The Long Ride Home by Tawni Waters

Author:Tawni Waters [Waters, Tawni]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2017-09-04T18:30:00+00:00

Ten

It’s 4:56 a.m., approximately seven hours after the cop dropped me off at the Majestic Plains Inn. Shockingly, the rooms are not as luxurious as the term “majestic” implies, unless you consider vibrating beds built in circa 1972 a luxury. Yes, my accommodations boast a vibrating bed. No, I don’t use the vibrating feature, not for lack of desire, but for lack of quarters.

I still haven’t slept, mostly because I keep reaching for my purse and digging for change (I really want to experience the vibrating bed while I have the chance), but also because what happened with Matt is eating at me. Also, did I mention I’m pregnant and hungover? (I’m keenly cognizant those two words should never appear in the same sentence.)

It was hot when I got to my room, so I turned on the air full blast. It’s freezing now. I guess I could get up and turn on the heat, but I want to stay huddled under the blankets wearing Mom’s jacket, a Bob Marley T-shirt, and ratty jeans. Also a pair of toe socks Mom gave me. She bought me weird socks every year for Christmas. It was our thing. These have frogs on them. I happened to be wearing them the night of the fire. I don’t know why I keep wearing them now. It should make me sad, and it does, but it feels like a piece of her. If I let go of the physical evidence she was here, she really stops existing, right?

Mom loved frogs because they had “fat eyes,” which was the term she used to describe anything that had big, kind eyes. According to her, all dogs, deer, and frogs had fat eyes. Also some aliens, but only the benevolent ones like E.T. Not the ones that anal probed people. She also described me as having fat eyes. I didn’t like it at the time, but I’d give anything to have her sitting next to me, telling me about my fat eyes. “I don’t mean it in a bad way,” she’d say. “There are some concepts human language can’t capture. Fat eyes is one of them.”

“If there were a word for ‘fat eyes,’ what would it be?” I asked her.

We were sitting at a vegan restaurant when we had this conversation. A giant mural of Ganesh hung over Mom’s head. Mom was eating tofu curry. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. I can’t tell you what I ate that night.

“I just said there is no word.”

“I know. Make one up.”

She thought for a minute, her chopsticks frozen in midair. “I can’t convey the concept with words, but I could totally express it through the art of interpretative dance,” she finally said, setting her chopsticks on the table.

“Don’t you dare,” I whispered.

She was already moving her chair and standing up. Some new-agey music involving flutes and bells was playing, and she commenced gyrating and swiveling her hips.

“Mom, sit down!” I ordered. “People are staring.”

She only danced harder, seemingly oblivious to the other diners’ disapproval.

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