Turtles All the Way Down(12)
She responded a few minutes later: I have work until 8. Meet you after?
Me: Do you need a ride?
Her: Dad picked me up. He’s taking me. Has Davis texted?
Me: No, should I text him?
Her: ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Her: Wait between 24 and 30 hours. Obviously. You’re intrigued but not obsessed.
Me: Got it. I didn’t know there were Texting Commandments.
Her: Well there are. We’re almost there so I gotta go. First order of business, drawing straws to see who has to get in the Chuckie costume. Pray for me.
Harold and I started our drive home, but then it occurred to me that I could go anywhere. Not anywhere, I guess, but nearly. I could drive to Ohio, if I wanted, or Kentucky, and still be home before curfew. Thanks to Harold, a couple hundred square miles of the American Midwest were mine for the taking. So instead of turning to go home, I kept driving north up Meridian Street until I merged onto I-465. I turned the radio up as a song I liked called “Can’t Stop Thinking About You” came on, the bass sizzling in Harold’s long-blown speakers, the lyrics stupid and silly and everything I needed.
Sometimes you happen across a brilliant run of radio songs, where each time one station goes to commercial, you scan to another that has just started to play a song you love but had almost forgotten about, a song you never would’ve picked but that turns out to be perfect for shouting along to. And so I drove along to one of those miraculous playlists, headed nowhere. I followed the highway east, and then south, then west, then north, and then east again, until I ended up at the same Meridian Street exit where I’d started.
The journey around Indianapolis cost about seven dollars in gas, and I knew it was wasteful, but I felt so much better after circling the city.
When I parked in the driveway to open up the garage door, I saw I had a series of texts from Daisy:
I just drew the short straw so I have to get inside the fricking Chuckie costume.
See you later if I survive.
If I die weep at my grave every day until a seedling appears in the dirt, then cry on it to make it grow until it becomes a beautiful tree whose roots surround my body.
They’re making me go now they’re taking away my phone REMEMBER ME HOLMESY.
Update: I survived. Getting a ride to Applebee’s after work. See you.
—
In the living room, Mom was grading quizzes with her feet up on the coffee table. I sat down next to her, and without looking up, she said, “A Lyle from the Pickett estate brought over our canoe today, repaired. Said you and Daisy were paddling down the White River and hit a rock.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You and Daisy,” she said. “Paddling on the White River.”
“Yeah,” I said.
She looked up at last. “Seems like something you would only do if, say, you wanted to run into Davis Pickett.”
I shrugged.
“Did it work?” she asked.
I shrugged again, but she kept looking at me until I gave in and spoke. “I was just thinking about him. Wanted an excuse to check on him, I guess.”
“How is he doing, without his father?”
“I think he’s okay,” I said. “Most people don’t seem to like their dads much.”
She leaned into me, her shoulder against mine. I knew we were both thinking about my dad, but we had never been good at talking about him. “I wonder if you would have clashed with your father.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He would’ve understood you, that’s for sure. He got your whys in a way I never could. But he was such a worrier, and you might have found that exhausting. I know I did, sometimes.”
“You worry, too,” I said.
“I suppose. Mostly about you.”
“I don’t mind worriers,” I said. “Worrying is the correct worldview. Life is worrisome.”
“You sound just like him.” She smiled a little. “I still can’t believe he left us.” She said it like it was a decision, like he’d been mowing the lawn that day and thought, I think I’ll fall down dead now.
—
I cooked dinner that night, a macaroni scramble with canned vegetables, boxed macaroni, and some proper cheddar cheese, and then we ate while watching a reality show about regular people trying to survive in the wild. My phone finally buzzed while Mom and I were doing the dishes—Daisy telling me she’d arrived at Applebee’s—so I told Mom I’d be back by midnight and reunited with Harold, who was, as always, a pure delight.
Applebee’s is a chain of mid-quality restaurants serving “American food,” which essentially means that Everything Features Cheese. Last year, some kid had showed up on our doorstep and talked my mom into buying a huge coupon book to support his Boy Scout troop or something, and the book turned out to include sixty Applebee’s coupons offering “Two burgers for $11.” Daisy and I had been working our way through them ever since.
She was waiting for me at a booth, changed out of her work shirt and into a scoop-neck turquoise top, staring into the depths of her phone. Daisy didn’t have a computer, so she did everything on her phone, from texting to writing fan fiction. She could type on it faster than I could on a regular keyboard.
“Have you ever gotten a dick pic?” she asked in lieu of saying hello.
“Um, I’ve seen one,” I said, scooting into the bench across from her.