1
Brynn
I blinked,and they disappeared.
The Saguaros, I mean.
The tall, multi-limbed cactus only grow in the Sonoran Desert. I only grew in the Sonoran Desert, too, until it became clear Phoenix could no longer be my home. All I had to do was climb into a car and point it north. Such a simple ending following a catastrophic journey.
Me and the Saguaros. We’ve disappeared.
The vehicle I’m in does a terrible job absorbing the black tar road. The road noise rushes in, whirling around us. It doesn’t even matter. The air is already thick with awkward silence. What does a little road noise hurt?
Through a wide-open swath of nothingness we drive on, and the car climbs higher. A small sigh escapes my lips at the first pine tree. In less than a mile we lose the tall, scrubby bushes and there are only pine trees, some clustering together and others spaced far apart. I feel somber at the sight of some that are barren and blackened by previous fire. It seems unfair they’re left standing, bearing the marks of how they were ravaged for all to see.
At least my marks hide on the inside.
My shoulder bumps the hard plastic door as the driver changes lanes and speeds up to pass a semi-truck. He sends the massive truck a couple beeps from his horn as we go by, grumbling under his breath about the left lane versus the right.
I should’ve known someone who spells his name Geoff would be a bad driver. The moment I saw his name I wanted to call himGee-offbut resisted the urge. Leaning forward, I open my mouth and say the first words spoken to one another in two and a half hours. “It should only be twenty more minutes.” Looking down, I check the map on my phone again.
I look up, catch his gaze in the rearview mirror, and immediately avert my eyes.
“I’ve never been asked to drive this far before,” he says, his tone curious.
He’s fishing for information, but he’s going to come up empty. The phrase ‘Life or death’ used to be said by my dad when I complained and he wanted me to see how inconsequential my complaint was. But this is not like that.
This is actually a matter of life or death.
And to make this all work, I have to trust a stranger who drives too fast and wants to know why he’s taking me to a small town in the woods.
If he recognizes me, I’m screwed.
I pull the ball cap lower onto my forehead. Without thinking I reach for my hair, held back in a ponytail. My fingers keep reaching, curling against the cloth interior of the seat instead of my hair. I’ve done that so many times since I chopped off my long, blonde strands two days ago. I wonder when that will end? The hair is gone.
Another sacrifice. Or, perhaps, a penance. If giving up my hair could atone for what I’ve done, I’d be bald in a heartbeat. Nothing can change what happened, the judicial system decided I wasn’t guilty, but in my heart?
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
We’re almost there. “Number forty-seven,” I tell the driver. He crawls down the street at the same time I’m filled with an overwhelming urge to arrive.So now you go slow?
My nails dig into my palms as I will myself to calm down. To distract me, I study the homes we pass. They are small, squat, and each one has a chimney. The front yards are tidy; some of them have flowers rising from terra-cotta pots. I lean in, focusing on the house on the corner. The tip of my nose pokes the window. The house is nondescript, no flowers or bushes in sight, and the door is black. Shiny, midnight black.
That door screams its message loud and clear—Stay away.I want that door. Too bad my rental agreement won’t allow me to paint. Or install an alarm system.
“Here you are,” Geoff says, slowing to a stop.
I undo my seatbelt and hop out. By the time he makes his way to the rear of the car, I’ve pulled out my two bags and placed them on the ground. This is the first time I’ve seen him standing. He didn’t get out when he arrived to pick me up from the gas station. Geoff’s left leg is missing, and in its place is a metal rod. Now I feel like an ass for disliking his name.
“Accident when I was a kid,” he explains, pointing down. He shrugs. “Sometimes I forget it even happened.”
I nod because I don’t know what to say, and I still feel awful. I was a terrible companion for that long car ride, but that’s the thing about disappearing. It comes with stipulations. Starting with: Don’t be memorable. I can’t tell a funny story, or have a meaningful conversation. I can’t be a vibrant color in someone’s memory. No magenta, or teal. I am beige. Endless, insignificant beige.
I used to be lemon yellow. Happy, outgoing, ebullient.
