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“I’m dying,” she screamed into the universe. The pain and anguish in her voice caused her bones to ache. “I’m dying!” she said again as loudly as she could.
Kent pulled over and brought her back into the car. She fought him, punching his chest with her closed fist, repeating her words over and over through gut-wrenching sobs. Kent cried as he held her.
“Let it all out,” he encouraged her. “You can hit, kick, and scream at me. I can take it. Use me as your punching bag, Palmer.”
Palmer cried until she was hoarse, and hiccuping. She stayed in Kent’s arms, with the traffic now buzzing by them and her fist clenching his shirt. She had accepted her fate back in the hospital, when she was told she had six months to live. Deep down, she knew she wouldn’t make it six months. Palmer felt herself slipping away, losing a piece of her essence every single day. She was afraid of what lay ahead—the inability to do anything for herself, the seizures that would surely knock her unconscious, and finally, death. The grim reaper stood outside her door, waiting for her to open it and welcome him with open arms. She wanted to. She wanted to leave before the suffering began.
Palmer wanted to stay as well. Kent had given her the gift of life and had done so knowing the outcome. He’d dedicated his time, energy, and, most importantly, his heart to her. As much as she wanted to leave, she couldn’t leave him.
Kent held her. He absorbed whatever she dished out and never wavered in his support. He cried with her. He cried for everything she’d been through, what she was going through, and what waited for her at the end of the road.
Palmer finally relaxed in his arms. Her grip on his shirt loosened, but his hold on her didn’t. She opened her eyes and wondered how long her meltdown had lasted. She extracted herself from his arms and slid into her seat. Palmer was embarrassed to look at Kent, fearful she might see anger or hurt in his eyes.
“Hey,” he said as he caressed her cheek in an attempt to look at him. “This is over when you say it’s over.”
His words were loaded with promise. Without her having to tell him what went through her mind, he knew. Kent would be there in the end, no matter what and no matter when.
Palmer nodded. “I’m okay now.”
Kent waited a minute before signaling to pull back onto the highway. He pressed a button on the dashboard unit and asked his phone to play Lana Del Rey. As soon as her voice came over the speaker, Palmer sank into her seat, and let the music wash over her.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Kent debated whether to find a motel or drive through the night until they reached Missouri. Louisville, Kentucky, was on their list of places to stop—well, his list. He loved baseball and thought visiting the Louisville Slugger Museum would be a fun place to visit, as well as the Muhammad Ali Center. But Palmer’s reaction in the car—he didn’t want to call it a “meltdown” because that would lessen what she’d gone through—gave him pause and had him reconsidering his plans. She was slowly coming to terms with dying, and things weren’t pretty. The more they talked about life, and the more they explored, the more he could see the realization settle over her—she’d missed a lot. It wasn’t even the holidays. It was life itself. When she’d had the opportunity to live, she’d done so in a way that kept her sheltered. She might have been free from the system and the halfway home she lived in, but she wasn’t free to live. Palmer hadn’t allowed herself to come out from under the rock she’d placed herself under when she aged out. The life she had lived at the orphanage was the life she currently lived. Until Kent came along and showed her what living truly meant.
Palmer slept next to him. Kent had convinced her to recline her seat and try to get comfortable. He kept the music low and tuned in to her favorite artist to keep her calm. He’d never really listened to Lana Del Rey, unless it was her mainstream hits playing on the radio, and he found that he really enjoyed her music. She had an old-school vibe about her, and she sang whatever the hell she felt like. He liked the grittiness in her voice and her soulful lyrics. Kent could see why Palmer liked her so much.
A sign for hotels appeared, letting motorists know they’d find them at the next exit. He had a mile to contemplate what to do. If he got off the highway, he’d wake Palmer, and she desperately needed her sleep, although sleeping in a bucket seat wasn’t exactly comfortable. If he didn’t exit and she woke up, he’d have to explain why he’d given up something he wanted to do, which was a conversation he didn’t want to have. The exit neared, and he signaled to leave the highway. At the light, he followed the directions and turned down the road. Kent drove slowly, looking at the names of the hotels. He wanted a Holiday Inn or something similar. They didn’t need many amenities, just a bed and bathroom. From their stays, he’d concluded that he preferred rooms on the first floor, near the lobby or an exit. Those made it easier for Palmer to get in and out without having to use her chair. She loathed that thing and would rather suffer than sit in it.
