Damaged (18 page)

As I pull onto the freeway, Hunter's phone buzzes back to life. Just before he presses play, he says, “We're even now.”

THIRTEEN

Nebraska is the worst place
in the world. It is silent and flat and desolate. It is heartless and lonely. It is miles of identical nothing. Hunter and I do not speak unless absolutely necessary. The car is cold with air-conditioning and anger.

I drive into the night while Hunter sleeps. I don't wake him, even when I'm nodding off from exhaustion, even when it's clear I should no longer be driving. It's not safe. I'm a hazard. But it's better than the alternative. It's better than not moving.

Even though I'm inches away from Hunter, Camille keeps trying to break through. But it is not the Camille of the nightmares, not the Camille of the hauntings. It is the real Camille, the one I remember loving for practically my whole life. Hunter cannot protect me from her.

Her face keeps flashing in front of me, lit softly, turned up to the sun, smiling her ecstatic smile. I try to fight the memories, but my mind is weak and exhausted. I've worked so hard fighting the ghost of Camille, now I'm no longer strong enough to block her memory.

She comes to me in short, painful bursts. She pulls at my ribs, worms her way through my throat, up into my brain, where she flashes pictures of our innocence—sleepovers on her bedroom floor where we'd tell each other our benign secrets in the dark, her few laughable attempts at teaching me to ride a horse, walking the country roads for hours just for something to do, sitting at her favorite table at the coffee shop while she made hilarious commentary about everyone who passed by, Camille and her parents cheering at my soccer matches when neither my mom nor grandma ever showed up.

But then other memories come, blank spaces where she should have been, holes in the months leading up to the crash, when she started leaving even before she left. These memories are the worst, the ones where I can't see Camille at all, where there is darkness where her face should be, where there is just me, alone, missing her.

I squeeze my eyes closed to stop the tears, to stop the ­barrage of images like machine gun fire in my gut. The steering wheel is in my hand but it is connected to nothing.

I am driving air. I am not in control. Sleep seeps in like warm water, filling me up as I float away.

“Fuck, Kinsey!”

Hands on mine, squeezing.

Wheels screaming. The world tilting.

Red and white lights blur by as I try to focus.

The night is too dark.

“Pull over!” Hunter shouts, his body heavy on mine as he leans over from the passenger side, his hands on the steering wheel. “Fucking pull over right now!”

My eyes and brain are able to focus enough to bring us to the side of the freeway. We are so still now. And I am suddenly so awake.

“Get out,” he says. “I'm driving us to the next rest stop.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I think I fell asleep.”

“Why didn't you wake me up if you were getting tired?”

“I'm sorry,” I say again.

“Luckily there aren't that many cars on the road. Jesus, Kinsey, you could have killed us. You may have a death wish, but you're not taking me down with you.”

I nod because I can no longer speak. I am shaking too hard to acknowledge the irony of his statement. The car is still now but I feel it on replay, the car drifting out of its lane and into the next one over, the jarring tug of Hunter steering it back.

“Get out,” he says again. My hands shake as I unbuckle my seat belt. My feet are unsteady as I walk around the car. A semi truck barrels by and I am nearly grounded by the force. I put my hand on the side of the car to steady myself. Hunter is in front of me, the night loud with insects and the rumble of freeway. The ground does not feel solid. I do not feel solid. I slide against the car and fall to the ground.

My head is in my hands, my shoulders shaking, the sound of my cries absorbed by the deafening night. “I'm sorry,” I say.

He doesn't say anything. He remains standing. Solid. Stone.

“For everything,” I continue. “I'm sorry. I'm having a hard time.”

“That's the understatement of the year,” he says, and I can't tell if his words are tinged with cruelty or kindness.

“Are we okay?” I say, barely audible.

He's quiet for too long. I can't remember why we're fighting. I can't remember which of us screwed up more. All I know is there's a hole in me now the shape of him.

“Get in the car,” he finally says. He turns to walk to the driver's side, but stops and stands there for a moment. He looks up, deep into the night, then turns back around and offers me his hand. I take it, stand up, and brush the dirt and gravel off my legs.

