Page 28

27.

I’d listened to the album four times already and was halfway through a fifth when the bus finally came shuddering to a stop. Night had fallen; it was past nine o’clock. Desi was asleep next to me, her legs hooked over the armrest so that she was half in the aisle with her body weight pressed againstme.

“Salt Lake City,” the driver called. “Connect here.”

Desi sat upright and ran a hand across the back of her mouth, wiping away the drool that had collected there. “Christ, I’m hungry,” she said. “We got a few hours before the next bus, want to see if there’s anything to eat around here?”

We collected our bags and descended into the fluorescence of the bus depot. She scanned the buildings around us, then pointed at a pair of yellow arches that jutted up into the sky a few blocks away. “Let’s hit up Mickey D’s. I could kill a McRib.”

I followed her. Walking was a little awkward because of the weight of the duffel, which banged against my thigh with each step I took.

“What’s in the bag? Looks heavy.”

I looked down at the bag in my hands, which was straining from the weight of the IBM hard drive. The hard drive was large and unwieldy, and more than once in the last few days I’d thought about tossing it in a dumpster. And yet I kept lugging it around, even though the bag was close to dislocating my arm from its socket. The drive was of some value; it had to be, since my father had bothered to steal it. And even though I wasn’t planning to deliver it to my father in North Dakota, per his instructions, I also wasn’t quite ready to get rid of it. Not until I at least knew what it was.

Instead, I’d purchased a duffel bag at Kmart and shoved it in there, along with the stacks of money that I’d taken from my father’s desk and the pages of ciphered writing, which I hadn’t yet begun to untangle. I kept all my personal possessions—my new clothes, the handful of family photos—in the backpack. Stashing all the illegal contraband in the duffel made me feel just slightly distant from it: I could drop it and walk away at any time.

“It’s textbooks,” I said.

“Oh yeah? Why do you need so many textbooks?”

“Because I’m really smart?”

She raised an eyebrow but laughed. We turned a corner and arrived at a desolate strip of fast-food restaurants, mostly empty at this hour. Desi stopped under a streetlamp and dropped her backpack to the ground. She plopped down on the sidewalk next to it and gestured for me to sit down next to her. I looked down at the dirty cement, pebbled with abandoned chewing gum and stained with yellowish shadows that were most likely dried urine. I stayed standing where I was.

“Why are we stopping here?”

“I don’t have any money,” she said. “We’re going to have to panhandle. It always works best if you’re sitting down, so that people feel bigger than you and pity you a little. They like to feel superior when they’re giving you their pennies.”

“Oh.” This wasn’t appealing to me at all. I thought of the cash in the duffel. “Look, I have money. I’ll cover your dinner.”

She brightened. “Brilliant,” she said, and jumpedup.

And so I walked into my first fast-food restaurant. Inside, the lights were so bright they made me wince. Desi ordered a McRib, and a milkshake, and two orders of fries, and a hamburger for good measure; and by the time I ordered my own Happy Meal (I was absurdly excited about the free toy) plus a drink and a sundae, the bill was well over twenty dollars. At which point I realized that I only had a a few singles in the pocket of my stiff new jeans.

There were audible sighs from the line forming behind us as I counted and recounted my money. “Shut it, people,” Desi instructed them, then turned to me. “Look, I can send back the fries if that helps.”

“No, just give me a second,” I said. I reached down into the duffel bag at my feet, opening the zipper just enough to wedge a hand inside. I felt around for a packet of money and then slipped a bill off the top.

It wasn’t until I pulled my hand out that I realized I’d managed to grab a hundred-dollar bill. I slid it as discreetly as I could to the cashier, who slapped the crisp bill into the cash register without missing a beat and then handed me back a fistful of crumpled twenties.

If Desi had noticed this interaction, she wasn’t letting on. She’d grabbed our tray of food from the counter and was already cramming fries into her mouth, her eyes scanning the room for the best table. “Thanks, doll, I’ll get you next time,” she offered.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said; and it truly wasn’t, considering that the duffel bag I was carrying was stuffed with nearly $23,000. I may not have had a firm grasp on the value of money yet, but I was pretty sure this would be plenty to start a new life in San Francisco and also cover some fries.

I followed Desi to a table by the window and we sat and wolfed down our meals, surrounded by transients and travelers grimly chewing their McNuggets. Under the unforgiving lighting, I could see that Desi was older than me; maybe even in her late twenties. She had bruised-looking circles under her eyes, and her skin seemed to sag off the bones of her face, making her look gaunt and hungry.

“This food is disgusting,” Desi said as she shoved the last bite of McRib in her mouth. Her red lipstick was feathering and faded, her lips slick with grease.

“I think it’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I said, not joking at all, though Desi laughed like I was.

“I work part-time at a juice bar in San Francisco, the owners are total health Nazis. I swear they would fire me if they even knew I had stepped foot in a McDonald’s. I had to tell them I was a vegetarian just to get a job there.”

“Why? Were they worried you were going to put steak in their smoothies?”

