Chapter Twenty-Three
After the havoc of the Denver festival—the tear gas, the panic, the push through the crowd—Leanne and Nora had returned to their motel room and collapsed in a heap of bruised exhaustion.
The room smelled faintly of bleach and stale cigarette smoke.
A Western, The Good, The Bad and the Ugly, was playing on the television, cowboys galloping across a dusty plain in search of justice or stolen gold—Leanne couldn’t remember which. Maybe both.
They’d taken turns teasing the mustaches and gruff line delivery. Nora had laughed until she cried when Leanne dubbed one of the bounty-hunter cowboys Sheriff Shifty ’Stache.
Tonight was one of those rare mother-daughter exchanges where nothing felt forced.
They’d talked about the road ahead. About Eleanor.
About how the hell any of this had even started.
Gone was the tension that seemed to constantly fill the space between them, replaced by a comradery Leanne was reluctant to let go of.
Now, hours later, the sun was already high, squeezing through the slits of the green motel curtains, and Leanne was back behind the wheel. Another state. Another stretch of highway. Another gamble that her mother might show up at a music festival like some cigarette-smoking, guitar-playing ghost.
The Lincoln rumbled into a rinky-dink gas station on the outskirts of Kansas. A rusted Texaco sign swung on a crooked pole, and a diner attached to the side of the station promised “Hot Coffee, Cold Pie, All Day Breakfast.”
Nora, eyes still puffy from sleep, rubbed her face as they parked.
After falling asleep before finishing the book, they’d been reading the last chapters of The Godfather aloud that morning, the scenes heavy and blood-spattered.
Michael Corleone getting his revenge. It felt fitting somehow—like they were on the last page of something in both fiction and real life.
The red vinyl booths squeaked inside the diner, and the smell of bacon grease and toast wrapped around Leanne like a warm, greasy hug.
She welcomed it. A part of her—one that she didn’t like to admit—was starting to fall in love with this strange pilgrimage they were on.
And after talking to Joe, knowing her mother was safe and even in good spirits, had eased some of the worry, though it never fully left her. She didn’t think it ever would now.
At the counter, a waitress leaned against the register, cracking up. “You’re kidding,” she said to a patron, swiping a rag over the countertop between giggles.
The man she was chatting with wore a trucker hat that said “Keep on Truckin’.” He laughed, tipping his coffee mug toward the waitress for a refill.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Old lady and a trucker arguing about whether she could drive his semi.” He shook his head. “I swear, she had a mouth on her. She looked him straight in the eye and told him age and gender didn’t mean a thing if she had the guts and the gumption.”
Leanne’s heart stuttered. She leaned forward, her coffee forgotten, her pulse picking up like she was chasing a moving train.
Old lady. Argumentative. Mouthy. Gumption.
She and Nora looked at each other across the sticky table. Nora mouthed one word, “Grandma?”
Leanne wasn’t sure why it was this, of all things—a story about a truck-stop shouting match—that made her think of her mother.
Maybe it was the sheer audacity of the thing.
Maybe it was the mention of a mouthy old woman.
Or maybe it was the fact that, deep down, she could absolutely picture Eleanor getting into a heated debate with a trucker about why women should be allowed to drive a semi.
What solidified it for her was when he mentioned the old woman had ended the argument by breaking out into song, before she’d been led away by a rocker-looking dude.
Leanne took another sip of coffee, which she’d doctored with sugar and a splash of cream, and side-eyed Nora over the rim of her mug. “So, what do you think? You think Grandma’s picking fights with truckers now?”
Nora giggled, stirring her hot chocolate lazily, her marshmallows melting into goo. “Honestly? I’d love to see it in person.”
Leanne smirked, shaking her head. “You would.”
They ate quietly for a bit—soft eggs, crispy toast, a side of bacon Leanne hadn’t realized she’d craved until she took the first bite.
It reminded her of being young and free, back when breakfast in a roadside diner felt like the start of something big instead of a rest stop on the way to the next chaotic destination.
Back when she didn’t worry that her rear end would get bigger just from sniffing greasy food.
Soon enough, they were back in the Lincoln, tires humming as they coasted down the on-ramp to the highway. Nora was fiddling with the radio dial again, skipping past static, jazz, and talk radio.
But Leanne’s hand shot out mid-turn.
“Wait—go back.”
Nora twisted the dial back one notch. A burst of static, then—
“—folks, I’m not making this up. First reported in the San Francisco Chronicle, reports are flying in from all over, and now, hot off the wire, we’ve got it on good authority that she’s en route to Atlanta.”
The DJ had a voice that was smooth and magnetic, just amused enough to sound like he wasn’t taking himself too seriously but serious enough that a listener would pay attention. Leanne’s spine straightened, and Nora turned up the volume.
“They call her the Dame of Rock and Roll, and she’s living up to the name.
Out of nowhere, she’s been lighting up the summer music festival stages with Shep Moon and his band, turning every set into an unforgettable experience.
” The announcer let out a whistle that startled Leanne enough she came back to herself.
“With that silver hair, sweet guitar strumming, and a voice that’s nothing short of angelic, she’s got fans and musicians falling swiftly under her spell. ”
Leanne and Nora glanced at one another, and Leanne felt her body levitate, as if she were no longer in the car, just hovering above the leather.
