, I see the notification.)
Okay baby. Sweet dreams, Love you.
Love you too.
I hear tyres on gravel and an engine turning off. I blink twice to remember the room. For a room facing the front, there’s such little sun. My phone has only a few emails and my husband’s messages asking how I slept. I message that I’m awake, and think I hear the part getting delivered. I step out of the bed and find the floor is cold, so this is ground level. I have a pair of slippers in my bag. I pull on yesterday’s pair of socks that are skewed on the rug. At the window, I see a van reading Steve’s auto parts. I slept into someone else’s day. I take out the first pair of pants for this weather to step into the kitchen. I hear the men talking outside. Steve seems louder than the town. I don’t want to ask him anything. I switch out my socks and message my husband.
Hey, yeah, looks like the part is getting delivered.
Let me find out more details and call you?
Okay baby. I stayed home with Blue.
(sends a picture of our cat.)
Call whenever you know more.
K, love you.
Love you too.
The truck kicks back up the gravel after I brush my teeth. Maybe they could hear the water running on the other side of the bathroom window. I’ll wait till he’s doing the repair before I shower. I can’t stand when people can hear me cleaning myself. When I enter the kitchen, he’s coming in the front door.
“Morning,” he says, “there’s fresh coffee in the pot.”
“Thanks,” I say, “was that my part?” he nods.
“Yep, looks like I can get started on it for you,” he says, “should be done tomorrow afternoon, 2pm the latest.” I nod.
“That works,” I say. The coffee is good, he knows how to measure, as I look at the giant store-bought container. “I’m thinking of heading to the store.” He nods.
“Okay, just stay off the 8th concession. People go too fast there.” I watch him head back out, then hear the machines going on the other side of the wall. At the table, I Facetime my husband to tell him what I learned. We look up the store and a possible path. I don’t tell him how I was warned about the 8th concession, that I’ll modify myself.
The walk down his street is not different to what I remember growing up. A fact that becomes more a marketable trait than my past. I watch the layers of gravel pooling on the shoulder, each pouring from a different lot. I could still see the dust in front of the sun from her bedroom window. We were two people who felt out of place amongst the blonde and blue eyes; neither one of us found a familiar face. It wouldn’t be until a decade later that people would see us, but by then it’ll be too late. I think of her son. She struggled to find love from the men who dotted on the other copies of themselves. She didn’t turn her back on them like I did, she wasn’t selfish enough. That’s what would keep her as a better mother than most. As I open the door, bells hit against the glass. A woman gets up from a chair to look over at the sound. I wave.
“Oh, welcome, anything I can help you find?” she says. I shake my head.
“I’ll look around first,”
“Okay, sweetie, we got some fresh strawberries this morning,” she says to the crate near the counter. “It’s nice that Bruce is looking after her plants again.” I pause with her, “they’re not too sweet to make jam, but can go with ice cream.” She whispers it like a secret. I pick up a basket as she sits back down. The fridge has some chicken, and the carrots look pretty decent. There’s a bin of string beans and a couple of turnips that could help. Around the corner is the liquor aisle. It’s too clean. Freshly stocked items. There is dust pooling under the neck for a decent vintage. A blanc that could pair with some smoky dry rub. I add it along with a lemon. As I place the basket on the counter, I take out a small basket of strawberries.
“We wouldn’t want to waste Bruce’s efforts,” I say. She smiles. After she rings in the items, she picks up a couple of loose wrapped chocolate pieces and puts them in the plastic bag.
“In case you still want something sweet,” she says and winks with as much effort as counting out my cash. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I nod. I look around to find a newspaper stand and a case of coffee pairings for people passing through.
“Indeed, have a good one,” I say as I take the bag from her wrinkled hand. My hand is dry enough to show my age; she knows not to get too close to feel the callus of time.
Back at the house, I open the wine to begin the decant. He comes in with a rag in his hand and asks me if I got everything I needed or if he needs to take me into town.
“No, I got enough for dinner and lunch,” I put a couple of cans of tuna on the table, “do you like olive oil or mayo?”
“Don’t think I tried olive oil,” he says.
“It’s healthier and spicier if you want,” I reach for the black pepper shaker, and he nods.
