迷失的自我 英文版｜第5章B

I put my balled-up hat to my mouth to stop myself from thanking him again. The cab was almost hot, but my teeth were still chattering. I felt strange, weirdly energized. I’d gotten hypothermia, maybe. Or I’d hit my head when the car wrecked, and I didn’t remember. Or I was just worried about Jimmy.

I looked at the driver. His face was blank, his blue eyes focused on the road.

“I just wrecked someone else’s car,” I said.

He gave me a quick, curious glance, and that was all I needed. I told him the whole story, speaking too quickly, breathing in the dry heat. I simply needed to tell someone what had happened. He was an objective stranger, and I wanted his opinion.

He shrugged. “It was the ice. Not your fault.”

“But you don’t know these people.” And then I was telling him about Jimmy and Haylie. I did my best impression of Jimmy, about Haylie’s warnings against making him mad. The driver smiled, and I felt a little better. I could lighten it all up, turn the whole thing into a funny story, something I could control.

“Ha,” he said. “Tell me more. I’ve been driving for six days straight. It’s nice to hear another voice.”

I kept going. I told him how I’d forgotten my cell phone, and how my dad was going to kill me. I told him about how I was probably going to be late for physiology lab, and how much I did not want to dissect a dog shark on this particular morning anyway. He remembered dissecting a frog in junior high, he said. He felt a little bad for the frog, but he’d loved it, seeing how everything worked inside.

We were getting close to Lawrence. I could see the campus rising up on a hill in the distance, the twin flags of Fraser Hall faintly visible in the gray air. I might just make it to lab after all. We were making good time, going fast. I squinted out into the fields surrounding the highway, dead wheat stalks flattened by wind and ice.

“I can get off at the next exit,” I said.

“Tell me something else,” he said. “You’re better than the radio.”

But I couldn’t think of anything else to tell him. My fatigue was catching up with me again. My shoulder still hurt, and I was certain the seat belt had left a bruise.

“I’m sorry. I’m tired.” I rubbed my shoulder.

He glanced at me. “Did you get hurt or something?”

“Oh. I think the seat belt just bruised my shoulder.” I pulled my scarf and coat and sweater away, glancing down. When I looked back up, he was looking at me.

“Here’s my exit.” I pointed at the sign.

He didn’t slow down. I looked at him to see if he’d heard me. His blue eyes were dulled, his jaw slack.

“Here’s my exit,” I said again. The sign for the exit seemed to be approaching very quickly. I was still pointing, my arm straight out in front of me. We passed the sign. We passed the exit. I pulled my arm back to my side. Pinpricks of sweat formed under my arms. My mouth felt dry and hot.

“That was my exit,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “That was your exit. I’m sorry. I was thinking it was later.”

I felt movement under my skin, blood warming in my hands, in my throat. “That’s fine,” I said carefully. I was looking out at the road, not at him. “There’s another Lawrence exit up ahead. You can let me off there.”

“Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

I stared out the window, listening to the growling engine, the scrape of the wipers. There was nothing wrong. Everything would be okay. He just hadn’t heard me.

He leaned forward, catching my eye. He had a deep scratch on his left cheek. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“No,” I said. I caught sight of myself in the side mirror. Something in my expression made me think of my mother’s face. “There’s one more exit for Lawrence. I’ll just get off there.”

A car passed us, the tires spitting back slush. It looked small and low to the ground.

“You’re not going to talk anymore?”

I shook my head, still looking away. Tiny snowflakes were falling now. They hit the side mirror and melted, trickling down. I watched for the next exit.

He waited ten windshield beats before he spoke again.

“You probably got a boyfriend.”

This was the first time his voice sounded anything but friendly. The word “boyfriend,” especially, was not said kindly. There was a hint of accusation in it, a wary annoyance. Everything inside me, my breath, my heart, felt still.

“Oh. So now you won’t even tell me that?”

I could not have answered him if I’d wanted to. My jaw was clenched, my tongue tense against the roof of my mouth. And I didn’t want to answer. It was hard to know which answer, a yes or a no, would be unwise. I thought of Tim. He was well on his way to Chicago by now, north of the storm and unaware. I pictured his face and felt tears.

“I’m sure you do,” he said. He puffed his cheeks, breathing out a long, sad-sounding sigh. “Bet you talk to him, he asks you to.” There was a pause, the windshield wipers thumping. “Bet you do about anything.”

“There’s an exit,” I said, and again my arm and finger extended in front of me. I looked at him as blankly as I could. “This is the last exit for Lawrence. I need to get out here.”

