Don't Fail Me Now(68)

“Got it,” I say, but my insides feel like they’re eroding. I’ve been Cass’s sister my whole life, so it’s a job I’ve always felt sort of prequalified for. I never thought I could fail at it. Now I’m vibrating at this weird, high frequency, hyperaware of everything I do and say, not to mention everything she does and says. Plus, she doesn’t know about Tim and me yet, and I feel like that might not go over well. The prospect of going back out on the road again like everything is normal, and like this was just a pit stop, fills me with dread.

But we’ve made it this far—barely—and so we have to keep going, even though I don’t think any of us wants to. There’s a vibe of grim determination as we trudge over to Goldie’s boxy silhouette in the hospital parking lot. We might be cleaner and better fed, but we’ve lost any illusions that this is some kind of adventure. It’s a mission now, one that almost had a casualty. The cops may not be after us anymore, but I’ve never felt less safe.

I insist on driving so that I can have something to focus on besides the subtly shifting planes of my sister’s face. I’m shamefully relieved when she chooses to sit in the backseat even after I offer her shotgun.

“Nothing’s changed,” Cass says, which nearly stops my heart until she adds, “Tim’s legs are still longer.”

For about an hour, no one really says anything. But then Denny comes through with a classic “Are we there yet?” and since they can use their iPhones again without worrying their locations are being tracked, Tim and Leah tag-team mapping a route that will get us to Buck’s hospice—the Golden Palms—in six hours and nine minutes, or about eight P.M. Which is, of course, after visiting hours. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning.

“That’ll make it exactly a week since we left,” I say. “Almost to the hour.”

“It would have been faster to walk,” Denny says. I can’t tell if he’s making a joke.

“Where are we staying tonight?” Leah asks. “Can it have an indoor shower, please?”

“Picky, picky,” Tim says, surreptitiously squeezing my leg.

“And no IVs,” Cass says. It’s her first attempt at levity, and the rest of us don’t know how to react. I freeze up, and Leah makes a weird grimace-smile, and Tim chuckles a really fake-sounding chuckle that someone could bottle and use on the laugh track for a bad TV show. Goldie shudders in agreement.

“Done and done,” Tim says. “We all could use some decent sleep.”

I take the opening. “I was thinking,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, “maybe you and Denny should sleep in tomorrow or do something fun while we deal with Buck.”

“Why Denny and me?” Cass asks. “Why not Denny and Tim? They’re the ones who aren’t related to him.” Her voice is calm, but I can tell she’s acting, just like me, trying to keep things light while much darker feelings roil just below the surface.

“I know, I just thought . . .” I take a breath and take a leap, deciding to be honest. “You’ve just been through a lot already this week. I would totally understand if you didn’t want to see him on top of it.”

In the rearview mirror, I can see Cass purse her lips. “It sounds like you don’t want me to go,” she says.

“That’s not what I said.”

She flares her nostrils. “Right.”

“Hey,” Tim says. “We should play license-plate bingo.”

“What’s the one with the purple cactus?” Denny asks.

“Arizona,” Leah says.

“Arizona!” Denny cries, craning his neck to look out the window. “Arizona . . . Arizona . . . This is boring.”

“You can go,” I say to Cass. “I want you to go.”

“Good,” she says. “I’m gonna go. But not because you want me to.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I see a California!” says Tim.

“Stop,” Leah groans.

“Stop trying to control everything,” says Cass.

“I don’t try to control everything!” I say.

“Yes you do!” she shouts.

And then there’s a kind of metallic wheeze and then another shudder and then nothing. Goldie goes silent, and when I step on the gas, the pedal goes all the way down to the floor with a dull thud.

“No,” I say. I watch the needle on the odometer float down to zero as we coast, slowly losing speed. I jam the gearshift back and forth in its base. “No, no, no, no, no!”

A tractor-trailer leans on its horn as it screams past on the right; I’m in the middle lane.

“Get over,” Tim says, looking out his window. “Get over now.” I steer the corpse of the car into the right lane and then onto the shoulder as it slows to a crawl.

“Well, this sucks,” Leah says.

“That’s the theme of the trip,” Cass mumbles.

“Can we just go home?” Denny whines.

I look over at the odometer. It’s at 99,998. But then, like the slow rise of a cruel, discreet middle finger meant only for me, it clicks over to 99,999. And stops.

That’s when I start to scream.





NINETEEN


Tuesday Afternoon