The Road to You (15 page)

W
EDNESDAY NIGHT,
it was finally time for that conversation with my parents. I presented the idea to them casually, over a dinner I’d made of beef stew and Bisquick rolls.

“So, Donovan and I got to talking this week, and we both thought it’d probably be a good idea to take a look at a few colleges. We haven’t seen many, and—”

“I always thought you wanted to go to school up here when you were ready for it,” Mom said, instantly defensive. “In the Twin Cities. We’ve already shown you that campus.”

And they had. With Gideon, during the fall of his senior year, in an unsuccessful attempt to convince him to apply to college.

“Oh, I know,” I said, using my most soothing voice. “I guess, after hearing Betsy talk about it at the party over the weekend, I just wondered about some other places nearby. U of M still seems the best, but I just want to make sure, you know? I never even questioned it.”

This happened to be one-hundred-percent true, so I was positive my delivery held the ring of sincerity, but my mother had that ever-present look of concern on her face, and I could see flashes of pain in her eyes at the memories of Gideon that such talk of university campuses always dredged up. One of the million reasons why I’d let my college plans drop away after my brother disappeared. And why my high-school graduation two weeks ago was an obligatory formality, not remotely like a celebration.

“How long will you be gone?” Mom asked, focusing on the time element only and not on the person I’d be traveling with. This was an encouraging oversight.

“A week, maybe,” I said. “Hey, would anyone like more stew?” I lifted the ladle and smiled at my parents.

My mother put her spoon down and blinked.
“A week?”

And my father, who’d been studying the chunks of vegetables and meat in his bowl with mild interest until then, finally spoke up. “I’ll take you to the other colleges. Which ones do you want to go to?”

For a second, I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t anticipated my dad suggesting he’d take me himself.

“Oh, no, Dad. That’d be too much time away from work for you. I want to see a couple of schools in Wisconsin, Illinois and Iowa. And I have to visit on weekdays when the admissions offices are open. It’s not a problem for Donovan to take me. He’s already going, and I—”

“You’re not traveling around half the Midwest with a boy,” my father stated. “I should have a few days of vacation time. You and I can go in the next week or two.”

“But that’s
unnecessary
,” I insisted. “Donovan is already going. He’s leaving this weekend, and he wants to see a lot of the same colleges that I do. It would be silly to waste gas and your vacation days when we don’t need to. Plus, you
know
him. You know his family. He’s not some dangerous stranger.”

“Where, exactly, will you be sleeping while you’re on this trip?” Dad crossed his arms and stared at me. “At a campground? In some cheap motel? In Donovan’s car?” He shook his head as if trying to dismiss the image this thought created. “No. It’s not safe.”

“A lot of the universities have inexpensive housing nearby. There are motels that are almost like youth hostels and small bed-and-breakfast inns that are practically on campus. I’ll make sure we’re somewhere safe. You don’t have to worry.”

My dad pushed himself to standing. “I don’t have to worry?” He tossed his napkin on his chair and stepped away from the table. “We’ve already lost one child. We’re not losing another. The answer is no.”

Before I could stop him, my father marched out of the room. In the distance I heard the TV being flipped on and the end of the “CBS Evening News” broadcast. Walter Cronkite was saying, “And that’s the way it is June 14, 1978,” and my dad was saying nothing at all. He was, however, making a racket picking up and crumpling old newspapers, something he did when he was agitated.

My mom had that haunted expression on her face, staring down at what remained of her stew, as if looking into a very murky crystal ball. I could sense her pain tangling with her feelings of guilt. Not just over Gideon, but over me, too. Remembering all the things I hadn’t gotten to do because we’d lost my brother.

“Maybe...you should go,” Mom murmured, not meeting my eye but talking to me just the same. “It would probably be good for you to see some new colleges.” She put her elbow on the table and rested her head in her palm, closing her eyes. Almost unwilling, it seemed, to let our gazes meet for fear she’d change her mind. “We’ve known Donovan for years. He’s not a wild boy,” my mom added. “He’ll be responsible, won’t he?”

“Yes,” I answered very truthfully. “He will.” And though I didn’t say this aloud, to myself I added,
That’s because he’s not a
boy
. He’s a
man
. And that makes a world of difference.

“I can talk with your father about it later,” my mother said.

I went over to hug her. “Thanks, Mom.”

But, once I’d put the leftovers away and washed the dishes (Mom had gone to lay down for a while), I found my dad alone, sitting in a living room devoid of newspapers, and staring at a few family photographs on the wall. The TV was a low hum in the background, and he was clearly not watching it.

I sat down on the sofa near him and stared at the pictures, too. There were framed photos of when Gideon and I had been babies, then preschoolers, then high-school students. Black and white snapshots—one of our mom perched on a wooden swing and one of our dad in his Marine blues from his days in the service. Pride and duty shown in his eyes. A large picture of our parents on their wedding day. And another of the four of us from Christmas 1975.

