Divine by Choice (19 page)

“Pull over!” I yelled.

“Wha—”

“PULL THE FUCK OVER! I'M GOING TO—”

I didn't have to finish my declarative sentence. One quick look at my probably green face had clued in Clint. The Hummer swerved delicately as he fishtailed to a stop. I wrenched open the door, and leapt out into the barrage of
quarter-sized snowflakes. Two steps from the vehicle I bent over at the waist and began heaving.

Snot—puke mouth—shaking—whimpering—feeling like I was going to die. I hate puking.

“Easy, you're okay.” Clint's strong arms braced my body so that I could concentrate on puking up my intestines rather than falling headfirst onto the snowy, puke-spattered roadside. I was very grateful my hair was pulled back. Just thinking about what a horrible mess it would be if it had been free and wild (and puke encrusted) caused me to vomit up what was left of my guts.

“Here…” Clint handed me a bunch of Kleenex when my heaves had subsided.

“Th-thank…” I couldn't get the words out, but I took the tissues anyway and mopped my mouth and blew my nose.

“Don't mention it, Shannon my girl.” I could hear the smile in his voice as he guided me back to the open door of the Hummer.

“No!” I pushed against him. “I need some fresh air. I'll stay out here for a while.”

“Not long,” he said as he propped me against the side of the vehicle, pulling my door closed to stop the snow from falling inside. “It's too cold, and you'll get too wet.”

I nodded and concentrated on breathing normally.

“Can you stand by yourself?” he asked. I realized he still had a firm hold on my arms.

“Yes.” My voice sounded far away and shaky.

“I'll be right back.” He squeezed my arms before letting go and moving to the rear of the vehicle.

This means the baby is fine. The baby is fine. The baby is fine. The words were a litany that played around and around inside my head, beating in time with the pulse that spiked painfully in harmony with my headache.

“Rinse out your mouth then drink this.” Clint handed me
one of the bottles of water that I remembered packing with the sandwiches. It was still cool and felt smooth and refreshing as it washed the lingering taste of gall from my mouth.

“Better?” he asked.

“Thank you, yes.” I managed coherent speech. “I just need to stand here a second.”

I sipped the water and we stood. The snow was so heavy it made it seem like we were existing in a little pocket of our own world. Just Clint, the Hummer and me. Everything else was silent whiteness, wet and cold.
Let us be silent that we may hear the whispers of the gods.
Emerson's words flitted through my mind. If only it was that easy.

I looked down and saw that we were standing in snow over our knees, and if there were any other vehicles on the road, we certainly couldn't hear or see them.

“This can't be safe. What if someone hits us?” I blinked snow from my lashes and looked at Clint. He reached up and brushed a blob of snow from my shoulder.

“The turnpike is closed. I haven't seen a car in more than an hour.”

“Closed!” I was starting to feel human again. “If it's closed, how did we get this far?”

“This lady has been through desert sandstorms and war, a little snow is nothing to her.” He flashed me a teenage-boy smile and gave the squatty vehicle a fond look.

I just shook my head at him. Guys and their cars. Then I remembered my beautiful Mustang and relented, returning his grin.

“You must be recovering.” He started brushing the snow off me in earnest. “Let's get out of here.” He opened the door and shoved me into the passenger's seat, then waded through the snow to the driver's door, shaking blobs of white wetness off himself before he jumped behind the wheel.

“Want your coat back?” I noticed he was coatless and shaking as he put the Hummer into gear and eased her forward.

“No, I'm fine.” He ran his hand through his thick, dark hair. It was wet, and it stayed slicked back after his hand had returned to the wheel.

Just like ClanFintan's. I couldn't help the thought. My centaur husband often combed his thick mass of long, dark waves back and tied them into place with a leather thong. I used to tell him it gave him the rakish look of a Spanish Conquistador, and teased him about the fact that since he was half man, half horse, he could ravish me
and
carry me off with no outside help.

