Page 43 of Look Again

13

JOEY

When Ginger stops to breathe—after nearly ninety minutes of the three hour drive—I lean across the stick shift and pat her arm. “You don’t have to talk all the way to Boston.”

“Nervous speed-talking is my Olympic sport.” Ginger readjusts her sunglasses. Again.

“I’d hate to take any pleasure away from you,” I say, “but I don’t want you to be offended if I fall asleep.” I can feel the fog in my brain, and I know I should take this chance to rest.

“Oh. No. Sorry. Of course not. What do you need?”

Now that I’ve decided to sleep, it’s tricky to form words. Even my mouth is tired. “I’m fine—I just haven’t slept too well in a few days. I think I could catch a nap right now if you don’t mind.”

Ginger swerves into the next lane trying to make the passenger seat of her ancient Toyota Corolla comfortable. I push her hand away from my seat and toward the steering wheel.

“You drive. I’ll recline.” I slide the lever and the seat thumps back, rattling me from the top of my head to the base of my spine. I hold in the moan and the grunt that wanted to slip out.

Ginger whispers, “Sorry about that. It’s kind of loose.”

I am muttering a reply, but I don’t even know what I’m saying. I feel myself slipping into sleep.

When I wake up, Ginger is aggressively cursing Boston traffic under her breath. I sit up and pull the lever again. The seat hits me in the back, but I’m ready for it.

“Thanks for letting me rest,” I say, running my fingers over my scalp. “Mmm. I feel better.”

“Good. Because I’m going to need one hell of a massage while you’re in your appointment.” She manages to say all that through clenched teeth. Ginger’s shoulders are up around her ears, knuckles white on the wheel.

“Am I allowed to thank you again for driving me?”

Ginger mutters something impolite, aimed out the window. “Not yet. Wait until I’m acting gracious.”

I nod. Another twenty minutes of navigating traffic and we pull up to the clinic. It has a cool retro billboard over the building, blue with painted eyes behind glasses.

Ginger points to the sign. “It’s Dr. Eckleburg.”

I shake my head. “His name is Montgomery.”

“I mean the sign.”

I look again. I don’t see that name anywhere. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ginger gives me a side-eye glance. “Did you actually do any of your homework in high school?”

I unbuckle. “Much of it. Why?”

“Wondering how any high school student in the United States doesn’t read Gatsby.”

“Oh, I loved that movie,” I tell her with a grin, knowing it will make her crazy.

She shakes her head and laughs, putting the car in park and turning it off. “Yeah, okay. Let’s get you inside.”

The unsmiling receptionist, clearly buried under a heavy workload, looks at us and says nothing.

“Hi,” I say. “I have a three o’clock with Dr. Montgomery. And she,” I point at Ginger, “needs the address of a place she can walk in for a massage.”

Who would guess that this woman could look more annoyed?

“I’m good,” Ginger says. “I’ll Google.”