Chapter Seventy-Five. Betty, Present Day
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
—Psychology of Consciousness
BETTY, PRESENT DAY
It’s like gazing at a painting that continually transforms, Betty marvels as she stares out the open window at the red rock country in Sedona, Arizona.
The late spring air smells of juniper—piney and crisp—and the setting sun shades the rocks a deep crimson, creating the illusion that they’re glowing from within.
Riley turns off the engine and a hush settles over their camper. All Betty can hear is the faint echo of her own breaths.
“I didn’t know places like this existed,” Betty finally says. “It’s out of another world.” And to think, she used to believe she’d never see anything beyond her little patch of land in Virginia.
Luckily, Riley had other plans. A few weeks ago, after their testimony had helped Sandra be sentenced to life in prison, Riley looked at Betty across the dinner table.
“How would you feel about taking a road trip?” she asked, her eyes shining.
The prospect made Betty nervous—then exhilarated.
After Riley rented the camper, their first stop was the Atlantic Ocean.
The salty, humid air kissed Betty’s face as she listened to the rhythmic crash of waves and watched Hank race across the sand, acting much younger than his years.
Later Riley wheeled her down the boardwalk as Betty ate cotton candy that stained her fingertips pink, just like it had when she was a little girl.
From there, they set off for the Grand Canyon, stopping along the way in Tupelo, Mississippi, where they drove by Elvis Presley’s old house and Memphis, Tennessee, where they all ate fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches in his honor—even Hank.
Every day welcomed in a wonderland of sights and sounds and tastes: twangy bluegrass music played by a trio at an outdoor restaurant; the prairies of Oklahoma tinted violet by the oncoming winter; a palomino horse running across a field, her muscular, shiny body rippling.
At times Betty missed Douglas acutely, thinking about the giddy, romantic early days of their marriage. How he would have loved taking these adventures with her—at least the young version of Douglas, the one who wasn’t so scarred by life.
“Are you ready?” Riley asks now, starting up the engine. “We can make it to the Grand Canyon tonight.”
“Wouldn’t you rather camp here and go in the morning?” Betty asks. “You must be tired.”
The camper has a cozy bed in the back for Betty and a couch that Riley takes at night, insisting it’s comfortable.
“I’m feeling energetic,” Riley says. “I think I’ll drive for a while.”
“I’ll stay up with you,” Betty decides.
They drive for several hours, alternating Riley’s favorite country music station with the hits of the early 1960s.
At one point, as Patsy Cline sings about falling to pieces, Betty looks over at Riley’s profile, admiring the way her red-gold hair falls over her shoulders.
She realizes that although she gave up hope of having a child long ago, Riley has become her granddaughter.
Riley turns to her and smiles as she shuts off the engine. “We’re here.” She lowers the ramp and wheels Betty out of the camper to the lookout point. Betty feels her heart skip a beat.
The moonlight reveals the surface contours of the endless canyon before them. Betty can’t see all the way to the bottom, but she senses a vastness that stretches the limits of her imagination. This place feels holy.
In the distance, a canyon owl hoots, its call faintly echoing. Overhead the sky glitters with more stars than Betty thought possible.
She takes it all in—the magnificent vista that no photograph or painting could capture, the cool desert air rustling the trees, the nearby deer nibbling on a bush, unbothered by their presence.
Then white streaks sear across the sky, one after the other, like a dazzling display of fireworks.
“A meteor shower,” Riley whispers.
Tears streak Betty’s cheeks as she sits suspended on the edge of time and sky and the great hollow.
She’s waited a lifetime for this.
Later, Riley brings Betty a glass of water and her nighttime pills. She makes sure the quilt is tucked around Betty and the moonroof is open so Betty can gaze at the stars as she drifts off to sleep. Hank is curled up by Betty’s side.
“Thank you,” Betty murmurs. She feels tired down to her old bones, a deeper fatigue than she’s ever experienced. As if something within her is yearning to finally rest.
That night she dreams about her sisters again, the four of them young and carefree, linking arms and laughing as they walk through campus.
A couple of boys with the moptops the Beatles made popular are tossing around a football, and another guy and his best girl sit on the hood of a red Corvette as its radio blasts “Dancing in the Street” by Martha and the Vandellas.
“Oh, Bets,” says Kathleen in her dream, throwing back her head and laughing. “Isn’t it grand?”
“I’ve missed you all so much,” Betty replies.
“But we’re together now!” Ivy exclaims, as Helen squeezes Betty’s arm.
On the last night of her life, just before her heart gently gives out, Betty awakes briefly and looks at the stars and experiences one final premonition: She will see her friends again. She’s never been so certain of anything.