It was the only Spanish she taught my mom and her siblings. She and my grandfather wanted their children to assimilate, to be comfortable in the country where they were born, so they never spoke to them in her own native tongue.
My fingers work up to the next bead and quickly, silently, I recite the Padre Nuestro, three Ave Marias, the Gloria, and even though I’m not sure I’m really still Catholic, saying the words makes me feel a little bit better, brings me some tiny measure of peace that I’m doing what I can.Chapter FifteenCalebI glance at the speedometer. Seventy-five. I take a deep breath and ease my foot off the gas, forcing myself to slow the car down to sixty, even though these roads are empty on a Friday night.
I don’t need a speeding ticket. I don’t need to whip around a curve too fast and hit a deer. I don’t need to fly off the road, into a tree.
The last thought sends a shudder down my spine, a chill through the air.
Thalia is sitting in the passenger seat, whispering to herself. I think it’s Spanish. I think she’s praying. She hasn’t moved since she got into the car except to turn her head every so often and look out the window.
I don’t interrupt her. There are a hundred thousand things I could say, but they’re all useless. I know because I’ve heard them all, every last one of them, from well-meaning people who only wanted to make me feel better after my father died.
The truth is that there’s nothing. Words are empty vessels, only said so the speaker can feel as if they’ve helped somehow.
I look down, let the needle rise to sixty-five.
Then her phone rings and shakes in the cupholder, and we both jump.
“Sorry,” Thalia says, grabbing it.
“We’re almost to the interstate,” I tell her. “Sounds like you’ve got service again, though it might cut in and out a little. There are some pretty empty parts between here and the tidewater.”
She clicks her phone open, face glowing blue, flicking through her notification screen.
“Shit,” she hisses, softly.
“News?” I ask, evenly, calmly, like my chest isn’t constricting, but she shakes her head.
“Nothing since she went in,” Thalia says, and holds her phone up to her ear. “But I forgot to tell my roommates what was going on and I think Margaret’s about to call the — hey, it’s me.”
On the other end of the line, Margaret says oh, thank fuck loudly enough that I can hear it perfectly.
“I’m fine, I’m not kidnapped,” she says. “I’m not — what? No, my kidnapper didn’t make me say that.”
She pauses, the voice on the other end quieter now.
“My mom’s in the hospital,” Thalia says quickly, a gasp for air at the end of the sentence. She inhales, exhales. “She was in a car accident. She’s in surgery right now. Bastien called me, that’s all I know, we’re driving to Norfolk and we’re about to get on eighty-one.”
The narrow two-lane road I’m on widens, the trees suddenly further from the shoulder. Through the forest I can see bright fast food signs, a lone Hampton Inn.
Thalia clears her throat, and suddenly I can feel her looking over at me, eyes glassy, lips puffy.
“One of my professors was at the banquet and volunteered to give me a ride,” she says.
There’s a long spell of silence, then: “Does it matter?”
More silence. She leans back in the passenger seat, closes her eyes.
“I know,” she says. “I know. Thank you. Thanks for checking on me. I’ll let you guys know when I’ve got more info.”
Another small pause, and then she says, “I love you too,” a smile in her voice. “Later.”
Thalia puts her phone back into the cupholder, pulls one foot onto the seat.
“They know I’m with you,” she says.
“I told you, I don’t care,” I tell her as the road opens to four lanes.
We go around a wide curve in the road and suddenly a Wal-Mart looms in front of us, two gas stations, a Chick-fil-a, a brightly lit green sign announcing Interstate 81.
“They also know that we went on a date,” she says, the lights passing over her face. “And why we didn’t go on another one.”
“Then they know we didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her, and turn onto the on-ramp.
“Right,” she says, and goes quiet again as I merge onto the interstate, speeding up until I’m doing eighty.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, after a spell.
“Shoot.”
“How old are you?”
I steal a glance away from the road at her: watching me, her eyes glassy and puffy but dry for now. I understand. There’s only so long at once that you can stay mired in the grief and misery of unknowing; every so often, you have to come out.
“You’re trying to figure out how much of a creep I am,” I say, smiling at the road.