You Are Here(61)
Peter wasn’t sure how long he sat there that evening. He didn’t know when the awning was folded into the trailer of the visitors’ center, or when the last of the cars pulled out of the lot. At some point he heard the dog stirring in the car, and he slid down off the fence and walked back over to carry him—bent and stooped and struggling—from the roadside. And then they sat there together—Peter huddled against one of the fence posts, the dog curled at his side—watching as the sky darkened around the moon’s spotlight, casting a yellowish glow across the field. Every so often Peter would wave a hand to scatter the cloud of fireflies that blinked orange in the night, but otherwise he remained still. He sat there because he had nowhere to go, and because he wasn’t yet ready to go to those places he needed to be.
He slept beneath the open sky for the second night in a row, his cheek pressed against the sweet-smelling grass and the musty dirt. The stars looked silver against the navy sky, and he blinked up at them dreamily from where he was sprawled on the ground. He didn’t mind the lightning bugs, didn’t care for a roof tonight, and didn’t hear the phone when it rang, missing all three of Emma’s calls. Just before falling asleep he thought about getting his maps, but in the end he let them be.
As it turned out, being lost wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Chapter twenty-five
Just after Peter drove away, after Emma squared her shoulders and took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock, the door swung open as if of its own accord, and she was left with her closed fist hanging in the air, gawking as her entire family tumbled out of the small space in a flurry of noise and activity.
“What … ?” she murmured, taking a step backward, looking wildly from Nate to Annie to Patrick, then behind them to where Mom stood on her tiptoes and Dad was rubbing his beard with a grin, and beyond that to Charles, who waved a tissue at her, and Megan, Nate’s fiancée, who lifted a hand in greeting.
“Why are you all … ?” Emma attempted to ask, staring as if she’d somehow knocked on the door of the wrong house. “How are you all … ?”
“Just thought we’d come down for a little impromptu vacation,” Mom said, breaking through her older children to give Emma a hug, then firmly steering her back through the little crowd. “See if anyone else might be inclined to show up.”
“Mom …,” Emma began, but she wasn’t sure where to even start.
Patrick clapped her hard on the back as she passed by him. “I gotta say, I’m kind of impressed you made it all the way down here,” he said. “Even if you did leave my car in New Jersey, of all places.”
“I’m really sorry; I just …”
“You couldn’t have at least done better than the turnpike?” Patrick asked, though she could see he was only teasing, the corners of his mouth twisting up into a grin. “I’m sure the old girl would’ve preferred a beachside vacation, or a trip to Atlantic City….”
“Glad you made it,” Dad said, interrupting Patrick. “It sounds like quite a trip.”
“I’m not really sure congratulations are in order,” Mom said, throwing him a look. “But we’re happy you’re here.”
She stepped in to give Emma another hug, but Annie beat her to it, practically throwing herself at her younger sister.
“Happy early birthday,” she whispered, and Emma realized she’d nearly forgotten that it was tomorrow. What had only a week ago seemed reason enough to flee from home was now a quiet and unassuming milestone, an ending to a journey rather than the start of something new.
The house was cool and dark, and Emma felt suddenly tired, like she’d walked all the way from New York, like she’d sailed half the globe, like she was the last weary survivor of the world’s longest journey. They moved inside together, a knot of people clogging the narrow entryway with laughter and hugs, with shakes of the head and wagging fingers.
Emma attempted to find a beginning to her story, an explanation for the events of the past days, but it proved nearly impossible with an audience like this one, her whole family buzzing all around her. They were all talking over one another in an attempt to explain each of their unlikely presences here—an impulsive, last-minute road trip from New Jersey for Patrick, a worried drive from DC for Annie and Charles, an anxious flight for Mom and Dad—and Emma sat down on the couch in the living room and stared out the window at the spindly trees and the stippled lake and tried to assemble her own story, answers she didn’t yet have to questions she didn’t yet feel ready to think about.
There was so much they wanted to know.
“Where’s Peter?
“What happened to that dog?”
“Did you forget how to use the phone?”
“How could you not tell us you were leaving?”
“Hasn’t anyone ever explained to you the finer points of car theft?”
Emma tried to respond as best she could, grateful that their happiness at seeing her and their relief over her safety seemed, at least for the moment, to have forestalled the inevitable lecture about her little road trip, the doling out of a punishment and the consequences that were sure to follow. But even so, she couldn’t help breathing out again when they began to disappear one at a time: Mom to call Peter’s dad and let him know his son was still at large, Nate to fire up the grill, and the rest of them to get started on dinner.