Page 7 of On the Way to You
“I just need to grab my stuff.”
This is insane. This is insane. This is insane.
Those three words were on repeat in my head as I hastily shoved clothes and personal belongings into the one and only duffle bag I owned.
Kalo hopped around my ankles as I flew through my tiny bedroom, tossing items over my shoulder and onto the bed next to my open bag. She licked my face when I got close enough, turning in circles with the same excitement she got as soon as I said,“Wanna go outside?”
“We’re going on a trip, Kalo,” I said to her, scruffing up the soft fur on her head with one hand. She was an Australian shepherd mix, no more than twenty-five pounds with eyes that slightly crossed, which only made me love her more. “With a man. Who I just met.” I paused, swimsuit clutched in my hand. “Whose name I don’t even know.”
Kalo cocked her head to the side, watching me, and I laughed, ditching the swim suit and rushing to my tiny bathroom to rummage through the necessities.
All my life, I’d dreamed of leaving Alabama. I’d dreamed of crossing the country, starting a new life, leaving my past behind. Now that the moment was here, I realized the first thing I should have done all those years ago was make a packing list.
Because nothing I was packing made any sense.
Yoga pants, three of my favorite paperbacks, including my very worn copy ofCatcher in the Rye, jeans, the framed picture of Tammy and me on my eighteenth birthday, a dozen or so shirts and tank tops, hair ties, hair brush, razor, three random dog toys, and my eReader. I only owned two sweaters and one pair of boots, and I threw them in the bag, too, followed immediately by my extra liner and socks for my prosthetic leg.
I could still remember the day I could finally afford the extra supplies for my leg, after saving and saving on my own, insurance only covering one set of each once I was in my final leg. I’d gone through several growing up, but now that I was done growing, I had my permanent leg. I was lucky my dad even managed to have insurance at all, and I was pretty sure the only reason he did was because his place of employment took it out of his check before he could even see it.
I added a pair of athletic shorts, ones I only ever wore when I was alone and I figured would stay buried in my bag until we reached Seattle. My tiny Thai Buddha statue Tammy had purchased for me at a flea market was staring at me from the corner of my desk, begging me to bring him along, so I tucked him in the side pocket of my bag.
Then I stood in the middle of my room, looking around at the faded yellow walls, once white, tainted by cigarette smoke from my parents no matter how I’d tried to keep it out.
My room was small. The same twin bed I’d slept on since I was eight was sunken down in the middle, shoved against the far wall right under my enlightenment poster. The springs creaked and groaned each time I applied even the slightest bit of pressure. The desk that sat next to it was old and tattered, too, the warped wood nicked in several places. Kalo’s dog bed rested under the old box TV I’d watched cartoons on as a child and barely turned on at all as a teenager, and not a single movie sat on the shelf below that TV, the space occupied with books, instead.
My eyes caught on my copy of Emerson’s prose and poetry, and I threw that in my bag, too.
The carpet was light brown and stained all over, the sheer curtain covering my window littered with moth bites. Standing in the middle of it all, hands on my hips, I knew I wouldn’t miss a single thing, no matter what I left behind.
So, I zipped up my duffle bag without adding another single thing, slinging it over my shoulder before grabbing Kalo’s bed under one arm and my yoga mat under the other. I took one last look at the room, the place that never felt like home, the prison, and then I turned my back on it forever.
“Cindy,” I said louder than necessary, tapping my mother’s shoulder where she lay on the couch. Sweat matted her ashy blonde hair to her forehead and she squinted, swatting her hand in the air to tell me to go away. “Cindy, I’m leaving.”
“Okay?” she said gruffly, rolling over to face the back cushions of the couch. “What the fuck do you want, a going away party?”
I sighed. “Not for work. I’m leaving. I’m moving out.”
“About time.”
I stood beside the couch, eyes taking in the slight heap of bone and skin that was my mother. It was hard to believe I’d come from her, that I’d been built inside her, and yet the only thing we shared in common was our last name and DNA.
“I’m really leaving,” I said again, voice low. “I’m getting in the car with a boy I just met and I’m driving away. And I’m never coming back to Alabama.” I paused, letting that sink in — both for her and myself. “Never.”
My mother was quiet save for the ragged breaths leaving her lungs, and for a moment I thought she’d fallen back to sleep, but then she spoke.
“Make sure he wears a condom.”
I closed my eyes, not sure why somewhere deep in my heart I expected more, wanted more. She’d never given me anything, only taken, why should today be any different?
With a quick scribble, I left a note for my dad on the folding table where I’d eaten cereal every morning since I could remember, then I shoved through the front door of our trailer for the last time, leaving the smoke and the stink and the scars behind.
As soon as I expelled a long breath and lifted my eyes to where the boy from the diner stood leaning against his car, I halted.
He’d followed me as I rode my bike back to my house, and I’d ditched that same bike in my front yard before sprinting inside without another word. But here he was, waiting for me, and again, the same three words cycled through my head.
This is insane.
“I don’t know if I packed the right stuff,” I admitted, feet moving toward him and the car. “I wasn’t sure what to pack, honestly. It’s still hot here but I know it won’t be in Washington. Then again, we’ll be in the car, so I guess it doesn’t really matter too much what the weather is like. We can just adjust the air. I mean you can, since it’s your car. I won’t touch the air. Or the radio. I promise. I’ll be like a fly on the wall. Or, well, not a fly, because flies are annoying. I’ll be like a butterfly. Like, the caterpillar in the cocoon before the butterfly actually happens.” He was just looking at me with those same questioning eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched at a smile. “I won’t be a problem, that’s what I’m trying to say.”