The Journey Home (6 page)

“I wouldn't mind stretching my legs for a little while.”

“Next rest stop we come to, okay?”

About fifteen minutes later, Will turned off the highway and up a long ramp to a stop marked “Frank Capra Memorial Rest Stop.” The name Frank Capra only rang the dimmest of bells in Joseph's mind, but the rest stop dedicated to him had a remarkable folksy quality. They passed gas pumps on their way off the ramp, but the vicinity around the rest stop was like the main street of a very small town. Trees lined the curb and patrons milled from an ice cream shop to a dry goods store to a restaurant bearing a sign that promised homestyle cooking, the best coffee for miles, and “Bethy's incomparable pies.”

“Are you hungry?” Joseph said to Will as they got out of the car.

“I could eat something.”

“Let's go see what this ‘homestyle cooking' is about.”

They entered a room with soft lighting and muted colors. Perhaps this was just further evidence of his failed memory, but Joseph had not envisioned this when he imagined going to a rest stop. The tables and chairs were maple with woven, amber-colored placemats at each setting. Moss green drapes hung from the windows, matching the moss and beige rug on the floor. If the cooking was as “homestyle” as the dining room decor, this meal was going to be far more of a treat than Joseph had expected. That would be good. The only time he'd felt truly comfortable since awakening in this place had been when he was eating, but he also hadn't had a thoughtless meal yet.

The hostess seated them and handed them
menus. A busboy brought them water as they sat and a waiter took Joseph's order for coffee and Will's for a Sprite. Joseph opened his menu and considered the options. Four-cheese pasta sounded appealing, as did the chicken-and-white-bean chili. A box on the righthand corner of the menu told the story of “Randy's famous spice-rubbed smoked pork loin,” explaining how Randy (whoever he was) had spent years experimenting with spices, woodsmoke, and cooking temperatures before perfecting this dish.

“Hey, did you see this thing about the pork?” Joseph said to Will, who'd already closed his menu.

“Nah, I didn't notice it.”

“It sounds very impressive. I think I hear it calling to me.”

Will looked down at the menu, but didn't reopen it. “A turkey sandwich works for me.”

Joseph screwed his face into an expression of disbelief. “Really? With all the other interesting stuff they have here?”

Will shrugged. “Food's not that big a deal to me.”

Joseph found that sentiment baffling. How could food not be a big deal?
Everybody
loved food, didn't they? He could imagine this becoming a problem between the two of them if they stayed on the road for any length of time. Joseph decided right then that he'd take charge of every one of their meals while they were traveling. Life was far too short to eat badly.

Joseph ordered his smoked pork and Will his turkey sandwich, and the waiter promised to get their meals out to them as quickly as he could.

When the waiter left, Will took a sip of his drink and then leaned toward Joseph. “Okay, tell me everything about her.”

“About who?”

“Your wife.”

Joseph lowered his eyes. “You know as much about her as I do.”

Will became more animated. “No, I don't. You know
tons
about her. Dig down and pull something out.”

Joseph had no idea what the kid was getting at. Did Will think that Joseph had been holding out on him, that he'd been spinning some elaborate yarn about losing his memory? He threw an accusing glance across the table, but what came back at him wasn't provocation. It was encouragement. Will was trying to goad him into figuring things out. The kid had some surprises in him.

Dig down?
Okay, he'd try. Staring at his lap, Joseph tried to get his mind to cooperate with his desires. She was in there somewhere. Did he have the strength to bring her out?

He closed his eyes and tried to reach out for the wisp of her he knew was always there. As he did, she became somewhat more palpable. Flexing open his right hand, he felt the satin of her upper arm. The warmth and smoothness, colored by a tiny mole. The subtle contour of her upper bicep. The curve of her perfect shoulder that led to her long, regal neck whose skin was almost impossibly smoother.

He parted his lips slightly and felt hers. The way they yielded to and at the same time embraced his
had been a breakthrough for him the first time they kissed. Before this, he had never known that a kiss could be both pillowy and firm. It drew him to a need to kiss her that extended far beyond attraction and passion. It was as though he had discovered something necessary to his welfare, some secret thing that allowed him to live his life at a higher and now completely essential level.

His chest warmed and he could feel her skin on his, molded with his as they lay in the night. Joseph knew he'd be able to sense her heartbeat if he were still enough, if he let himself melt into her. Yes, there it was, issuing its subtle throb into his own pulse. Joseph sank into the rhythm of it. This was something absolutely, uniquely hers. It bore her essence. It would take him to her.

But while he continued to feel her heartbeat, his journey toward his wife ended right there. He implored his mind to go deeper, to go beyond touch, to offer the same fullness of experience to his other senses. As he did so, though, the throbbing of her heart lessened. His skin grew cooler. His lips and his fingers touched nothing but air.

He opened his eyes and looked across at Will, who stared back at him as though waiting for the next detail in an incredibly enticing story.

“You had something there,” the boy said. “Didn't you?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Not enough.”

Will slumped, as though someone had let the air
out of him. “It sure seemed like something was going on.”

Joseph shook his head slowly. “Something. Just not anything that makes where we're trying to go clearer.”

Will ran a hand through his hair. “That sucks. You got my hopes up for a second there.”

“Sorry to let you down.”

The waiter came with their plates. Joseph's meal was fragrant with smoke and sage. He could smell the care that went into this dish and he wanted to enjoy it. He wondered if he could muster enthusiasm for it, though.

The retreat of his wife's touch had blunted his appetite for anything else.

Still feeling doubtful about the entire thing, Antoinette opened the closet door and put on the winter coat she saw there. Warren had said that all the things in this closet were hers, so she picked out the one that looked nicest.