He didn’t look at me. I turned back to my window and watched as we passed the exit sign. My eyes drifted down, to the faraway ground speeding by below. I looked at myself in the side-view mirror again. So this was how it happened. And this was how it felt. I was a fly in a web, a bear in a trap. I’d made bad decisions, or maybe just one, and it was too late to go back.

He was quiet for so long that I turned to look at him. His hands were clenched on the steering wheel, his posture straight. His breathing was long and deep, purposeful, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled. He seemed frightened himself. I didn’t know if this was good or bad.

“You have to let me out,” I said. I kept my voice low and calm.

He swallowed. He dragged his top teeth against his bottom lip. The windshield wipers beat on, though it was no longer raining.

“You have to let me out. Just pull over. Let me out. You missed the exits. That’s not a crime.” I said this last word heavily. “But I want to get out now.”

He shook his head, just slightly, starting to realize, perhaps, that he didn’t have to answer me one way or another. Another semi roared past us, its driver staring straight ahead. We were passing the western subdivisions of Lawrence, the new developments of houses with big lawns and three-car garages. One house already had Christmas decorations up, an angel with a trumpet in the front yard, a dark wreath on the door.

“I want to get out,” I said again, and then, hearing the threat of a break in my voice, I closed my mouth and turned away. Against my will, my parents appeared in my mind’s eye, and also my sister. I saw them the way they had looked in the last family portrait we’d taken together before the divorce. My mother and father stood arm in arm behind Elise and me, my mother’s hand on my shoulder, my father’s hand on Elise’s, Elise and I standing close enough to graze arms; we were all connected, a circle of shoulders and hands. In the picture, which had hung over the fireplace in our old house and now sat in the storage room of my father’s condo, everyone had been smiling. I thought of Tim, the way his hands felt in my hair, the note he’d left on my cheek.

“You have to let me out.” I stared up at the ceiling of the cab until my eyes were dry. I leaned forward and looked at his face. “Listen to me. I have a mother and father and a sister. I have friends, and they love me. They love me. My parents love me. Do you understand? I am someone’s daughter. Let me out.” My voice was quiet, calm, but very firm. “You let me out right now.”

He held up his hand, his fingers flexed, as if trying to block me from his view. He looked in his rearview mirror and wiped his hand against his brow.

I turned away again, looking down. I couldn’t jump out. I would hurt myself, and I would be out in the cold, no one to help me, and, at the very least, unable to run. The sun had broken through the clouds, and the ice on the trees and fields sparkled like a million shards of broken glass. The intense blaze of a sun-flooded jewel. My mother loved Mark Twain, and at the end of every ice storm I could remember, she’d quoted this line, staring happily out the car or kitchen window. I kept the words in my head, holding onto them, my hands tight fists inside my mittens. The intense blaze of a sun-flooded jewel.

The truck rolled on. We passed a billboard advertising a hotel in Topeka with an indoor pool, just fifteen miles away. A hawk circled high overhead. I had been on this stretch of interstate before, on a high school field trip to the state capitol. But that had been on a sunny day in April, cows grazing in sunny pastures, a colt galloping alongside a fence.

I turned my head slightly toward him, my gaze moving around the cab. An ice scraper rested on the dashboard, much closer to him than to me. A large flashlight lay in a mesh bag that hung from the back of his seat. A ticket stub stuck out of a built-in ashtray just by the steering wheel. My gaze rested there, and my breathing slowed.

We were on a turnpike.

I stayed quiet, facing straight ahead. To get off the turnpike, he’d have to stop to pay a toll. There would be a toll worker. Some people had special tags that let them glide through on credit accounts, but I didn’t see any such tag on his windshield. He was from out of state, just passing through. I lifted my chin, breathed in, and looked at the road ahead.

He reached over to turn down the heat. When I looked over at him, his temples and forearms were shiny with sweat. “I’m going to let you out,” he said. “Just not here, not on the road. I’ll let you out in Topeka. Or at the next exit. Whatever.”

“Okay,” I said. “I believe you.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt you.” He looked at me and laughed, as if the very idea were ridiculous. “I just got distracted, you know, with you talking. You talk a lot. I’m not used to having somebody talking.”

“Sure,” I said. I managed what I hoped was a convincing smile. “Sure. I can see that.”

We were still far outside of Topeka when, just up ahead, I saw the flagpole signs for a cluster of gas stations and restaurants. The exit was halfway up a hill. It was a turnpike stop, a closed loop, no escape from the tolls.

I raised my hand and pointed, as if that had done me any good before. “Here,” I said. “I’ll just get out…”

“I know,” he said, irritated. He shifted gears, and unbelievably, wonderfully, the truck really did start to slow. I picked up my book bag without lowering my head, my eyes on the exit sign, the driver in my peripheral vision. I could see cars in the parking lot for a Hardee’s, and a couple in matching NASCAR coats walking carefully back over the ice to their car.

