Her cautious smile sends a flood of relief through me for the second time today. Things could have turned out so differently. Why did I drive in these conditions, putting her at risk? I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her. Amelia is the one good thing in my life. Outsiders would call me crazy. Claim my life is near perfect. They’d wonder why I even have a care in the world. But they don’t understand. Nobody can.
Fear surrounds me like an ominous cloud as I look around the stranger’s truck. He seems nice enough, but I’m not naïve. Not anymore. Everyone wants something from me. Why would this guy be any different?
My ex wants me to continue to support his bad habits. My father wants me to sit in the front pew of his church and atone for all my sins. I glance over at my precious girl, knowing he sees her as one of those sins. My friends… Oh, who am I kidding, I don’t have any friends. Not real ones. Real friends wouldn’t treat me the way I’ve been treated since… since…
I sigh. Sometimes I wish the past year of my life hadn’t even happened. I might be glad for it someday. But today, especially right now, is definitely not one of those days.
The coffee cup in the cup holder on the dashboard earns some serious side-eye as I remember what got me in troublein the first place—my need for coffee. My one true vice. My unabashed addiction to caffeine and all its superpowers.
Scanning the rest of the front seat for any clues as to who I’m trusting with Amelia’s and my lives, I notice a crumpled food wrapper on the floorboard, a New York Nighthawks baseball cap sitting on the middle of the front seat, and a very large roll of duct tape. It’s the duct tape that has something turning inside me. Why would anyone need duct tape in their car? It’s a red flag if I ever saw one.
And suddenly I’m feeling very vulnerable.
I should get out. Maybe take up the policeman on his offer for a ride. Call a rideshare, even.
But then something catches my eye. A picture tucked behind a rubber band on the driver’s sun visor. It’s a boy, not as young as Amelia—I’d say he’s ten or twelve maybe—wearing thick glasses and supporting himself on crutches that don’t settle under his armpits, but clip onto his lower arms. He’s got the goofiest grin on his face, and for some reason, it makes me want to smile.
The tow truck driver—what was his name?—said he’s a single father. I’m not sure why seeing this picture makes me view the guy as less of a threat than he was a minute ago, but it does.
The truck shifts. The car must be loading. My eyes close briefly, wondering what I’m going to do. It’s not drivable. Probably won’t be for some time. And even though I’m not exactly sure where I am, I do know I’m not far enough away.
I don’t get out of the city much. I’ve never had the need or desire to. Before Mom died, we’d sometimes vacation in Rhode Island or Vermont. But those were rare occasions. And usually short trips. Dad would never leave his ‘flock’ without him on Sunday mornings. He capitulated from time to time, caving to my mother’s longing to get out of the city for a spell. He’d begrudgingly go along, never failing to mention that vacationswere frivolous expenses when our time and money were better spent serving the Lord. And besides, who needs vacations when every Sunday was a day of rest?
Day of rest. Right. For whom? Not Mom. And certainly not me. Dressing up and looking and acting like the perfect Pastor’s family, right down to the pasted-on smiles, was not remotely relaxing. We’d have to maintain a cheery disposition in starched cotton, pressed into uncomfortable angles, talking to dozens of people, fawn over crying babies and screaming toddlers who wanted to be anywhere but where they were, while balancing in uncomfortable shoes as we patiently listened to stories from elderly parishioners who’d forgotten they’d already told the same tale a dozen times. And, inevitably, we’d be invited to this house for lunch or that location for an event, drawing out the ‘day of rest’ into an evening of exhaustion.
“Mommy?”
I blink away the past and realize I haven’t spoken since getting into the truck. “Sorry, baby. Don’t be scared. It’ll be okay.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m not sure. First we need to go to the car repair place to see how bad the car is. I guess after that…” I sigh and look out the window as a few of the state troopers continue to direct the flow of traffic around us. I turn back and cup Amelia’s chin with my hand. “What does Mommy always say?”
“We’ll be fine as long as we’re together.”
I smile and try to look like I’ve got it all together, when I’m actually falling apart a little on the inside. “That’s right.” I lean in and she puckers her lips when my mouth draws near. I kiss her and tug on her braid. “My smart, smart girl.”
The door to the front opens, sending a rush of cold air through the cab of the truck.
The guy slides in. “All set. Everyone strapped in?” He puts an arm around the passenger seat and looks back at us, making sure Amelia is in her car seat.
My apprehension diminished at the moment, I pull the seatbelt across my shoulder and click it into place.
“It’s not far to the shop. Do you still want that coffee? It’s on the way.”
I eye his cup, wondering if he’s asking for me or if he just wants a fresh cup himself. Dealing with my accident has probably rendered his cold.
“Since coffee is the reason I’m in this predicament, I suppose I should at least end up with some.”
He laughs right before the engine roars to life and we begin to move down the exit ramp. “Well, Kenna, I promise you’ll love Ava’s coffee. It’s the best.”
“Who’s Ava?” Are we stopping at his girlfriend’s house or something?
“She owns the coffee house.”
“You know the owner of the coffee house?”
He laughs again. “I pretty much know the owner of everything.” We come to a stop at the bottom of the ramp where he points to a sign indicating White Plains is to the right and Calloway Creek is to the left. “In case you’re not familiar, Calloway Creek is a small town. Just about everyone knows everyone in one way or another.”
