Fifty-Five—Bo
T
he day had been long and not easy. But I’d made it with no pill, so I felt a bit triumphant. I’d come close to taking one somewhere in Oklahoma, but I’d powered through and I was pretty proud of myself. The truth was I’d never ventured this far alone before, and it was hard. Probably more significantly, I’d never ventured this far into alone before, and that was harder. The view from here was overwhelming with its reflections and questions. What was I doing out here by myself was still at the forefront of my thoughts. But I wasn’t really alone. A therapist would say I’d taken care of business when I asked Mia to inform my parents of what was happening. Of course, the predictable result was that Mom had blown up my phone. But that was okay. That kept me tethered.
I actually ended up having a fairly long conversation with the amazing Eileen: friend, support, confidant, and worried mama. It was just outside of Oklahoma City when panic was creeping up on me. And not so surprisingly, Mom said all the right things. She’s good that way. She even seemed to grasp my reasoning for crossing the country as well as getting the liberating side dish of challenging myself. She said she was proud of me, which sounded a little too mothery and obligatory, but she echoed my sister in her certainty that I could do this. So, whether she meant it or not, Mom’s words were just what I needed to hear.
But that had been hours ago. Now it was dark and very late, and I was hungry and battling myself in this parking lot in Carlisle, Arkansas where my critical reverie flowed unfiltered. It was disturbing and a little frightening. I looked around feeling vulnerable and very isolated. I didn’t even know for sure where I was, but I did know I was someplace I’d never been, nor dreamed of being, motivated by circumstances I would never have imagined for myself. A girl and a favor I could not live up to and a burning need to prove something to her. Why?
Was it love? This was another question that had plagued me for hours. Did I love Ivy Talbot? And was that even possible for someone like me? And how would I even know since I had virtually no experience in this realm, no tool of measurement. I didn’t know the protocol, and the whole question of worthiness confused me—mine, not hers. And what about timing? Wasn’t it supposed to take months, if not years, to determine something this life-changing? So, with all that in the mix, how was I supposed to decipher what was real? And if it was love, was I supposed to be this utterly riddled with conflict?
Clearly, if this was it , I was doing it wrong.
I blew out a noisy breath. I was starving, and I had been for long enough that it was making me a little weak, perhaps even a little nuttier than usual. I also had a pretty good headache, but that might have been the thought war going on in my brain, and of course I had to pee. I sighed, truly dreading my only choice, and got out of the car. The sign flashing in the window of the Pancake Pavilion said “Open 24 Hours.” I grimaced as I walked through the door. I’d passed better options. Dozens. But I was quite discriminating when it came to restaurants and made it a rule, when possible, to familiarize myself with the latest results of their health inspection. But since I’d not reached this critical point of deprivation before a quarter to three in the morning—of I didn’t even know what day—I’d glibly driven through Little Rock and undoubtedly much more palatable alternatives.
A small chalkboard at the entrance read ‘Please Seat Yourself,’ and it took me several minutes of intense table scrutiny to finally decide on a remote booth near the window. But as I sat, the faux leather upholstery of my seat felt as nauseatingly sticky as all the other options. If there’d been anything in my stomach at all, I think I may have vomited.
A gray-haired waitress who seemed to have been enjoying my weirdness approached my booth with a smile. “We here to stay?” she said. “Or would you like to check out our conference room down the hall?”
I offered her no reaction. “I’m a little picky, but I guess this will do.”
“Whatever floats your boat, hon.” She winked and handed me a menu.
I was sitting on a biohazard with only a thin layer of denim as protection between me and it, and I refused to further tempt fate by handling the plastic-coated germ farm she was proffering. I looked at her without accepting it. “Do you have anything…packaged? Unopened? Anything at all?”
“Like cereal?” she said. “I have little boxes of cereal. Oh, and chips. I have chips. And we have candy bars up front.”
“What about bottled water?”
She nodded.
“What brand?”
“Whatever Costco sells. And I have bottled green tea, too.”
I sighed. “Okay. I’ll take that.”
“What?”
“The tea. The cereal. Can you bring me four or five? Unopened.”
“Do you want an assortment?”
“Sure.”
“Chips?”
“Ummmm, maybe not the chips. But bring me a couple of bottles of water, I guess. Do you have any canned Coke?”
“Pepsi.”
“Bring me three, please.”
“Okay then,” she grinned. “I won’t even have to wake my cook. He’s going to love you. ”
I lifted a brow, which was the best I could do. “Could you tell me where your restroom is?”
She pointed and walked away.
As restaurant restrooms go, this one wasn’t bad. But I still used an entire travel package of wet-wipes to get in and out of it. Thank you, Mia.
I sat back down in my chosen booth—this time on the other side, it didn’t help—feeling infinitely more comfortable. Bladder-wise, at least. From the window I stared into utter desolation. Dark, no foreseeable landmarks. No signs of life. A night full of silence with only the choir of critics pummeling my gray matter for company. But that was okay; I knew them. They were in check. If it wasn’t so late—or early—I would have called Mia. She would love another opportunity to define all of this for me and listening to her would be a nice change from listening to myself. Besides, I wanted to know if she’d heard from Derek. But that would inevitably lead to a definition of her own experiences, which would be sort of useless to me. No, this, this was my quest—figuratively and literally—and though I really craved the sound of a familiar voice, I knew I was just tired. Unless…Maybe Lullaby, again. What time was it in France?
The waitress returned and blew up my reverie with a tray full of packaged cereal. Little boxes of Cheerios, Fruit Loops, and Corn Flakes. Two of each. And three small cartons of milk with straws. She winked. “You seem like a straw guy.”
I nodded, appreciating her. There was also water, tea, Pepsi, and a handful of candy bars.
“Thought I’d give you some choices,” she said, with a smile.
She may as well have presented me with a gourmet dinner of stuffed Cuckoo Marans, it all looked that good. “Thank you,” I said. “Do you have some plastic utensils, by chance?”
She reached into her apron and pulled out a handful of packaged spoons. And I went to town on a box of Cheerios—breaking it open at the perforated markings, tearing into the wax enclosure to the cereal—all very hygienic by General Mills standards, I’m sure. I poured the milk right into the box and tried not to obsess about where the spoon had come from. I wolfed down both boxes of Cheerios and both boxes of Corn Flakes in record time. I’m not particularly proud of that since I’m not really a wolfer, but I could feel the microbes teeming beneath me, imagined them infiltrating the thin fiber of my jeans. I also sucked all three cartons of milk dry and asked for everything else to go when the waitress wandered back to check on me.
She put it all in a paper bag and I handed her my credit card as I stood up.
She looked at her watch. “Eleven minutes flat. You must be in a hurry, hon.”
“You could say that.” I tipped her ten dollars because she didn’t make me feel as stupid as she could have.