In the slatelike light of the snowy non-day the differences between Clint and ClanFintan seemed to disintegrate. I felt something deep within me begin to tremble.

“Do those dream visions always affect you so violently?” He barely glanced at me, and I was glad that I had time to compose myself before I answered.

“Not always.” I was together enough to know I should prevaricate.

“Where did your Goddess take you?”

“Home,” I couldn't keep my voice from sounding shaky. “To Partholon.”

“Oh.” His light, curious tone changed abruptly. “What did Epona show you?”

“My temple isn't right without me. They're, well, I don't know how to put it without sounding incredibly egotistical.” I shrugged my shoulders and decided to just tell the truth. “They need Epona's Beloved.”

Clint nodded as if he was trying to understand. Keeping his eyes on the road, he asked, “Did you see—” he hesitated over the name “—ClanFintan?”

“I saw him and I spoke with him.” When he didn't respond, I continued. “I told him I would return to him as soon as we took care of the Nuada problem.”

“We?” his voice was sharp.

“ClanFintan saw you through the divide, too.” I felt a fond smile curl my lips and I added, “He is assuming you will take care no harm comes to me.”

“His assumption is correct.”

“He appreciates it.” I didn't know what else to say. I mean, please. This whole situation was more bizarre than any episode of
Night Gallery
or
The Twilight Zone
had ever been. And that took some damn doing.

“Do you?” Clint's voice shot out.

“Do I what?” My thoughts had been interrupted and I didn't particularly like his tone.

“Do you appreciate the fact that I would die rather than see you harmed?”

Now I understood his tone.

“Yes.” My answer was truthful and blunt, but before he could question me further I changed the subject. “Where are we?”

Clint gave me a look that said he was onto my tactics, but he didn't push it. “Around ten minutes from the Broken Arrow exits. Where do I go from there?”

“Dad lives about ten miles east after you take the Kenosha turnoff.” I sighed and looked down at my bizarre clothing that was now decidedly puke spattered and damp. “Damn, I hate to show up looking like this.”

“I was kidding before, but isn't there a Wal-Mart just off the expressway?”

“Yessss…” I strung the word out, rearranging my thoughts from the mythological world of Partholon to the commercial world of Oklahoma. “Think it would be open in this mess?”

“Wal-Mart?” He laughed. “Nuclear war couldn't close its doors.”

“Then go a few exits past Kenosha, and take the 145th street exit.” The directions came back to me easily. “There's a Wal-Mart about a mile south of the highway. We can run in, get some clothes and get back on Kenosha. Shoot, we'll be home in time for dinner,” I said in my best Okie accent, even though the thought of dinner made me feel green again.

“Your wish is my command.” He gave me a playful look. “You are the goddess here.”

I gave him a tight smile back. The problem was, I wanted to say, I'm
not
the goddess
here.

The turnoff to 145th was as deserted as the rest of our journey had been, although the parking lot to the Howard Johnson's Motel that was right off the highway was packed with snow-shrouded cars. Less than a mile away Wal-Mart loomed like a concrete citadel ringed by a fence of fast-food restaurants.

“You're right. This damn place is open for business.” I shook my head as I spoke. Wal-Mart was certainly tenacious.

The Hummer crawled easily up the incline that led to the Wal-Mart Super Cathedral, but right away it was obvious that the majority of bubbas who had chosen to do their shopping today were not having our luck with navigating in the snow. An old Ford pickup was fishtailing around the lot, having definitely missed the parking place he had tried to slide (literally) into. (I caught a glimpse of his bumper sticker, which read Armed Okie—it made me feel nostalgic in an inbred kind of way.) An old Impala was spinning its tires uselessly and blocking the front of the store. Of course, a
Super
Wal-Mart has multiple entrances, so no one was panicking. The Oklahoma Southern Baptists would raise their hands and say a “Thank you, Jesus!” about that.