“Listen…” He turned to me, leaving one hand on the wheel, the other raised to me, palm forward.

I didn’t listen. We were still far from the restaurant. We were no longer moving, but the engine was running. I opened the door and jumped. My feet gave way on the ice, and I slid forward, hitting my face against the open door. I got up, fell again. I heard the door slam, gears moving. I looked up and breathed in exhaust. By the time I was on my feet again, the truck was rolling away.

The lobby of the Hardee’s was nearly empty. A man sat in one of the booths by the window, playing solitaire and drinking a cup of coffee. A girl my age in a brown uniform swept behind the counter. She looked up at me and her face changed.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, with disapproval.

I took off my glove and reached up to my face. My fingers came down bloody.

“I fell,” I said. “I fell outside on the ice.”

“That sucks.” She picked up the broom and resumed sweeping. “Yeah. I been here since midnight, but I know that ice out there is just terrible. Nobody from the morning crew even showed up. I was supposed to be gone a half hour ago.”

Speakers hung from the ceiling on either side of the counter, playing a tinny, wordless version of “I Can See Clearly Now.” The girl with the broom looked up at me. I looked at her. I wondered later, when I was calmer, warmer, and not so tired, why I did not tell the girl right then about the trucker, if only to explain why I was so rattled.

“Did you want to order something?” She asked this as if it were a ridiculous question. “Or did you want to wash up first?” She lifted a hand with a plastic glove and pointed to her left. “There’s a restroom around the corner.”

In the bathroom, I held a napkin up to the cut on my bottom lip. I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to decide if I really had bumped my head. My pupils looked slightly dilated. My cheeks were splotched with red, maybe from the cold. My hands were still shaking. I would call my mother. She would be calmer than my father. She’d always been the softer parent, more comforting, and more understanding of mistakes.

I emerged from the bathroom, a clean paper towel pressed against my lip. I could smell warm bread, something with cinnamon. The lobby’s stereo was now playing “Hang On Sloopy,” but I could barely hear it after passing through the double doors to the vestibule where the payphones were. I took a receiver off a hook and looked through my bag. My fingers moved underneath my physiology book, into zippered pockets. I pricked my finger on a safety pin; but in the end, I came up with almost a handful of change.

I could have tried to call Gretchen, or even Tim’s roommate. They both had cars. They were both, more than likely, in class for the morning; still, I could have left messages, and either one of them would have come to get me eventually. But that might be hours from now. It was only my mother or my father who would come right away, who would drop everything at once.

I had to feed the payphone almost all of the coins to reach the different area code. I could see my bloody lip reflected in the shiny metal of the phone. I leaned against it and closed my eyes.

“Yeah.”

I opened my eyes. I had been careful to dial the right number and the area code for Overland Park. But this was not the way my mother answered her phone.

“Who is it?” Her voice sounded a little hoarse. But it was her.

“It’s me. It’s Veronica.”

There was a pause. I heard a car horn in the background, a gunning engine. “Veronica? Where are you? Why does it say restricted number?”

“I’m at a payphone. Listen—”

“Why are you at a payphone?”

“I don’t have my phone. Mom. I need you to come pick me up. I’m at a Hardee’s in Topeka. Or just before Topeka. It’s on the turnpike.”

There was a very long pause. I considered giving her more information, but I wasn’t sure she was still there.

“Mom?”

“Why are you in a Hardee’s in Topeka?”

It was her, but it wasn’t her. She was already angry, ready to fight.

“It’s a long story. I just need you to come get me.”

“Why are you in Topeka?”

I heard another horn, Bowzer barking in the background. “Are you driving? Mom, listen to me. This is important. Pull over and listen to me.”

“I’m not driving. What are you doing in Topeka? It’s Friday morning, Veronica. You’re supposed to be in class.”

“I’ll tell you later. I just need you to come pick me u—”

“Well I can’t.”

I held the receiver away from my face and looked at it.

“Call your father. He can come and go at work as he pleases. I can’t.”

I put the receiver back up to my ear. “Mom, you don’t under—”

“No. No. You are the one who doesn’t understand.” She was yelling. It was worse than when my father yelled. I wasn’t used to it. Her voice sounded strained and tight. “Anytime anyone ever needed anything, I was right there. I’ve done everything for everybody for twenty-six years. Well I can’t do it anymore. Okay? I have to look out for myself today. I’m not your chauffeur anymore.”

I heard a series of metallic pings, the coins falling deeper into the recesses of the phone. Even then, I stayed where I was, the receiver pressed hard against my ear. I did not understand that she’d hung up until I heard the dial tone.