Desi slapped the edge of the table with her hand. “Oh my God, Esme, you’re hilarious. Weird, but funny. Are we going to hang out when we get to San Francisco?”

Something surged inside me, a little frisson of excitement; that this new persona was already working out in my favor; that I had somehow made a friend. “I’d like that,” I said, maybe a little too earnestly.

“Hey. Hey, you.”

The voice was coming from behind me and when I turned my head to see who it was, I realized that there was a policeman standing just behind our table. He was a heavyset man with a stubby mustache and broken capillaries across his nose, a greasy paper sack in one hand, and he was staring right at us. I whipped my head around and looked quickly down at the floor, trying to disappear, hoping he wasn’t talking to me. But his shiny black shoes crept into my view as he stopped right in front of our table.

“Is something wrong, officer?” Desi’s voice was dripping with saccharine. I still wouldn’t lookup.

“Is this bag yours?”

The shoes were now nudging the edge of my duffel bag. Staring at the floor was not helping my situation. I forced myself to raise my head. “I think so?” It did not sound like the answer of an innocent person.

He had been looking at Desi when I lifted my head, but now he swiveled to look at me. “You think so? It’s not your friend’s?”

I shook my head and he turned back to Desi, his eyes narrowed to slits, clearly displeased with the look of her. Desi, for her part, seemed utterly bored by the encounter. “It’s hers,” she said flatly.

He turned back to me one last time, his eyes scanning my features so intently that I was sure he was looking for something specific. I willed myself to smile back at him, trying to conceal the panic that I knew must be written all over my face. But his features went slack, as if what he’d found in mine had been lacking in interest. “OK. Do us all a favor and keep it under your table. It’s a hazard sticking out into the walkway like that. I almost tripped over it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “sir.”

He continued on, as the blood rushed back into my face. I pushed my fries away, even though they were only half eaten. “Can we get out of here?”

“Good idea.” Desi glanced at her watch. “We still have an hour before the bus leaves. Enough time to put back a few shots of tequila. It’ll make the next leg of this trip more bearable. Let’s find a bar. There’s gotta be one nearby.”

I hesitated. “I’m eighteen.”

Desi raised an eyebrow. “No shit? And no fake ID? I thought every college kid had one.” She stood to peer out the window and then turned back to me. “OK, so look, there’s a dive bar right across the street, I’m going to hit it up real fast. I’ll just meet you back at the bus. Cool?”

I stood to follow her as she headed to the door, struggling to keep up with her under the weight of all my baggage. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll hold a seat for you.”

“Awesome, thanks, but hey, do you mind lending me one of those twenties in your pocket? Actually, let’s say two, just to be safe.” She lowered her voice, looking suddenly very serious. “So I don’t have to panhandle for it. It’s probably not safe, you’re right about that.”

I was pretty sure I hadn’t said anything about panhandling not being safe. But I slid two bills out of my pocket anyway, and she plucked it out of my grip with a pinch of her fingers. Then she leaned in and kissed me on my cheek, an unexpected oily smack that made me flinch. “You’re a doll. I’ll pay you back when we get to San Francisco. Promise.”

And then she was off, dashing through the traffic toward a neon sign across the street that read Pabst on Tap. An oncoming Toyota braked to avoid hitting her, the driver pressing on its horn in protest. She stopped in its path and stared down the driver, slowly holding up both middle fingers in a gesture that reminded me, jarringly, of my father. And then she flashed a grin at me, winked, and vanished into the bar.

—

She didn’t get back to the depot until a minute after our bus was scheduled to depart, and I was starting to despair that I’d never see her again. The engine had already grumbled into life and the lights had gone off when she was suddenly banging on the bus door. The bus driver, swearing under his breath, opened it to let herin.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” he said.

She burped in response and threw herself into the seat next to me. “Oh Jesus, I just did four shots in less than an hour. I hope I don’t puke.”

Her breath smelled abominable, sour and ashy. “Please don’t,” I said.

She closed her eyes. “I’m just going to sleep until we get to the next transfer. Where’s that?”

“Las Vegas.”

“No shit, Vegas. Maybe we should just jump off there and go hit up some casinos. Or go to a rave. They have epic ones, out in the desert, I hear. I’ll call my friend Johnny.”

I wasn’t about to ask her what a rave was. “I really need to get to San Francisco.”

“Your mom, right. Sure. God, I’m tired. I think I’m going to pass out.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small orange prescription container. She fumbled with the cap for a minute before shoving it at me. “Childproof. You do it.”

I twisted it open and peered inside at the little white pills. “What is that?”

She grabbed the open bottle and tipped a few pills into her palm. Squinting at her hand, she plucked one up and stuck it in her mouth. “Ambien.”

“Still don’t know what it is.”

“Sleeping pills, you ninny. Here, have one.” She held her palm out tome.

I veered back. “I don’t need one.”