It is only a few more miles to the next rest stop. Hunter pulls in and parks and we head to the restrooms without speaking. I stand outside the ladies room and wait for someone to walk in before I enter to make sure I won't be in there alone. I can't deal with Camille anymore today.

When I get back to the car, Hunter is laid out in the backseat, eyes closed. I get in front and recline the seat as far as it will go without crushing him. Despite the sadness threatening to consume me, at least I feel safe, and I fall quickly into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

I wake up suffocating in the trapped heat of rolled-up windows. I can't get out of the car fast enough. The backseat is empty. Maybe Hunter left, maybe he walked off into the night, maybe he finally figured out I'm more trouble than I'm worth.

I fish through the trunk for my toothbrush and a change of clothes. All of his stuff is still there, his cardboard box half full of liquor bottles. I know he wouldn't leave without those.

The bathroom is full of chattering women. As I awkwardly change my clothes in a stall, I find the crumpled brochure for Old Quarry Historical Site in my pocket. I'm just about to throw it on the floor when I have the sudden urge to open it, to look at the photo of the quarry one last time. There, nestled among text about geology and mineral deposits, is the image of the massive cliff face. And there, where there used to be a tiny figure in the shape of a teenage girl, is nothing.

I squint my eyes and look closer. Still nothing. No girl. No Camille. Nobody.

Did I imagine it? Did the figure magically get erased? Is this the same brochure? Can ghosts be so tiny and fleeting and made out of ink?

I squeeze my eyes tight, shake my head hard, and say, “No,” loud.

“Excuse me?” someone in the bathroom says.

I tear up the brochure before I open my eyes. I tear it into little pieces. I make the pieces so small there's no quarry left, no photo, no fence, no place where Camille should be. I throw the paper in the toilet and flush.

I exit the stall. I brush my teeth and wash my face. It is so strange to think I must resemble a sane person to all these strangers in the bathroom. They must think I'm some young woman on a road trip just freshening up in a rest stop. I'm not someone unraveling, unraveled. I'm not someone who has lost her mind.

When I get back to the car, Hunter is standing there with a guy not much older than us—tall, pale, skinny, and kind of twitchy; with thick glasses, stringy black shoulder-length hair, thrift store jeans, a colorful top that may be a woman's, and a thick knitted scarf wrapped around his neck even though it's already pushing eighty degrees. He's leaning against the car next to a giant backpack. I have a very bad feeling about this.

Hunter's cleaned up and looks close enough to healthy. He sucks on a Styrofoam cup of coffee as I approach, eyeing me through his sunglasses. I stand before them, waiting for an introduction. The guy looks at me with a dopey grin, then at Hunter, shifting from foot to foot as if it's impossible for him to stand still. Hunter says nothing. He's enjoying watching me squirm. He enjoys knowing something I don't.

The guy finally thrusts out his hand and says with a high, squeaky voice, “Hi, I'm Terry. Pleased to meet you.”

I reach my hand out tentatively to meet his; he grabs it and shakes way too enthusiastically.

“There's nothing more important than a firm handshake,” he says. “Especially if you're a man. Especially if you're kind of a sissy like me.” He blows a thin wisp of black hair from his eyes and cocks his head to the side. “It's essential if you want to be taken seriously. Do you take me seriously?” His thick glasses magnify his eyes so they look like they're bulging out of his face, giving him an owl-like appearance. The scarf around his neck is hideous, old, and poorly made with a hodgepodge of unmatching yarn fragments. His clothes are dirty with the road.

I look at Hunter for an explanation. With a blank face, he says, “This is Terry. He's coming with us.”

I am speechless.

“I found your pal Hunter by the vending machines,” Terry says cheerfully. “He appeared to be having a rather hostile and spirited discussion with a small black electronic device. Something told me I should talk to him. Do you believe in fate? I do. I think we're meant to be great friends, you and me.”

“Let's go,” Hunter says, moving to get into the driver's seat, as if the matter's already settled, as if this is not one of the stupidest and craziest things he's ever done.

“Shotgun!” Terry squeals, clapping his hands.

