26 Fame
Fame
“Oh no. Forget it.” A shudder runs through me as I gape down at the fuzzy image on Dash’s phone display.
After making his mysterious call, Dash went to work searching for a cheap motel within walking distance of the parking garage.
“Can’t we just take a bus around the city all night long? Or find a Walmart to wander through? We can grab a nap in a changing room. Either choice would be infinitely more sanitary than that .”
“Come on.” Dash chuffs. “I seem to recall one of us leaping from a rusty train trestle yesterday.”
“So?” I steal another peek and shudder at the image on his screen. My skin crawls at the thought of staying anywhere that charges by the hour.
“I didn’t hear you freaking out about bacteria or tetanus shots then. But now you’re afraid of a little hotel room?” Dash stretches the image to its full, horrifying glory. “See, it’s not that—”
“Look! Right there.” I tap the lumpy blue bedspread in the center of the photo. “I can totally see the bedbugs from here.”
“You can’t—” Dash squints. “We can lay on top.”
“Forget it. I’d need to disinfect my entire soul. And that’s if we survived the night. I’ve seen this movie. I know how it ends.”
As if proving my point, a bloodcurdling scream dissolves into loud cackles, and a rowdy group of drunken twentysomethings bursts out of the shadows.
A shudder cuts through me. “Walmart’s looking better every minute.”
“We’d spend all our money getting an Uber to the closest store.”
My chest tightens as I consider bailing on the photo at Heidelberg. “Let’s just go to Chicago tonight. It can’t be more than four hours away, how much could a pair of bus tickets cost?”
“Zoey, no.” Dash’s eyes search mine. “You wouldn’t get your picture.”
“Really. It’s fine.” The lie catches in my throat, but I force a smile and swallow it down. “Mom would forgive me for skipping this one, given the circumstances.”
“You’ve re-created her picture at every other stop.”
“What does one picture matter in the grand scheme?” Fighting the urge to cry, I drop my gaze to the sticky garage floor.
“It matters to me.” Dash hooks a finger under my chin, lifting my face until our eyes meet. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if you missed a single moment because of me.”
My stomach flips at the intensity of his gaze. “What about the all-night laundromat we passed on the way here? We could go there.”
A smile tugs at his lips, and he pulls me to my feet. “I guess that’s as good a place as any at this point. We can at least bleach the funk out of our clothes.”
With my tote tucked under my arm, I squeeze Dash’s hand and lead him out of the dark parking garage and down the block to the blissfully well-lit laundromat.
A far cry from the Saint Regis, but other than the burned-out light in the back corner, it’s bright. And aside from an old woman with her nose buried in a book, the place is empty and relatively clean.
“See?” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Isn’t this much better than some nasty hotel room?”
His dark eyebrows peek over the top of his black frames, sizing me up like a snack. “If you don’t count the lack of a bed ... or a shower ... or—”
“I’m willing to make the sacrifice just this once.” I spread out across a row of blue hard-plastic chairs attached to a single frame. “Besides, who needs a bed when we have these?”
After digging up enough quarters to wash and dry a giant load, Dash and I use what’s left of my loose change to split a nasty potted-meat sandwich from the vending machine and settle into a quiet corner to eat.
I do a sniff test before taking a tentative bite, chewing and swallowing before I change my mind. Who the hell decided putting meat in a blender would make for a good sandwich spread? “Jeanie would totally lose it if she saw me eating this.”
Dash devours his half in just a few bites. “It’s better than starving.”
“If you say so.” I snicker. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after all the wild shit I’ve done on this trip, I die from a vending machine sandwich?”
Dash laughs and reaches for Mom’s diary. “May I?”
I nod.
He flips through the pages, studying the photos in each section until he comes to the picture of Mom in front of the Dotty Wotty House. “Were you really considering skipping this photo?”
I shrug, unwilling to admit how close I’d been to bailing on Detroit.
“I can really see the resemblance here,” he says.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I still think Jeanie looks more like her than I do.”
“I didn’t mean you.” Dash lifts his head. “I see a resemblance between your mom and Bowie.”
I rest my chin on his shoulder and squint down at the photo. With her head tilted to the side, and her wet hair plastered to her face, Mom doesn’t look like herself, much less a famous rock star. “You can’t even see her face.”
“But look at that smile.”