All happier times.

“Dad, I’m going to be eighteen in just a few weeks,” I said. “I know you’re worried about this trip, and I can understand that, but you don’t have to be. I’m not one of those hippy types. I’m not going to be taking chances. And Donovan is very careful. He’s been trained in the military. I’ll be safe with him.”

“You’d be safer at home,” my father whispered.

I nodded. That was true. I wouldn’t deny it.

“Is there something going on between you and this boy?” he asked. “I know you both share a…tragedy. But is there anything else? Anything I should know about?”

“No. It’s not like that.” Also, regrettably, true. “We just—we just have a common goal.”

My father took a deep breath. “Well, then, we could invite him along with us. He could be our guest, and the three of us could go look at colleges together.”

I smothered a sigh. This wasn’t working like it was supposed to. I’d known from the beginning that my mom would need some reassurance. I hadn’t realized my dad, being the good man he was, would need far more than that.

“Dad, please listen to what I’m saying.” I waited until my father nodded and, slowly, turned his head to face me. “It’s important that Donovan and I go on this trip alone.” I met his gaze and held it.

And my dad, who had a touch of heightened perceptiveness about him—even if it wasn’t so strong a trait as mine and even if he rarely chose to harness it—got a glint of curiosity in his eye that I hadn’t seen for years. For
two
years, to be exact. “Why?” he asked.

I paused and inhaled a few times. It was critical that I explained this right.

“There’s really only
one
thing Donovan and I have in common…and it isn’t college plans,” I said, taking a chance that honesty was my only hope in getting him to really loosen his grip. “Only one thing we both desperately want to know.
One
. And, Dad, you know what it is.”

I watched as my father’s facial expression slid into something odd and almost indecipherable. He glanced at Gideon’s graduation photo, then over at me, then back at the wall of pictures again. Dad’s eyes focused on my brother’s easygoing smile and, under his chin, his strong fingers carefully curled—hiding the grease-stained nails in his fist while the ruby-and-gold graduation ring flashed outward to the world.

“You know something new about them?” he whispered. “Your brother and his friend? You have a hint about why they left?”

I didn’t want to answer this. Didn’t want to raise hope if I couldn’t be sure. But, in many ways, my father’s intuition had just moved beyond his need for me to supply the words. There was a watery glaze to his eyes and a battle on his face between belief and fear, hopefulness and despair.

“I love you, Dad,” I said instead. “Donovan and I are going to find out for
all of us
whatever answers we can.”

After that, he didn’t say anything more about it. Didn’t argue or try to talk me out of leaving. He just murmured, “Do you need money? Anything?”

I shook my head and moved to hug him.

He tugged me toward him and held me tight, pulling me into his arms like when I was a toddler. I could smell the scent of his pipe on his clothing. I could hear his heartbeat through his thin shirt. And I could feel his tears on the side of my cheek. They mingled with my own.

O
N
F
RIDAY
night, as I sat next to Betsy in our town’s packed little cinema and watched cartoon animations of the cast sing, dance and proclaim that “Grease” was the word, there were two thoughts that kept running through my mind, hindering my ability to concentrate on the movie:

One, I needed to remember to pack a few more snapshots of Gideon and Jeremy. The photo I’d taken of them to Crescent Cove was okay, but I knew I could find better images.

And, two, what was Donovan doing
three rows behind me
…and who the hell was he sitting with?

I’d expected to see him outside of the theater. On the sidewalk. Not inside, watching John Travolta flirt with Olivia Newton-John. And most especially not rumbling with laughter at some of the racy lyrics to “Greased Lightning” while the shrill giggles of the girl he was with distracted half the audience.

Then again, maybe
I
was the only one distracted by her. Betsy didn’t seem to have a problem paying attention to the film.

My friend elbowed me. “I don’t see why anyone would like that mean Crater Face dude. Not even Cha-Cha.” On the screen, good-guy Kenickie was getting ready to race the bad Scorpion leader for their cars’ pink slips. “He’s sort of evil looking, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

But, a few minutes later, when Kenickie got knocked out and Danny Zuko, John Travolta’s character, was doing the racing, I found myself really liking that nasty metal-and-tire-cutting attachment on the bad guy’s fast car. I fantasized about using something like that on the wheels of Donovan’s Trans Am if he couldn’t get that girl he was with to shut up.

Second choice was to pelt a few Milk Duds at her. I peeked inside my box of candy. Still had about four or five hard caramel-chocolate balls left.

Thankfully, the film finally ended and, when the houselights came up, I turned to get a good look at this person Donovan had brought along. She was tall—nearly the same height as him—blondish and, from the frequency of her laughter, easily amused.

I narrowed my eyes when I saw him put his arm around the blonde, grin and whisper something that made the other girl absolutely hoot at the hilarity of it.