Taylor snorts under her breath but gives Delilah a genuine smile before we part. A fancy two-seater sports car awaits us, engine rumbling with restrained power. We pack our gear and take off, leaving Lansing behind.
At first, I’m excited about the change of scenery. We’ve been in Michigan so long I’m beginning to forget buildings are colorful, towns aren’t always dilapidated, and seasons other than “cold” exist. But as the hours drag on, the beautiful, untouched nature begins to play one note, over and over, ringing against my nerves.
The road stretches on forever, woven to the dark gray clouds on the horizon as far as the eye can see. Our route avoids Chicago and the remaining scuffles, meaning we get around danger but thrust ourselves into nothingness for hours. Hopefully, by the time we reach Reed, the MidCountry will be won.
Taylor clears her throat and disrupts my train of thought. “You and Delilah got close while I was away, hmm?”
Her asking a question without being prompted, and that it is about Delilah, startles me. “She made what little use of me she could.”
She glances at me, and then fixes her gaze on the road. “I see. She sang your praises so frequently in your absence, I thought her voice would go hoarse.”
“Is that so?” I reply, chuckling. “Well, the feeling is mutual.”
“I bet. She is one of the best people I have known in my life. I am glad you got to know one another.”
Our radio is off, not that I imagine we’d pick up any signals out here. We listen to the hum of the engine and the grind ofgravel beneath rubber. Another hour goes by before she speaks again.
“Can you drive stick?” she asks suddenly.
I glance down at the knob between us, and recall long nights of flying down open roads in one of Papa’s cars, Derek hollering directions in my ear. Top down, wind howling above our heads as I drove us into oblivion. It feels like eons ago. Another time, another Lucy. “Yes, but it has been a while.”
“Good to know. You may sleep whenever you wish. I’m sure you’re tired.”
I’m supposed to be “keeping an eye out,” but Taylor is right, I’m exhausted. We’ve been driving for almost ten hours. I’m not sure how Taylor isn’t fatigued yet, but her constitution is as stubborn as she is. I turn off my brain and try to sleep to the lullaby of the road.
When I awaken, the car has stopped. My forehead is stuck to the passenger-side window, seat belt holding up my chin. Sunlight pours in through thick trees, but the view out my window takes my breath away. Quickly, I unbuckle myself and rush out the door, staring up at the most magnificent sight I’ve ever seen. I glance around for Taylor and find her sitting on the roof of the car, legs dangling over the side. Silently I climb up and plop myself next to her.
“It’s beautiful.”
Taylor looks over and nods, then turns her attention back to the monument. Four American presidents, their images carved into beautiful pink-orange rock, the rising sun illuminating their stately faces. People flocked here in times before the Rift; in fact, I imagine tourists from all over the world came to see this feat of engineering. It’s been abandoned like most pre-Rift statues and historical locations. Hiking to the mountain is impossible—the roads overgrown with nature and detritus. As such, it’s never been blown up or defaced like many others, though it isdeteriorating on its own. Noses have begun to crumble, faces and heads covered in flora, giving these once stately visages the look of wild mountain men.
“I bet they never could have imagined this.”
Taylor tilts her head as she appraises the sculpture. “I never understood why these four men were chosen. A slaver, another slaver, a warmonger, and a tyrant. You would think they could have chosen less-problematic people. Or, perhaps, a single woman?”
I ruminate on the degrading stone features of the four men. “I suppose it’s more about what they stood for than who they were. Washington was their military might, Jefferson their intellectual ideal, Roosevelt their progressive passion, and Lincoln their heart and honor. All of those qualities are essential for a functioning democracy. But you’re right, romanticizing the past is dangerous. It’s never a good idea to look too closely at your heroes. Like pointillism, the beauty is in the distance.”
Taylor bobs her head. “I wish I could have lived during their time, when government worked. Well, maybe not their time exactly. I would like to be able to wear pants. You know what I mean.”
“It wasn’t a great time to be a woman.”
She looks at me and smirks. “When is it ever?”
A cool morning breeze ruffles her hair and as she brushes it out of her face, the gesture brings my attention to the purple bags under her eyes. “Taylor, how long have you been awake?”
She glances down at her watch. “Ah, like thirty hours?”
“For fuck’s sake. Get in that car and go to sleep. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”
“I am not.” Her boots hit the gravel with a thump. “You should use the restroom while we are here. I don’t want to make any extra stops until we get to Montana.”
I avail myself of the pitiful nearby portable toilet in which I must do a squat over a distressingly discolored bowl, then return to the car, and to Taylor obediently sitting on the passenger’s side. I slide into the driver’s seat and buckle in.
“You know, you can die from lack of sleep,” I say,
“Thank you. Do you know where to go?”
“Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning?”