“Wait a minute!” I finally manage to say. Terry is already in the front seat, fastening his seat belt, pushing buttons, opening and closing the glove compartment like a hyperactive kid. “Hunter, what is this?” I say. “What the hell are you doing?”

He lifts his sunglasses from his eyes and stares me down defiantly. “My friend Terry here needs a ride. We're giving him a ride.”

“Are you crazy? This guy? A fucking hitchhiker you met at a rest stop?”

Hunter shrugs.

“Don't I get a say in the matter? Were you going to consult me?”

“He's going to chip in some cash.”

“I'm rich!” Terry exclaims from inside the car.

“Since when do you need Terry to chip in some cash?”

“Yeah, about that,” Hunter says, scratching his nose. “I just got off the phone with His Majesty. He canceled my credit card.”

For a few moments, I can only stare at him. “What does this mean?” I finally say. “Don't you have any cash? A debit card?”

“I have a little money in a checking account he can't touch,” Hunter says. “But that has to last me until I get settled in San Francisco. It's an expensive city, you know. More expensive than New York, some say.”

Why is he being so calm about this? “But we don't even know this guy. He could be an ax murderer.” We simultaneously turn our heads to watch Terry tying his mop of black hair into a bun, trying out several pursed-lip poses in the rearview mirror as if for a photo shoot.

“I really doubt that,” Hunter says. “I think he'd have a hard time even lifting an ax, never mind swinging it hard enough to hurt us.”

“No,” I say. “Hunter, this is ridiculous. You can't do this.”

He opens the driver's side door and sits down. “Well, guess what? This is my car. And I want to do it. And quite frankly, I'm looking forward to having some company besides you.”

I'm too mad for that to even hurt.

“You can stay here if you want,” he says. “Catch a ride with a nice trucker.”

“I would not recommend that,” Terry yells from the front seat. “I'm a recent escapee from a truck driver. He was not a polite man. All hands. And I'm not nearly as pretty as you are.”

Hunter turns the car on. Terry keeps babbling, “Which way are we going? Staying on the eighty? Going to Wyoming? Are we going to meet cowboys? I love cowboys!” I can't believe Hunter would rather spend hours in a car with this person instead of me.

Hunter pulls his door shut and the car starts moving. I run after it and pound on the side until he stops. I get in the back and slam the door, and Hunter starts driving again.

“Road trip!” Terry squeals.

“One more thing,” Hunter says, merging onto the freeway. “We're taking a detour to South Dakota.”

“What? No. That's going backward. That's not the plan.”

“Change of plans.” Hunter drifts into the left lane and starts driving fast, too fast.

“We didn't talk about this. You can't just decide that.”

“My car. My decision. What do you think, Terry?”

“South Dakota! I bet there's cowboys in South Dakota. There were some in Nebraska where I'm from, but they didn't like me very much.”

“See, Terry's on board.”

“Just tell me why.”

Hunter guns the engine and passes a car on the right. “If His Majesty canceled my credit card, it probably means he thought to look at how I've been using it, which means he can trace our whole trip along the eighty.”

“So?”

“So he can pretty easily figure out where we are if we stay on it.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you that part? He reported the car as stolen. Got his friends in the police department to send out an APB or something. Or so he claims. He could totally be bluffing. But better not to take any chances.”

“Ooh, we're on the run!” Terry exclaims. “Like Bonnie and Clyde! And their sidekick Terry!”

“Jesus, Hunter! Now we're fugitives?”

“Not you, just me.”

“But I'm like an accessory or something.”

Terry claps appreciatively. “You guys should have your own reality show.” He tears open a bag of Skittles and pops one in his mouth. “I would totally watch it like every week, even the commercials.”

“I can't believe this.” I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. I feel the beginning of a headache.

“You're free to leave any time,” Hunter reminds me. But what does that even mean? Where would I go? Back to Wellspring? How would I even get there? What choice do I have but to stay with these crazy people?

“This is going to be such a fun trip, you guys,” Terry says, then reaches back and shoves his bag of candy in my face. “Skittle?”