I shift my focus to Mom’s mischievous grin. As far-fetched as the idea may be, I can almost see what Dash means. “Maybe a little. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“She never told you the story?” Dash hands me the diary and pulls a knee to his chest. “About your grandma and the Ziggy tour?”
“Nope, never said a word. I mean, I always knew she liked Bowie. But I had no idea how much until the day he died.” A thick lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it down.
“What do you mean?”
Memories rush back, and my eyes sting with unshed tears. Dash squeezes my hand as if he knows my heart is breaking all over again. He nods for me to continue.
I clear my throat. “I still can’t get the look on her face out of my head.
I’d never seen my mom cry so hard in my entire life.
Not even three weeks later when she was diagnosed with cancer.
I never got around to asking her why David Bowie’s death hit her so hard.
The topic never came up again, and she was so sick, it never seemed to be the right time.
” I lower my eyes to the pink-and-gray-speckled linoleum floor.
“Then she died, and my grandma Lola rolled up in front of the church in her butt-ugly Cutlass—over an hour late for Mom’s funeral—and the pieces started falling into place like a giant puzzle. ”
“That’s ...” Dash lets out a long breath. “Wow.”
“I don’t believe a single word of it. My best guess is that my grandma came up with the story back in the day to cover her shame.
It was the pre-Roe seventies, and she was young, pregnant, and probably didn’t even know who the guy was.
I’m guessing she told the lie so many times she started to believe it herself. ”
“It’s a stretch, but not entirely impossible.” Dash opens the diary again and flips to the picture of my mom in front of the junk house.
I chuckle under my breath. “I love my grandmother, but she’s the original wild child. And definitely not firing on all cylinders.”
“But your mom believed it?”
“She must have.” I snatch the diary from his hands, close it, and slide it into my tote, hoping to close the subject along with it. “Why else would she send me on this crazy mission?”
“Come on.” Excitement oozes from Dash’s pores. “You can’t tell me some small part of you doesn’t think it’s possible.”
“Sure.” I heave out a breath. “I still believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny, too.”
“Listen.” Dash rakes a hand through his hair. “Bowie did a lot of interviews where he talked about all the indiscriminate sex he had back in the day. So it’s not impossible.”
“Maybe not.” I stand and stretch, putting some distance between us. “But it is highly improbable. I really don’t care either way. This trip isn’t about who was or wasn’t my mom’s sperm donor, it’s about honoring the promise I made her.”
“You’ve got to admit, it would make for a great story.”
“Right. Because I’d love the whole world to think my mom and my grandma were crazy ... or liars.” A nervous laugh rolls up my throat. “No thanks.”
Dash jumps up and follows me across the room as I check on the clothes. “But you must be curious, at the very least.”
“Maybe, in the beginning. But now, I’m just glad I get to connect with Mom this one last time.
” I reach into the dryer and drag out the still-damp clothes, stuffing them into a wire laundry cart.
They need at least ten more minutes, but quarters aren’t the only things I’m out of.
“In my head, I know she’s gone. But in my heart, I swear she’s been right beside me this whole time.
” I glance around the dingy laundromat and snicker. “Maybe not here .”
Dash fishes his things from the cart, folding them before placing them in his bag. “You know you could probably make a fortune selling your story.”
“To who?” I snort.
“I don’t know. People ?”
“What people? The bottom-dwellers of Tattle Tale magazine? No thanks, I’m not interested.
” I shove my clothes into my backpack with more force than necessary.
The idea of exposing my family secrets to a bunch of strangers turns my stomach.
“All I want is to get back on the road and finish what I started.”
“About that ...” Dash leans against the block wall and fidgets with his glasses.
I study him out of the corner of my eye.
“I, uh ... came up with a plan to get money.”
“I told you.” Abandoning my laundry, I drape my arms over his shoulders. “I’m gonna call G-Lo and Jeanie, and have them send—”
He presses a finger to my lips. “This one’s on me. It’s my fault we’re in this situation.”
“I’m a big girl, Dash.” I let out a breath. “I don’t need—”
He pulls me into a tight embrace. “I got us into this mess, please let me get us out?”
I reluctantly nod, and his smile lights up the room.
“Okay, then.” He presses his lips to my temple. “By the time we finish getting your picture at Heidelberg, I should have enough to get us to Chicago. From there, we can head to Hicksville to pick up your grandma’s car.”
Curious, I tilt my head to look at him sideways. “How’d you pull that off?”
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Sold my soul to the devil.”