“Can you bring it to the garage when you’re done, taking out the front took more time than I’d like,” I smile.
“Do you need any help?” I say, there’s still an hour or so before lunch.
“No, no, you’re doing plenty,” he says, “I’ve got cold cans in the fridge outside, so don’t worry.” I watch as he goes back out; never does he come in and step off the mat. I put the chicken in the fridge, along with the beans and turnip. I keep the carrots out to go with the sandwich. I message my husband that I can talk. He responds that he’s in a meeting, asks for 10 minutes. I look at the blue plastic quartz clock mounted above the table. It just felt easier than squinting to the top left corner under my thumb. Okay, no problem.
It’s early when he comes back inside. I’m sitting on the couch with the television off as he enters with his boots off.
“Think I’m about done for today,” he says, “food smells good.” I’ve been sitting in it for an hour, and I can only smell the rub that’s lodged in my nail. I get up and head over to the wine bottle on the table.
“Should be ready, I’ll pour a glass out and wait on the porch.” I want to give him some privacy, “whenever you’re ready, dinner’s done.” I turn over a glass that I washed and pour out a glass. I’m surprised by the lemon notes still fresh against the buttery finish. “It’s good.” He smiles like it was his domain.
“Save me a glass for dinner,” I nod and take another sip. As he turns to go down the hallway, I slip back on my shoes and step outside. Maybe the breeze is softer today, as I can smell the grease from my car. I walk over to the front of the garage and see that most of my vehicle is apart. I guess to fix something, you really have to look at each part. I hear a bird in the distance. I look over through the clouds at a tree bearing some green. Maybe it’ll flower if it keeps warming up. Global warming at its finest. He comes out after a few minutes as I’m pacing along his driveway, enjoying the air. “Should I take the dish out of the oven?” I hear. I tip the glass until the horizon reaches the bottom.
The chicken is steaming as I divide the vegetables. He pours out a glass and raises it to the clock. There must be a joke somewhere in the pit of him that he’s too embarrassed to share. I place the plates on either side like last night.
“Yeah, it’s actually a decent vintage, though the area is more industrial. That could affect the grapes, but maybe that’s the limestone, I’m not that familiar.” He nods.
“Sounds like you are,” he says with a full mouth. A compliment to the chef.
“My husband and I spent time there on a vacation. He wanted to get away, but it wasn’t long enough for that.” I say, “how long have you been here?”
“Too long,” he says, “I should have left after I lost my son, but there aren’t many places left for me to go. He died from a car accident.” I rested the fork on the plate, but not from a lack of appetite. “He never could control himself.” He drank some of the wine. I lifted the bottle to top up our glasses, and he waved. “Thankfully, he took after his mother in that way.” I had a mother like that, but she got sick during my marriage. I told her that what she decided to do was up to her. The carrots are too sweet to pick up the lemon notes.
“I’m sorry about your son,” I eat the turnip instead.
“He stepped in front of a truck, no time to stop.” I stop eating at the image, he picks up a carrot. “He was too drunk to hear the horn. I did.” He looks out a window facing the backyard. I’m no longer in the room as he finishes his plate. I continue in his silence. He gets up from the table and heads into the living room. I message my husband that I can’t wait to see you. I think of how lucky I was to not be left somewhere, to be identified by landmarks that only a handful of people can see. I shake the feeling of being that close to ash. I throw out all the bones and don’t bother to wash the strawberries. I take the rest of the bottle with me to the bedroom. I don’t want him to be tempted because of me.
He’s in the garage when I wake up. I see my husband didn’t message.
Hey, babe, I’m up.
Morning baby
Did you sleep okay?
I think I slept in lol (I can’t really tell.)
I’m going to find out about the car.
Did you pay for it yet?
No, but I’ve been making dinner.
About all I can do here. (or anywhere.)
That’s nice of you.
What did you make?
*type out chicken and opt to use the emoji*
I actually found a decent vintage outside of Valence.
Oh yeah?
Did you tell him about the traffic there lol
Sort of lol
Okay, baby, I’m going to head out and ask him about the car.
Okay baby.
(I’ll be here. Love you.) ^ loved
Love you too.
