Page 44 of Queen of Nothing

Two towns over, where those manky motels sit near the highway. Our usual spots.

We endure the drive with Sal screaming in the back—for the next fifteen minutes when Serena decides she’s had enough.

She pulls over and climbs into the backseat with Sal.

I take over the driver’s seat.

Now that we’re out of the bigger town, on a highway, and headed to smaller settlements, the driving practice that filled much of my time at Hell House is coming in handy. Even if I can only drive automatics.

Confidence fails me in busier places and on more congested roads.

Serena says with practice, it will become second nature, like riding a horse.

I hope she’s right.

Because driving is stressful.

Even on bare roads.

The radio is dialled all the way down.

My music for the drive is Serena’s softly sung lullabies and the shush-shush sound we make too many times in a day.

Then, after an hour, both Sal and Serena fall asleep in the back.

I find a motel to stop at.

The tyres roll over potholes and loose gravel.

The shift in terrain stirs Serena awake.

But she says nothing as I park, turn off the engine, then climb into the backseat with her.

She touches up my illusion. Changes it. And a bout of nausea jolts her shoulders.

She swallows the sick down, and my face twists with the blatant disgust cringing me.

I peel off my cropped black jacket, because it’s too feminine for a man, and she always changes my illusion to a man when we get to the motels.

The jeans, boots and t-shirt are neutral, so I don’t change before I creep out of the car as quietly as I can so I don’t wake Sal.

I rush to the office. Luck is on our side today.

We get the keys to a downstairs room, which saves us hauling all the baby stuff up to the second floor.

Serena sticks to the backseat of the car while I do the carrying—moving suitcases and a cot and the baby bags from the car into the room.

But not Sal.

We don’t risk waking him.

I give her the keys, she stays behind, and I head straight to bed in the motel room.

I only get an hour of rest before she’s coming in with Sal, fussing in her arms, and she drops the keys onto the little table next to the door.

It’s my cue to get up.

So I do, arms stretching above my sore, stiff body, a yawn splitting my tired, puffy face.