“Mom, it's seventy degrees out,” Warren said, walking up to her and helping her to remove the coat. “I just thought you might want a sweater or something.” He hung the coat in the closet and pulled out a thin jacket. “This'll be good,” he said, as he held it up for her to put on.

He was insisting on taking her out, saying it would be good for her, even though she protested strongly that she didn't want to go. Antoinette doubted it would be good for her – there was only one good place for her now – but she agreed to do so because she was sure Warren would just keep nagging her until she did. It was good for
him
, maybe. He was probably just bored of being with her and wanted to get out, and he figured he had to lug her around if he were going to do so. He could have just gone to lunch by himself if he was so antsy. She
didn't need him to be here if he didn't want to be here.

When they left the apartment, they passed several people in the hallway, some of whom said hello to her. Antoinette didn't recognize any of them, but she smiled and nodded. The nurse that was usually nice to her came up to them and said something about Antoinette's going on an “excursion.” Then she said something to Warren that Antoinette couldn't hear. The nurse seemed a little too familiar in her attitude toward Warren. Antoinette would have to remind her that her son was married. She never appreciated a woman who tried to put herself between a man and his wife.

Antoinette felt the breeze the second they walked out the door. Warren had an arm looped around one of hers, but she used her free hand to cinch the jacket around her neck. The heavier coat would have been better. She should have just trusted her own mind.

“The car's right over here,” Warren said, moving her toward the back end of the parking lot. If he knew he was going to drag her out of her apartment today, he should have parked closer. This was just another indication that he was doing this for himself and not for her.

They drove down a street lined with trees that had white blossoms on them, and then turned onto a busy road. The cars drove very fast around here, not like where she and Don lived. And so many stores. Who bought all those things?

“Are you hungry, Mom?” Warren said as he
tried to keep up with the other cars. “I thought we could go to that diner you always liked.”

“That would be fine.” Antoinette wasn't very hungry and she had no idea which diner her son was talking about, but she didn't want to get into a conversation with him right now. He needed to concentrate on the road. Two hands on the steering wheel would be nice, also.

“Do you need anything while we're out?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Are you sure? We can go to the mall after we eat, if you'd like.”

“That's okay. They give me everything I need, really.”

Warren stopped at a traffic light and gestured around them. “They're doing a ton of building all over here. They're putting in a huge new Target down the block. You'll have a field day in there when it's open. Can you believe how much this area is changing?”

Warren seemed excited about all the new stuff. Antoinette would have to take his word for it. She looked out the window and tried to get her bearings, but then the car was moving again and she lost her place.

A few minutes later, Warren pulled his car into a parking lot. Antoinette assumed they'd arrived at the diner he'd been talking about. He came around to her side of the car and helped her out, which Antoinette appreciated since her legs had tightened up during the drive. Holding on to her son's arm, she carefully climbed the five steps up to the diner's entrance.

The place seemed pleasant enough. There were mirrors on the wall, which gave Antoinette multiple reflections of herself. She should have done something with her hair, and would have if Warren had given her more warning. A large case to the right of the front door was full of oversized baked goods. The cakes seemed ridiculously high. Did people actually eat those things?

A hostess welcomed them and sat them in a booth in the large dining room. Everything here seemed to be some shade of brown. It wasn't particularly unpleasant, and it seemed clean, but a little color would have helped immensely. Don used to laugh at her about her penchant for splashing color all over their house, especially in the dining room and the kitchen. She always reminded him that people ate with their eyes as much as their stomachs, and he always responded by telling her that her cooking was so good that he could have feasted blindfolded. She loved when he cut off any disagreement with a compliment. He always knew what to say.

Antoinette looked at her menu for a few minutes before deciding to have a couple of scrambled eggs and toast. It had been a long time since she'd felt any kind of appetite. She probably would have been fine with just some coffee, but Warren would have been disappointed. He even questioned her about choosing eggs before he ordered a cup of soup and a chicken potpie. She didn't want to let him down – he seemed excited about bringing her here – but the eggs were going to be enough of a challenge.

“Is your soup okay?” Antoinette said when the cup arrived a few minutes later.

“Yeah, yeah, it's fine.” Her son held his spoon toward her. “Do you want to try?”

Antoinette waved a hand. “No, thanks.”

Warren spooned a noodle and some broth, then sipped. “You're not missing anything. Not exactly your home cooking, Mom.”

“Restaurant food is different.”

He reached for the pepper and shook it over his cup several times. “It's definitely different. But why eat at home when you can pay so much more for something that doesn't taste nearly as good?”

Antoinette reached out to pat her son's arm. He was a good boy. “You always appreciated my cooking.”

“The whole neighborhood appreciated your cooking. Did you ever notice how many of my friends showed up just before dinnertime?” He took another spoonful of soup and wrinkled his nose. “Mrs. Feinberg cooked like this. That's why Paul was always hanging out at our house.”

Antoinette dipped her spoon in the cup and tasted. Warren was exaggerating about how bad the soup was, but only by a little. “Too much salt,” she said. “And much too much pepper, though that might not have been
their
fault. More aromatics in the broth would have helped.”

Warren smiled at her as though she'd just revealed a gigantic secret. “I'm telling you, Mom, you should have opened that restaurant we always talked about.”

“
You
always talked about it, not me. I never liked the idea of cooking for strangers. I didn't even like cooking when your father brought home people from work. Cooking is for family.”

“I'm telling you, Mom, all of the customers would have thought you were cooking just for them. You could have scored big.”

She looked out at him over arched eyebrows. “And who says that I didn't score big?”