My grandfather has lived more than thirty years since writing this. I wonder if he still feels that way, or if he got over it. I try to imagine what he’s like now. I have to believe he got past it. In that letter from last year, he sounded different. Wiser. How did that happen? Could he teach me?
MY NECK HURTS when we wake up. Aisha had the backseat the whole night, and I’m fine with it. More important is to figure out what the hell to do for a whole day in Salt Lake City.
Aisha drives us to a highway rest stop, and while she goes to the bathroom, I call my mother.
“Hey Mom.”
“Hi honey. How are you doing?”
“I’m good. We’re good. Really good, actually. Um, one thing though. The card was declined?”
“The credit card? It was? What were you trying to do?”
“Get a hotel room,” I say, quickly scanning my brain. Did I tell her we had a place to stay?
“I thought you were staying with friends of Aisha’s?”
Crap. “Yeah. Um. That fell through.”
“Where are you, honey?” I can hear the icy concern in her voice.
“Um.” I take a couple of seconds to think out my options. I land on the truth. “Utah.”
“Honey. I thought you were in Wyoming. I’m not sure I care for you running around the country without my knowing where you are.”
I don’t say, But you said, “Whatever you think.”
“Where did you sleep?”
I gulp. “The car.”
“Honey.”
“It’s fine. It’s just gonna be one more day. We have someone we need to see tomorrow morning, and then we’ll come back,” I say, knowing it’s possible that’s not true. If Lois knows something about where my grandfather is, we may need to keep going. But I guess I can come up with another excuse then.
“No,” Mom says.
“What?” I’m actually jarred. I cannot remember her ever telling me no before.
“You need to come back. Your father. You’re here to help me take care of your father.”
“But you don’t need my help. I sat around all day in Billings doing nothing. Can’t I just have today and tomorrow?”
“No,” she says, her voice gaining confidence. “That’s enough now. I’ll call the credit card company. No. Forget that. I’ll wire you money, a hundred dollars. Just enough to get home and for an emergency. Okay?”
I close my eyes. My head is buzzing out of control. “No,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, Mom. I don’t mean to upset you. There’s something we have to do. When have I ever done the wrong thing, like, ever? You need to trust me on this one.”
She takes a deep breath. “I hear that you feel the need to spread your wings and have some adventures. But this isn’t the right time. You need to come back here. We’ll talk about this later, when you get home. Find me a place where I can wire you money for gas. Then I want you to just drive straight through. Promise me.”
My throat feels cold. Every muscle in my body feels tight. She’s telling me no for the first time in my life, and as much as I’ve maybe wanted that in the past, right now no is not an answer I can take. I need to go farther. I need to find my grandfather. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever needed to do.
But I also need more money. We’re low on gas. Aisha and I have maybe fifty bucks between us. We’re stuck.
“I’ll text you a place,” I say, and then, as soon as she starts speaking, I hang up.
A few minutes later, a long text arrives:
I understand you are upset and I want you to know that o hear that. What I want you to thin about is how much of this is you being upset about your father. I know this must be terribly difficult for you. I locate myself in that feeling.
I’ve heard her talk like this before, like the psychologist she is, a million times. So why is it this time I start shaking?
I don’t respond to the text right away. When Aisha comes back from the bathroom, I’m searching for a place my mom can wire us money.
“You figure out what happened with the card?” she asks.
“Yeah, sort of. No. It’s fine. My mom is wiring us some money,” I say, while texting my mom the information. I don’t tell Aisha it’s only a hundred bucks, which is not that much given that we no longer have a credit card. I also don’t tell her that the money comes with a directive to get back to Billings immediately.
“Wow. My mom would not be that generous.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to figure out how we’re going to make this work. There’s got to be a way. Failure is not an option.
WE PICK UP the money at a supermarket, where I also buy protein bars, because I’m famished. I give one to Aisha. As we’re sitting in the parking lot eating, the phone rings.
It’s a woman named Stacy Bailey, who saw Aisha’s post on surfingsofas.com and invites us to stay with her and her family for the night. We check out her reviews, and they’re flawless. A deal is struck, and we get the Baileys’ address.
Driving there, it feels good to have someone care about me — us — even a stranger named Stacy Bailey. She will make everything okay for a day. She’s our savior.
Casa de Bailey turns out to be this huge McMansion with a garage big enough for three cars. Stacy Bailey is a skinny, middle-aged blond lady who greets us warmly at the door, and we walk into a large, high-ceilinged main room with two leather recliners facing what must be a seventy-inch television mounted on the wall next to the fireplace. Two floral-print couches sit across from each other, and on one of them rests a college-aged guy with a beard. He’s playing with his phone, and he doesn’t say anything to us as we walk in.
Stacy says she has to get going, and she rushes to show us our rooms (separate!) and teach us how to use the TV remotes. She introduces us to her son, Gareth — the guy on the couch — who says, “No reality shows. Seriously. House rule,” without even looking at us. Mrs. Bailey groans and playfully smacks him on the top of the head.
“Do something today,” she says. “It’s a Monday. Really. Please.”
He says back, “Epic plans. Don’t you worry.”
We follow her to the kitchen, where we stand and watch as she sets a world record for cleaning up cookie-baking detritus.
“Thanks for taking us in,” I offer.
She nods. “It was just, I listen to podcasts? And this morning’s devotional was about how Heavenly Father wants us to share what we have with others. My mind flashed on surfingsofas.com and I thought, We haven’t done that in quite some time. There your message was, waiting for me. I took it as a sign. I’m so glad you’re here. I hope you’ll forgive my busyness. We’d love it if you’d join us for a family dinner tonight, but for today, I’m sorry to say, you’re on your own. Is that okay?”
“Thanks so much,” I say again. “Really. This is so nice of you.”
Aisha says, “I was serious about the house cleaning. Even a house this big. Totally worth it.”
Mrs. Bailey laughs. “No need, no need. Heavenly Father asks us to welcome others as we would be welcomed.” She explains that her husband, Robert, is at work, but he knows we’re around, and we should help ourselves to some cookies, as she’s made more than she needs for her committee meeting.
After she leaves, I look at Aisha. As soon as Stacy Bailey said, ‘Heavenly Father,’ I got that we were in a Mormon household, and I remembered Aisha’s No fucking Mormons rule.