“Of course you do. This seat is hellaciously uncomfortable. Trust me, you’ll feel way better in the morning if you actually get a decent night’s sleep.” She pushed the palm with the pills under my nose. She wasn’t wrong: I still hadn’t slept more than three hours a night since I left Montana. My head felt thick and fuzzy, my faculties dangerously dulled. What would be worse—taking an illicit pill, or going another night without any sleep?

Fuck it, I thought, maybe Esme takes sleeping pills. I popped one in my mouth.

“Two is even better. It’ll knock you out until we get to Vegas,” she said, and then smiled approvingly as I obeyed and swallowed another.

“You’ll thank me later,” she murmured as she dropped her head to my shoulder and closed her eyes. She was snoring before we’d driven three blocks. Three blocks after that, I, too, slipped into the merciful oblivion of sleep.

—

I woke up to a hand roughly shaking me awake. The bus driver was leaning over me, his fingers digging into my shoulder. “Wake up, kid. It’s time to transfer.”

I felt like I’d been hit with a pickaxe. My cheek was flat and sticky from where it had been pressed against the window of the bus while I slept. Rubbing my eyes, I looked out the window and realized that we were parked in another bus station lot, baking under a desert sun. Outside, sunburnt tourists in shorts and fanny packs trudged toward the waiting buses, clutching foot-tall plastic glasses that were still blue with cocktail residue.

“Where are we?”

“Vegas. Where you headed?”

“San Francisco.” My eyes drifted closed.

But the bus driver poked me again, harder this time. “Well, you better hurry then, or you’ll miss your connection. It leaves in five minutes.”

My eyes flew open again. Only then did it occur to me that the seat next to me was empty. In fact, the entire bus seemed to be empty. “Wait. Have you seen my friend? The girl with the blue hair.”

The bus driver shrugged. “Everyone got off when we stopped, almost an hour ago. I just noticed you sleeping back here.”

That jolted me awake. I pushed myself to standing and looked up and down the aisle in disbelief, then turned to peer out the window. Lots of tourists, no blue hair in sight. Maybe Desi had rushed off to squeeze in another round of drinks before our next connection? I reached under the seat in front of me and fumbled out the backpack that I’d been using as my footrest, and then stood up to grab the duffel that I’d stashed on the overhead rack.

It was gone.

I stared numbly at the empty space where the duffel with all my money had been. Then at the other racks, just in case I’d misremembered. But there were no bags to be seen, anywhere. The bus was eerily silent, except for the hissing of the air-conditioning.

“My bag is missing,” I said. I was dangerously close to tears.

The bus driver shrugged again. “Can’t take responsibility for that, kid. Sorry. But you gotta get off now. Your connection is over there, look for the number four.”

I stumbled my way off the bus, my backpack clutched in my arms. Outside, I was hit in the face by a blast of hot, dry air. Sweat immediately glued my sweatshirt to my back. I shaded my eyes against the blinding morning sun and made my way toward the bus that was waiting in slot number four, my wobbly feet still asleep underneath me. Surely Desi would be waiting for me on the next bus, I told myself; she was probably wondering where I was. Quite possibly she’d grabbed my duffel for safekeeping.

She wasn’t on the bus.

I stood at the front of the number four connection, scanning the seats with mounting alarm, but there was no shock of blue hair, no tattooed arms flung out into the aisle. “Dammit,” I said, and turned around. Then turned around again. Unsure what todo.

“You gotta pick a seat,” the new bus driver offered. “We’re about to leave.”

I hesitated, considering my options. Maybe Desi was sitting at the bar nearest to the depot, my duffel safely stashed beneath her chair, waiting again until the very last second to race for the bus. But I somehow knew, even as the bus’s engine shuddered to life and the doors squeaked closed behind me, that Desi wasn’t ever coming. She’d seen her opportunity and taken it. (Or had she made the opportunity? I thought of the two pills I’d popped so unquestioningly, and felt sick.)

Should I get off the bus and try to track her down? The odds weren’t in my favor. If you didn’t want to be found in Vegas, you wouldn’t be. I didn’t even know if it was she who had taken my duffel, or if it had been another opportunistic traveler. Besides, if I got off the bus and didn’t locate her and all my money, I’d never be able to make it the rest of the way to San Francisco. All I had in my pocket was the thirty-eight dollars in change from our dinner at McDonald’s the previous evening. At least if I stayed on the bus, I’d still be on my way to finding my mother.

Besides my money, I suddenly remembered, she also had the incriminating stolen hard drive. Evidence that could lead to me. And she even had my father’s cipher pages, the ones he apparently wanted me to read: What if they explained everything about my mother, and me? The information I wanted the most had probably been right in my hands, and now it was gone.

I felt Esme with all her confident potential slowly leaking out of me, leaving me only with lost, na?ve, stupid Jane. My father would never have let his most important possessions get stolen, I thought. For the first time since I’d driven out of Montana, I felt the urge to give up and head to North Dakota, and just let him take over. To throw myself back into a life as his criminal accomplice.

It’s cold out there. And rough.

“Are you going to sit down or what?” the bus driver barked, his patience worn out.

The bus shuddered. The passengers grumbled. My moment of weakness passed.

I sat.