I let the window down a tad and light it up. My hand is shaking, and I attempt to steady it on the steering wheel. Wherever Everett is right now, I hope he’s happy that Shane is coming along, and that I’m putting up with this discomfort just for him.
And Shane wanted to take a picture of me? Of course he did. He used to take lots of pictures of me. I’ve seen a couple of them. They were our little secret. It feels like someone is pinching my heart as I think about it. I remember standing with Shane in the yearbook darkroom at school while he developed the film. He was incredibly talented, I’ll give him that, and it seems photography is still an interest of his after all this time.
But I don’t want to listen to Shane talk about this now or remember those pictures. I cut the CD player back on, turn the volume up on the music, and glance over at him. He’s staring out of the window. He crosses his arms.
That’s right, asshole. I’m not listening.
I turn down a few more roads, the names and directions I’d memorized off the map sitting on the dash. Shane shifts in the seat, and I see him glance over at me.
“Hey, uh…where are we going?”
I take one last drag and stub my cigarette out in the ashtray. “I thought it would be best if we didn’t drive straight through Utica.”
I feel the sadness emanating from him, and I glance back in the seat behind him at Ev’s ashes to make sure the seatbelt is holding everything in okay. I didn’t want to just stick him in a bag or the trunk. Ev liked long drives, especially at night, just listening to music with an empty highway ahead of him. He said it was relaxing.
It was a thing of his, driving at night. He preferred it. He hated traffic, and growing up where we did, there never was much of it. So, if he ever needed to make any long trips through big cities, he’d drive late at night.
My hands grip the steering wheel hard.
He’d been driving up from Utica when he had the accident. It was about nine or so, he was barely out of the city. He was on his way home to Port Leyden, a Christmas visit, and it isn’t terribly far from Utica to Port Leyden, but I guess he just wanted to take his time. He’d emailed me a few days before, complaining about his job. He wanted to find a new one. Better pay. Upward mobility. Normal shit people with careers think about. He seemed stressed.
I can bet he’d been looking forward to that drive. Maybe listening to some Foo Fighters or, his favorite of all time, Counting Crows. I don’t know, though. Any CDs he might have had in the car were either smashed up or cleaned up by road crew.
And so were the Christmas gifts he had with him. They got all strewn across the highway, ran over by eighteen-wheelers. A few remained intact in the back seat. I didn’t open mine. There were two. They’re sitting under my old bed in my old room, and I can’t bring myself to unwrap them.
And that night, I was already at the house, we all were, just watching movies, waiting up for him. It’s weird how the things you’re doing and thinking right before a phone call like that become some sort of finale. Some sort of boundary line you can trace between a Before and an After; some sort of way to make yourself feel like dog shit because the thing you were thinking about was how you were going to sneak a cigarette out on the porch after everyone went to sleep.
Up ahead, I see a gas station. I make a sudden turn into the parking lot, which startles Shane.
“Do you need gas money?” he asks pensively.
“No.”
I hop out of the car and go inside and find the men’s room in the back, a single room with a toilet. I close the door and stand against it, trying to catch my breath. I feel sweat form on my face.
Mom and Dad didn’t want to come along with me. They said with sad smiles that it would be a goodbrotherly bondingtrip. Mom has been taking Prozac and sleeping pills for weeks now. Dad doesn’t take anything, but he smells like whiskey a lot. I don’t think either of them would have made it this far without falling apart. I don’t want to do that. This trip is for Ev. Not for me.
And it’s sure as fuck not for Shane Carraway.
I splash cold water on my face and pat it dry with paper towels. I hunch over the sink and give myself a minute. I don’t want Shane to see me like this. He might start asking if I’m okay, when the fucker couldn't care less if I’mokay, and it’s a dumbass question to ask because my brother is fucking dead and is now a pile of ashes—the fuck am I going to beokayabout?
I look at myself in the mirror and see I forgot about my eyeliner and now there are faint black tracks down my cheeks.I wash them away and try to fix it as best I can when I hear a knock.
“Ethan?” Shane’s voice says cautiously. “Everything okay?”
I check my reflection one more time and open the door. He’s standing there, looking confused.
Asshole.
I glare at him. I walk right past him over to the coolers with drinks and get some Gatorade. At first, I grab only one but then I grab two. At the counter, I ask for a pack of Parliaments. I can sense Shane hovering behind me. When I turn to glare at him, he goes back out to the Blazer.
When I get back in the car, I put one Gatorade in the cup holder. I hand him the other.
He takes it with some hesitation. “Thanks.”
I start the engine up and we’re off again.
In order to bypass Utica, we have to get on the thruway and then take some random highway to get back on Route 12. I have it all memorized, double highlighted, and double checked on my map. It’ll also add maybe another hour or so to our time, depending.
