She should have gone with her gut and boarded a Pan American flight. The last person she knew who’d decided to take a cross-country road trip was a decade ago when their neighbors down the street had piled all their kids in the car for a Route 66 adventure from New York to Arizona. And Leanne was pretty certain Cheryl had said it was the biggest mistake of her life. Remembering that twelve hours ago would have been good.
They’d stopped once for watery coffee and a blue plate special at a truck-stop diner somewhere outside Cleveland. The eggs had been rubbery, the toast cold, the butter like paste. Both of their stomachshad protested ever since. The only other sustenance came in the form of hamburgers from McDonald’s speedy-service drive-in, and Cracker Jacks and potato chips that Nora picked up at a gas station and tossed casually onto the dashboard like they’d be enough to carry them through Illinois.
They weren’t.
By the time they stumbled into the motel lobby, both dragging overstuffed suitcases behind them, Leanne felt like her bones might crack, and Nora was walking like hers already had.
“Miller,” she said to the woman behind the desk, voice hoarse.
The clerk—a woman with bright blue eyeshadow and a teased beehive—flipped through the reservation ledger, then reached behind her to pull a key, dangling from an oversize orange tag, off a wooden hook.
“Room number six,” she said, with the tone of someone who hadn’t slept in two shifts.
Leanne took the key and gave a nod of thanks.
As they turned to go, the clerk called out, “Breakfast is from seven to nine. Sharp. If you want it.”
“What’s for breakfast?” Nora asked, swaying where she stood half asleep on her feet.
The woman shrugged. “We have a wide variety. Eggs, bacon, hotcakes. A Toastee Club.”
“I’m getting all of that in the morning,” Nora said with a laugh.
They made their way to the room, walking past brightly painted orange doors under a buzzing neon strip of light. When they reached number six, Leanne unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping on the light, which flickered then solidified, revealing a clean room with teal curtains, matching chairs, and two beds with vibrant carroty bedspreads. A television stand was in the corner.
Leanne let out a long breath she didn’t know she’d been holdingand slipped into the motel bathroom and flicked on the overhead light, which buzzed faintly yellow. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face, attempting to wash away the strain of hours on the road. Her skin felt tight and travel-worn, like she’d been living inside the car’s upholstery. How in the world was she going to climb behind the wheel again in the morning?
She used the toilet, dried her hands on a fresh towel, and took one last look at herself in the mirror—faded lipstick, tired eyes, and hair that had started to fall from its pins.
When she emerged, Nora was curled on the bed. “Look, a remote!” she said, flipping channels with the black box they didn’t have at home. “Oh my gosh,The Ed Sullivan Show!” Nora rolled onto her stomach, suddenly awake. Her feet kicked lazily in the air, crossed at the ankles, her chin resting in her palms. She looked impossibly young—like the girl she used to be before college acceptance letters, eyeliner, and existential sighs.
Ed Sullivan introduced a comedian, his voice as energized as his wave for the audience to welcome the entertainment. The studio audience clapped on cue.
“I’m going to find a pay phone to call your dad,” Leanne said, reaching for the room key.
Nora nodded, barely looking up.
Leanne stepped out into the night and headed for the front desk.
“Where’s the pay phone?” Leanne asked the woman at the desk.
Looking up from theTV Guideshe was reading, the clerk hooked her thumb over one shoulder toward a window. “Just around the side.”
“Thanks.” Leanne nodded and headed outside. The air had cooled slightly, though the pavement still radiated the day’s heat. A buzzing neon sign above the lodge cast a glow over the parking lot.
She rounded the corner, passing another family finding their wayin late on the road.
The red-painted phone booth stood in a pool of light from a distant streetlamp. Leanne grabbed the handle and gave the door a tug.
Not even a budge.
“What in the world…” she muttered, tugging harder this time.
From inside came a low, guttural groan.
Leanne froze, goose bumps rising on her arms.
She stepped closer, squinting through the foggy glass. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the shadow inside. A man was lying curled on the booth floor, his knees drawn up, one hand clutching the receiver as if it were still connected to something—or someone.
