Two from the Heart(16)

We went through two more albums, with Pauline narrating everything she could remember about their adventures. There was something both beautiful and sad about these pictures from four decades ago. Their colors had faded, and the contrast had lessened, and so everything seemed bathed in a kind of soft golden light.

The color of nostalgia, I thought.

When we’d finished, Pauline turned to me and said, “So that’s your mother and me in our youth. What’s your story, dear?”

“Well actually,” I said, “I’m sort of collecting stories. Pictures, too. For what I hope will be a book.” I pointed to my camera, resting on an end table. “It started when I realized I wasn’t really in touch with anyone from my life—not in any real or meaningful way. So I decided to visit people who mattered to me and see what they were up to.”

I decided not to add the part about not having a home anymore.

“I’m glad I passed the mattering to you test,” Pauline said, smiling. “Your idea sounds like This Is Your Life, except that you’re in control.”

I looked at her blankly.

She laughed. “Oh, you’re too young, aren’t you?” she said. “It was a TV show where they surprised a person with folks from their past.”

“It sounds like reality TV version one point oh.”

“It was certainly better than The Bachelor,” Pauline said dryly. “By the way, that’s a fancy camera you’ve got.”

“It’s new, and I barely know how to use it,” I admitted.

“Have you printed out any pictures?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Though my brother gave me a portable wireless printer.”

“Well, let’s!”

“Do you know how?”

She clucked her tongue at me. “Darling, ten-year-olds are making parkour movies on their iPhones. You and I can work a small printer.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said, grinning.

I went to retrieve my car and brought in the printer, still in its box. With some trial and error, we managed to set it up, and at Pauline’s kitchen table, we printed out all the pictures I’d taken so far. Here was Josh and Kate; there was Ben and my ex.

I shook my head in dismay: the colors weren’t right, and I could see pixilation where I should have seen nothing but smooth pigment.

But the compositions were strong, and the power of the faces was undeniable.

“I think you’ve really got something here,” Pauline said.

“Good stories, and the good people who told them,” I said, nodding.

Pauline smiled at me. “I’d buy that book,” she said.





Chapter 18


BUT WHERE would I go to find the next story? That was the question.

Early the following morning, I closed my eyes and pointed my finger at a map of the United States. I’d decided to let fate guide me.

“Denver,” I said when I opened my eyes. “That seems as good a place as any, right?”

“And a good bit better than some,” Pauline agreed. “I thought you were going to land in the middle of Lake Superior at first, and I doubt you’d get good stories from lake trout.”

I traced my finger along the curving blue line of I-70. Denver was probably nine hours west—which meant it was nine hours closer to a place and a person I’d kept in the back of my mind ever since North Carolina.

A destination I couldn’t quite admit to myself that I had.

Pauline handed me a paper bag bulging with food for the road and called, “Send me a postcard, dear,” as I pulled away.

The weather was gorgeous—the sky bright blue and dotted with pillowy clouds—but the drive grew monotonous quickly. I understood why John Steinbeck took his famous road trip with a standard poodle as opposed to a spider plant.

So when I saw a hitchhiker, standing by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, it almost seemed like a sign. Two hitchhikers, really: a girl and a dog.

I pulled over and rolled down the window. “You need a ride?”

It was an idiotic question—what did I think she needed, a unicorn? But I was nervous, because I’d never picked up a hitchhiker before.

The girl nodded and hurried over, her backpack flapping against her slim hips and her dog bounding after her.

“I assume you’re not an ax murderer,” I said as she carefully set Spidey on the dashboard and climbed into the passenger seat. Her dog, a pretty yellowish mutt, took its place on the backseat, pressing its nose to the window. “Or a runaway,” I added, because I’d just realized just how young she was.

The girl smiled; she had dark eyes, round cheeks with deep dimples, and an unfortunate lip ring. “Thanks for stopping,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. “I’m Savannah. That’s Lucy.”

“And…?” I prodded. As if I was waiting for her to admit that she had an ax in her bag.

“And I used to be a runaway, but then I turned eighteen. So now I’m just an adult without a car. Or a house.”

I had to smile then, because now we had something in common. “My name’s Anne,” I said, “and I don’t have a house either.”

Savannah nodded like this was totally normal. “I’m so glad you stopped. I was out there for hours,” she said. “I had to turn down like six pervy-looking guys. They’re happy to give you a ride, but they want something in return, you know?” She gazed out the window over the green fields and sighed. “So where are you going?” she asked.