Clint navigated easily around the stuck car and I could see several men hauling tire chains out of the stranded motorist's trunk to help him out. (Needless to say, tire chains are not illegal in Oklahoma, actually it's considered proper winter etiquette—much like shotguns in the window of your pickup truck, except guns are an all-weather accessory.)

“Stay there. I'll come around and get you.” I handed Clint his jacket and didn't argue. First of all, I appreciate a gentleman. Secondly, I didn't want to fall on my butt. Obviously, no matter how deep the bizarre snow, it was still Oklahoma snow, which meant that it was packed with a layer of ice. So I just zipped my coat, attempted to smooth back my hair and waited.

The freezing air that hit me carried small, hard snowflakes that stung my face. My breath caught as Clint helped me down.

“It's getting worse,” he said grimly as he and I held on to one another and made our way to the neon safety of the store. Then, trying to lighten my mood he added in a conspirator's whisper, “In case you've forgotten, a flexible fashion sense is one of the requirements for experienced Wal-Mart shoppers. You can't swing a dead cat in that store without hitting six or seven fashionably dressed people wearing elastic-waist jeans. Prepare yourself, it's not always a pretty sight.”

I laughed and whispered back, “I do seem to remember that prolonged exposure to the school supplies aisles made me want to scream or commit suicide.”

“At least you're forewarned.” He squeezed my arm and we smiled at each other. I appreciate a guy with a Wal-Mart sense of humor.

Nearing the front of the store, we made a wide loop around the tire-spinning motorist. It looked as if all he was accomplishing was to burn a groove into the snow and polish the
sheet of ice under it. I smiled and stifled a giggle as I overheard one of the chain holders yell,
“Sheet,
Gordy, let up on that damn gas some! Yur not goin' nowhare!”

Some poor minimum-wage earner was out front battling the never-ending snow with a shovel and a huge supply of deice salt pellets, which translated into ankle-deep slick goop that a surprisingly steady stream of people tracked into the entrance of the store. I was just getting ready to make a smart-ass comment to Clint about the benefits of getting an education so you didn't have to do that kind of shit for a living, when a musical laugh caught my attention. Its familiarity was unmistakable. A couple emerged from the store and I felt my body go still. I know my feet stopped because we had stopped moving forward. Our arms were still linked, so Clint stumbled to a sudden halt beside me, but I didn't have a conscious awareness of standing still.

“Suzanna!” All the joy I felt at the sight of her was reflected in that one word.

Her reaction was like a twisted mirror of my own. Her feet stopped, too. The man at her side, with whom her arm was linked, was pulled to a forced halt, as was the man at my side. But that's where the similarities ended. I knew my face radiated the indescribable pleasure I felt at the sight of her, but her expression immediately clouded over. Her eyes shifted worriedly from her husband to me and back again, as if she had been caught watching an illicit Ping-Pong game.

Without thinking, I rushed forward with the intention of throwing my arms around her, but something about the way she suddenly straightened her body and took a hesitant step back stayed my impulse. Instead, I found myself standing half a step from her with my arms hanging foolishly at my sides.

“Suz…I, uh…” What the hell could I say?
I haven't seen you in six months! I missed you! I need to talk to you! I'm married to
a centaur, pregnant with his baby and, by the way, I've become Goddess Incarnate in a mirror world…
“Suz…um…” No, I couldn't say any of that. Not here. Not now. “It's so great to see you,” I blurted ineptly but authentically.

“Really?” Her husband's voice was colder than the crystallizing flakes of snow. “I seem to remember that the last time you saw Suzanna you told her you didn't want to see her ever again.” When Suz tried to say something, Gene gave her a hard look and continued, “You called her, let's see if I can remember the exact words—” he scratched his chin in a mocking gesture “—yes, I do recall. You said she was less than a slave to you because she didn't know her place. You told—no,
told
is not the correct word—you commanded her to leave your sight and to never enter your presence again.” His eyes narrowed into hateful slits. “And now you say it's
great
to see her?”