I take out a big sweater and a white shirt. I have only the same leggings I had on at the time of the accident. I really don’t want to wear a dress around here, the bottom would pick up more than it’s worth. I put back all my items after I shower. Maybe it’s the steam out the window from my shower that makes him stop for a moment. I head into the kitchen and see the pot’s gone cold.
“I can make a fresh pot if you’d like,” he says at the threshold, “should be done here in a few hours.” I nod.
“I think I’ll go get us some breakfast,” I say. I pour out the coffee and give it a quick rinse before putting it on the towel out of habit. He walks back outside only after I throw out the filter. I’ll make more when I get back. I shouldn’t be long.
Fuck. I’m sure this was the road I used to find the path last time. I look back, but the store is gone. The field seemingly grew around it. The donuts are no longer warm or seeping through the paper bag. The counter had a girl this time, young enough to move away if she wanted. Fuck, no signal. I hear water hitting rocks to my left. I don’t remember that yesterday, but then again, my mind wasn’t here. Maybe there’s a clearing there where I could get reception. I walk through the dried brush on soaked ground. There’s a weathered dock as old as a roof. The height is proof the water was enough to count as a source. LTE, not ideal. My husband would hate it here. Okay, looks like the road is. I look back along the shoreline. The morning is too pure to reflect against the brown glass. I face the road. His son was killed here. The dock creeks loudly enough to turn me around. I could see the back of his house from here. I could almost make the kitchen window. Redirecting.
I’m shaking by the time I reach the backyard. Maybe it’s the wind that found itself again. I adjust myself to not reveal where I’ve been. As I scan the back porch for any evidence of his son’s behaviour, I notice an old repair shop sign. The thick, bold lettering style is made to catch someone’s attention. It must have worked long enough before getting online. I walk past the garage and hold up the paper bag.
“Not healthy but fresh,” I say. He takes a rag and wipes his hands.
“The fresh pot should be done,” he says. Inside the kitchen smells like burnt grounds because I forgot to dry the bottom. I don’t tell him that my husband and I prefer French Press, where the glass bottom doesn’t rest on a hot plate. Not in my memory to go around the whole glass with the towel. Instead, I pour out a couple cups into two mugs that have never made a pair. I take out one donut and bring the breakfast outside. He takes the cup from me and tells me that he’ll be done in a couple of hours. “You’ll be on the road for lunch.”
“Okay, we can square up then,” I say.
“No ma’am. You did plenty for me these last couple nights, it was nice having a woman dote on me.” I smile. “I saw you come in through the back like my son did.”
“I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to, I was lost…”
“It’s okay, he was lost too. Maybe if I was nicer to him after his mom left. Didn’t really give him a chance to do anything but sit there and get yelled at. Then I stopped and he kept hearing it. I don’t think he saw that I was sorry, just that I had nothing left to say. The truck that hit him also pulled in that day. Asked me to repair the grill. Took me a couple of days to get all the parts. But then he wasn’t too much further from here, had his girlfriend pick him up. Sweet girl brought something when she heard what happened. I told him it was an accident. There’s no one to blame but me. I never charged him for the brake pads that I put on his tyre for the next time some boy stood in front. Those he had were worn down.” He finishes the donut and wipes his hands on the side of his shirt, one of the few clean spots within reach. “I’ll call you when I’m done.” I nod.
Inside, I don’t hesitate to look up a repair bill for a similar incident. I take out the amount in cash and leave it on the vanity table in the guest room. I can’t have myself not give him something, and this is all I have to offer. I don’t show my pain until I’m back on the road. I don’t leave my email, Instagram handle or Snapchat name. Those details aren’t going to find their place here. Instead, I tell him the truth, that I like the sign.
“It gets harder to find a gateway into the past,” I say. I don’t need to continue. I shake his hand and tell him thank you.
“Tell your husband that he’s a lucky man,” he says.
“Sure, but that’s because he likes to gamble.” I hear him laugh as I close the door. I drive against the same gravel that got me here. At the first gas station off the highway, I fill the tank. I want to bend over the wheel and sob about his son. Instead, I buy a bag of chips to leave open on the passenger seat.
On the road again.
Ok, see you soon.
