Where One Goes(5)

“Anyway,” I continue. “You’re in a good place.”

“Am I still in Virginia?”

“Yes.”

“And how exactly do you think you can help me?”

“You need a place to rest. You need a job. I can help you with that.”

“How so? You’re dead.” She points out the obvious.

I stop in my tracks. “I am? Are you serious?” I feign shock and she rolls her eyes, the ghost of a smile playing on the corners of her lips. We start walking again, and I answer her question. “I know the people of this town. What they like and dislike. I can help you make nice with them.”

“And what would you like in return?”

George flashes through my mind, and I feel that weight settle on my chest. “I have a brother who’s having a hard time.”

“Unfinished business,” she mutters and lets out an audible sigh.

“Look, I know you’re tired of helping people like me, but I’m different. I want to help you, too. If I can help you, will you help me?”

“I guess I don’t have a choice,” she mumbles and shrugs, adjusting her bags to get a better hold. “You have a deal.”





It’s funny how your plans can change so drastically within the span of minutes. My life was ending forty minutes ago. I was certain of it. But then Ike shows up and derails my plans. I suppose his words are what brought me back.

“Listen, I don’t know you or what you’ve been through, but I know I’d give anything to still be alive right now, no matter what.”

Suicide is selfish. It’s a complete slap in the face to anyone who has died and wanted to live. So with great trepidation, the tall built man brought me back to my senses. Now, I’m standing just outside Mercer’s Stop and Go with him by my side. The store is aged, the lit signs looking as if they were made decades ago.

“It looks like Mr. Mercer is working tonight. He’s real friendly. Just go in, and tell him you broke down. He’ll help you out.” He gives me a crooked smile; I gather that’s his way of encouraging me. He’s handsome, very broad and muscular, and maybe six feet tall, but his smile is his best feature.

I take a deep breath, and as I near the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window. My dark hair is matted to my head, and my clothes hang heavily on me. I look like Raggedy Anne’s cousin. I look like hell.

“He’s going to think I’m a f*cking crack head,” I say, as I run my fingers through my wet, tangled hair. “Look at me.”

Ike laughs and his bright smile warms my heart. “No, he won’t. This town has a lot of good people, Charlotte. The Mercers being some of the best. Trust me.”

“Okay,” I huff as I push the door open and enter. An older gentleman, with thick, gray brows and kind eyes, greets me with a concerned look.

“You look a mess, child. Are you okay?” he asks as he rounds the counter and approaches me.

“Yes, sir. My SUV broke down about two miles back, and I had to walk in the rain.”

“My lord, you’ll be lucky if you don’t catch your death.” He shakes his head, sincere concern etched across his face. “I can get your SUV looked at in the morning. There’s a motel about four miles down we can get you checked in to for the night. I’ll drive you there myself.” He quickly sets about putting his jacket on and hanging a Be Back in 10 sign on the door just before ushering me out and locking up.

“That is so kind of you,” I mumble through my shock. Who the hell offers a complete stranger—one that looks like they’re on drugs—a ride in the middle of the night? Mr. Mercer simply smiles and nods as we walk to the side of the building.

I’m surprised when he leads me to a Ford Highboy and opens the passenger door for me. What a sweet old man, I think to myself. Once he gets in and starts the truck, he cranks the heat up and I couldn’t be more grateful. As we drive, Ike is to my left, sitting between us, although, of course, Mr. Mercer can’t see him. “Okie from Muskogee” by Merle Haggard plays softly on the radio, and I cringe at how fitting it is.

“I’m Bill Mercer, by the way.” He nods his head at me. It occurs to me he thinks I’ve just gotten in his vehicle and don’t know his name. I should’ve introduced myself, but Ike had already told me his name. I’m so tired, I’m not thinking straight.

“Charlotte,” I respond. “But most people call me Char.”

“Where are you from, Char?”

“Born and raised in Oklahoma.”

“Hey . . . you’re an Okie,” he says as his face lights up with another smile. “The song,” he points out.

I smile. “I was just thinking that.”

“You’re a long way from home,” he adds and shoots me a concerned look.

“You’re telling me,” I agree.

We reach the Warm Springs Motel and Mr. Mercer ushers me inside the office with a neon sign lit above flashing: VACANCY.

“Hey, Bill. How are ya?” a large and robust woman with fire engine red hair and lots of purple eye shadow asks as she stands from her recliner in front of a flat screen television.

“Ginger, this is Charlotte, but she likes to be called Char.”

“Well hello, Char,” Ginger greets and offers me a friendly smile amidst her chubby cheeks. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”