Mosquitoland(7)

As they spoke, I caught my mother’s eye. I could tell by her face she felt the deepening shadow, too.

Neither of us smiled.

Neither of us spoke.

We felt the shadow together.





5


The Sixth Letter

I WAKE UP to the hum of cross-country travel, the late sun on my face, and Arlene’s heavy head on my shoulder. (If it weren’t for her snoring, I would swear the old gal was either dead or in a coma.) Wiping away the thin string of drool dangling from Arlene’s mouth to my shoulder, I nudge her head in the opposite direction and pull my backpack into my lap.

Prone to unwieldy dreams, I’ve always found naps to be more exhausting than refreshing, and this one was no exception. I dreamed about a science project from fifth grade. We were given a map of the world and told to cut out each continent, then piece them back together as they were millions of years ago when there weren’t seven separate continents, but rather one supercontinent known as Pangaea. In real life, I did just that. But unwieldy dreams care nothing for the wields of life, and instead of cutting out continents in the dream, I decided to cut out the small state of Mississippi. Before I could do so, the page became actual land, and I found myself staring at the entire state from an aerial view: its tall boxlike shape with those sharp angles; the jutting jaw; at the bottom, a small neck running right into the Gulf of Mexico. Suddenly, Mississippi crumbled before my very eyes and sank into the water. No sooner was it gone than a mighty army of mosquitos took its place. Millions and millions of them, buzzing aimlessly, digesting hot blood, suspended in midair over the salty water. For a moment, they stayed in the exact shape as Mississippi, so it looked as if the state was still there—only buzzing, flittering about.

And then the army, as one, turned toward me.

That was when I woke up.

Wiping sweat from my forehead, I try to find the breath I lost during the dream. The rolling timpani of the bus engine, the horn section of murmuring passengers, and the occasional rimshot of backfire somehow help. It’s a symphony of transportation, a soothing reassurance that I am closer to my mom, farther from Mosquitoland.

I dab at the wet spot on my shoulder (courtesy of Arlene’s sleep-drool), and unzip my bag. Something about being hunted by bloodsucking devils compels a girl to double-check her resources. Popping the lid off the Hills Bros. coffee can, I count by twenty to seven hundred. The bus ticket cost one-eighty, so I’m— My heart flips over in my chest.

What. Is. That?

From the bottom of the can, I pull out a thin tube of papers wrapped in a rubber band. My epiglottis flutters out of pure fascination. What secrets might Kathy be keeping in her beloved coffee can?

Arlene grunts, opens one eye, scratches the peach fuzz on her chin, then drops her head on my shoulder. I nudge it gently toward the aisle, where it lolls for a second before flopping right back where it was.

Damn. Old broad’s persistent.

Tucking the cash and coffee can back in my bag, I stuff the papers in my pocket, hold Arlene’s head up with one hand, twist around in my seat, and peer down at the cute couple behind us.

“Wotcha, chaps.” For some reason people listen when you’re British, something I’ve witnessed firsthand from my mother’s undyingly cool accent. “I really must get to the loo pronto, yeah? Would you mind terribly if I climbed over into your seats? There’s a sweet old lady asleep over here, and I’m finding it rather difficult to get by.”

Only I say the word rather like rotha.

As their mouths curl into a smile, I decide to withdrawal the “cute couple” status, at least as it pertains to their teeth. Seriously. They could use a trip or seven to the orthodontist. And before the guy even speaks, something clicks in my brain.

“Where you from, mate?” asks His Ugly Teeth.

When your mother is British, you are keenly aware of fake accents in movies and on TV, which is part of the reason mine is so good. It’s also the reason I can tell this guy is, for sure, British.

“Oxbridge,” I say. Damn, Mim. London, Cambridge, Oxford, Liverpool, Dover—I’ve even been to London. Twice, actually, for family reunions. But no. Oxbridge. Ox-effing-bridge.

Her Ugly Teeth smiles at His Ugly Teeth. “Love, don’t you have a mate who lives in Oxbridge?”

He’s holding back a laugh now. “Oh, yeah, well, Nigel used to, love, but he moved down to Bumlickton remember?”

“Was it Bumlickton or Loncamdonfordbridgeton?”

Unfortunately for me, they know a real British accent when they hear one, too. Laughing their monarchical asses off, they shift out of their seats to let me climb over. What with the overhead compartments, it’s a tight fit, but I manage. I make my way to the back of the bus (the jeers of the Brits still ringing in my ears), then slip into the closet-sized bathroom and slide the lock to OCCUPIED. A tiny mirror hangs above the sink, barely large enough to reflect my face, and for just a moment, I consider using the war paint. It’s been a while, right? Okay, fine, I just used it last night, but after the BREAKING NEWS, who could blame me? I stick my hand in my pocket, twist the tube with the little silver ring in the middle, and— Patience, Mary.

Taking a deep breath, I push the lipstick farther down in my pocket, pull out Kathy’s covert papers, and sit on top of the plastic toilet lid. I pull off the rubber band, unroll the papers, and read. The first sheet is a disgusting love letter between Kathy and my dad, something I’d give a kidney to un-see. Half standing, I raise the seat and toss the letter into the toilet. The next six pages are letters, too, but far different from the first, and written in very familiar handwriting.