There are two more songs referenced in these chapters. The piano piece is "Idea 22" by Gibran Alcocer. The final song is "This Must Be The Place" by the Talking Heads, although I imagine Skylar's version of it sounding more like Haley Blais' cover.
__________
The bus Justin loaded me onto took me to Denver, where I spent the night at a cheap motel before catching the morning Express Arrow back to Casper. They were two of the more miserable days of my life. You'd think the rage and helplessness of the drive south would have been worse, but it turns out, maybe Lisa and I had this in common: it was preferable to feel angry than to feel sad.
I knew it wasn't rational. I should want him punished. I should be holding onto the first terrifying 24 hours, not to mention every time he'd steamrolled my boundaries after. I should be planning violent retribution, or at the very least, reporting him.
But fuck that. It simply wasn't what I felt, and I was done berating myself for not feeling what I should be. The fact was, as fucked as it may have been, I was grieving.
I'd embarked on this road trip with vague ideas of physical and mental destinations: the ocean, and an ability to connect with other people. I never made it to the ocean, but I had arrived, kicking and screaming, at intimacy.
Maybe I
did
have Stockholm syndrome. But did it matter? In the end, I hadn't let my emotions dictate my actions. He had dismissed my autonomy too many times, so I had done the responsible thing and left.
He didn't deserve my affections, so I'd stopped giving them, but I hadn't stopped
feeling
them. God, was I feeling them.
I just couldn't stop seeing his heartbroken eyes, feeling his forehead desperately rocking against mine, hearing his cracked voice begging me to stay, screaming at his friends that I didn't mean it. Fuck, I wanted to scratch my brain out from behind my eyes, anything to stop replaying it.
A woman at the rest station in Pueblo had pulled me aside, asked me if I needed help. She'd clearly thought I was being trafficked. It took every bit of willpower I had left to smother the hysterical laughter bubbling up in my throat.
You can't tell?
I'd wanted to ask her.
I just escaped. That's why I'm crying.
----------
The police station in Casper wasn't too far from the bus depot, and was probably my best bet for finding my car. I thought I'd walk there directly, but a glance in the bathroom mirror told me I should probably get my shit together first. I washed my face with cold water, blotted it with the starchy paper towels. Took a minute to sit on the bench outside and gather my thoughts.
It was cold. I'd left my pack with all my spare clothes at Ben's house, and New Mexico had been significantly warmer than Wyoming was. At least I'd had the foresight to subtly grab my phone from the counter before we'd gone to the big house yesterday morning. Ben hadn't tried to hide it after overhearing my conversation with Lisa. He was probably reassured in that I'd mostly ignored it afterwards, unable to let my dueling realities overlap. Even now, I found myself hesitant to go through the missed texts. I would deal with all that in Chicago.
Eventually I made my way to the station, where I reported my car had either been towed or stolen after I'd left it parked on street to join friends for a mountain biking foray, which had stretched on longer than anticipated. I probably gave a few too many details. I wasn't an experienced liar.
The officer politely took down the description, and a few minutes later informed me that a car matching the make and model of mine had been taken to their impound lot, missing license plates.
"Why would anyone want those?" I feigned confusion.
She just shrugged, uninterested, and gave me the address to the lot. I had to pay a couple hundred dollars in fees to get my Subaru out, but Justin had apparently added cash to my wallet before pressing it into my hands at the Greyhound depot, so it wasn't a big loss.
It was the keys I was more worried about. I slipped into the driver's seat, trying to appear confident but actually terrified I wouldn't be able to drive it off the lot. Thank goodness, Ben had left them tucked under the passenger visor. I felt a wave of gratitude, and then the totally irrational frustration that it might have
actually
gotten stolen with the keys left in such an obvious place.
When I started the car, the Bluetooth connected automatically and my podcast picked up just where I'd left it. It was such a mindfuck, the way it transported me back. Like the whole insane experience had never happened, like I was just cranky from a couple hours of attempted sleep in a Walmart parking lot, had never met Ben, had never been to the desert. I had been afraid then that there would be nothing more to my story than a sad girl wasting a lot of gas driving 2,000 miles to have a look at a different body of water, and then driving 2,000 miles home, still just as alone.
Well, I'd gotten the beginning and the end right, but the middle had been a little more eventful. I imagined Ira Glass would have a field day with my narrative now, although I supposed the story would have to be heavily bleeped. I chose not to linger on the thought of what conclusions he'd come to.
I blinked away the tears - back again, pesky fuckers - and headed for the highway.
----------
I had always been an unabashed fan girl for my hometown. Chicago was such a cool blend of dense, moneyed urbanity downtown and hip, scrappy neighborhoods around it. Chris and Lisa's townhouse in Ukrainian Village was a cluttered, well loved, Bohemian retreat, and around the corner, the Weary Wanderer struck just the right chord between dive bar and lounge. I loved my city.
But driving in that morning, with the hazy dawn painting everything gray, all I could see was industrial sprawl and neglect. It looked so dirty, when the memory of big skies and fields of wheat were still fresh in my mind.
I faltered on 90, unsure of which exit I wanted. I didn't want to face my sad little studio apartment just yet. And it was too early to barge in on Lisa and Chris.
I decided it wasn't really barging in if I did it quietly. I let myself in through their sticky, emerald painted door. Disabled the alarm, took off my shoes, and let the worn, cold laminate floor soothe the soles of my feet while I made my way down the hall, skipping the spots I knew would creak.
I started a pot of coffee, sat myself in 'my' stool at the island. Everything was muscle memory. I ran my fingers over the stained grout lines of the tile, futzed with the novelty salt and pepper shakers and napkin holder. How many times had I done this? Usually the familiarity was comforting. Today it left me feeling hollow and antsy.
I went to the electric piano, plugged in the headphones. Here was familiarity that would soothe.
I startled to feel a tap on my shoulder some time later. Chris had his bathrobe pulled over sweatpants and an old tee shirt, was rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. I tugged off the headphones and let him pull me into a long hug.
"Hey Peanut," he whispered gruffly, his voice still waking up. "Can I hear?"
Chris had always understood that I sometimes communicated better when I didn't have to speak; he was like that too. I knew what he was really asking now: he wanted to get a read on my mental state. Wanted to know how the road trip had gone.
I unplugged the headphones, made sure the volume was low so I wouldn't wake Lisa. And fell back into the soft swirl of notes I had been working my way through.
The beat on this one was plodding, my left hand feeling mechanical as it held the rhythm. The melody layered over it stiffly too, at the start, then built speed, wobbly. The crescendo reminded me of helicopters from a maple tree, spinning and fluttering down. Spiraling.
"One of your 'Ideas'?" Chris was well acquainted with my favorite pieces.
"Well," I qualified. "Not
mine
."
Chris settled back on the recliner, closed his eyes to listen as I started again. I thought maybe he was drifting back off to sleep, when he quietly noted, "You sure do make sad sound pretty."
I was glad he couldn't see my face, glad the keys wouldn't voice the lump in my throat. This was home, right? Where I could anticipate every action, every comment.
I tried it again, with feeling.