The announcer continued. “No telling how long she’ll be out on the road, so if you’re anywhere near Atlanta—or heading to the big festival this weekend—keep those eyes peeled and your ears wide open.
And hey, if you spot the Rocking Granny tearing it up onstage, give us a ring and let the rest of us live vicariously through your epic experience.
This is one act you don’t want to miss!”
Shock numbed Leanne’s hands, her brain, basically her entire body, and she nearly swerved off the road.
“They’re really calling her that? I thought Joe was joking,” Nora choked out, twisting toward the radio like she could pull the words out of the dashboard or rewind and have the announcer say it all over again.
“The Dame of Rock and Roll,” Leanne slowly repeated the moniker given to her mother, like saying it aloud might help her wrap her head around it. “It has to be her.”
“I think so,” Nora said, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and hysterical laughter.
“This is just…crazy.” Leanne tightened her grip on the wheel, her knuckles turning white as she eased the Lincoln back onto the highway and gunned the engine like that might somehow ground her in reality. Hard to believe that this was really happening.
The radio announcer continued to speak, his voice full of amused disbelief, the same feelings swimming in her mind. “If you’ve seen her, folks, let us know. Frankly, we want to meet her.”
Nora burst into giggles. “Everyone wants to meet Grandma. What is happening? Is she famous now?”
“Seems we’re not the only ones looking for her,” Leanne muttered.
The truth of it hit her like a sudden pothole in the road.
Her mother—Eleanor—wasn’t missing. She wasn’t wandering around dazed or confused or lost. She didn’t need Leanne to rush in and rescue her.
She was out there singing with rock stars, making friends with DJs, and probably starting philosophical debates with truckers over women’s rights.
And here Leanne was. Squeezing the steering wheel like she might be able to choke the answers out of it, driving across the country as if she were on some noble rescue mission.
But for what?
For autonomy? For joy?
For herself?
She glanced sideways at Nora, who was still laughing, her ponytail bouncing from beneath her tie-dye bandanna as she kicked her bare foot onto the dashboard. The sun glinted off her sunglasses. Nora looked young and carefree and joyful. Exactly how a girl of eighteen should.
Leanne swallowed hard against the guilt rising in her throat.
All her life, she’d tried to be the opposite of Eleanor. Where her mother had been wild and whimsical and unpredictable, Leanne had clung to order. To routine. To crisp table linens, weekly pot roast dinners, and a perfectly penciled grocery list. She had been safe.
And now? Now Eleanor was on a nationwide stage. Literally.
The words from long ago echoed in her ears like a tune she couldn’t shake: “You’re such a square, Leanne.”
At the time, it had felt like an insult coming from her mother. The one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally and not judge her. Now, she wasn’t so sure it was an insult but rather a warning.
What was so wrong with being a little different? A little chaotic? A little…alive?
Maybe the real problem wasn’t that Eleanor had left on a wild adventure. Maybe it was that Leanne had never permitted herself to do the same.
She pressed a little harder on the gas. The wind caught Leanne’s hair and flung it around her face as they sped forward into the sun.
Who was she to stop her mother from doing what she wanted? If what Eleanor really wanted was to sing—to chase a dream that had been collecting dust in the corners of a closet somewhere between raising Leanne and growing old gracefully—then who was Leanne to snatch that away?
Especially now. Especially after reading the words in that letter from the doctor’s office.
Since she’d shared the news with Dean and Nora, researched as much as she could, she hadn’t said the word dementia out loud.
But it was there, floating in the passenger seat like an invisible ghost. Not quite real yet, but close enough to haunt her.
When Leanne cleared her throat, Nora was adjusting the radio dial again, catching another burst of a Janis Joplin track.
“Nora?”
“Yeah?” Her daughter tilted her head, sunglasses sliding halfway down her nose.
Leanne hesitated. Then, taking a breath that felt like peeling off a mask, she said, “What if we didn’t make this trip about chasing Grandma to bring her home?”
Nora stared at her for half a beat. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if we’re not here to stop her? What if we find her and…support her instead? Cheer her on. But only if you’re okay with it. I know chasing Grandma has sort of ruined your summer plans.”
Nora’s mouth dropped open as if her mother had just donned a daisy chain and traded her high-waisted belt dress for a flower-flowing bohemian smock.
Leanne’s heart stuttered in her chest. She wasn’t sure if Nora was appalled or just shocked.
If someone had told Leanne when they climbed into the Lincoln and headed out of their driveway that she would say, “Let’s cheer on Grandma,” she was pretty certain her daughter would have laughed and then said something snarky.
“Do you mean it?” Nora’s voice was soft, hopeful.
Leanne let out a breath that she wasn’t even aware she was holding, then nodded.
Nora let out a loud whoop, clapping. “I think my friends are going to be totally jealous. I wouldn’t give up this summer for all the lake trips in the world. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. I think it’s groovy.”
“Groovy?”
“That’s what the cool kids are saying,” Nora replied, a hint of teasing in her tone.
Leanne chuckled and tapped the steering wheel. “Well then, groovy it is.”
They flew past a hand-painted sign that read ATLANTA 1238 MILES, and Leanne felt something crack open in her chest. Not in a painful way. But in the way a window that’s been painted shut finally unsticks after you wrestle with it.
“Atlanta, here we come,” Leanne said, her voice steadier than expected.
Because the Dame of Rock and Roll might have a whole country of fans now…but Leanne and Nora Miller?
They were number one.