A Little Ray of Sunshine (2 page)

***

You have to understand that by the time Jess found me, I was pretty set in my ways. I liked my Airstream. I liked living in RV parks and working temporary jobs. I liked the fact that at any time, I could decide that I’d had enough of one place and just pick up and go someplace else. In the six years I’d been nomading it, I had lived in over twelve places. Rolla, Missouri was my record shortest stop, clocking in at just over two days. Billings, Montana was my longest; I was there for almost a year. I had worked as a waitress in South Dakota, a car washer in San Diego, a dog walker in Fort Lauderdale, a seasonal customer service rep for a financial software company in Tucson, and an ice cream vendor on the board-walk in Atlantic City. It worked for me, and I liked it.

What I didn’t like was the pity. Every now and again, I’d get to talking with someone, and when we got to any of the details of my life, the conversation would usually go a little something like this:

Them
: So, you live alone?

Me
: Yes.

Them
: In a trailer?

Me
: Yes.

Them
: And you just keep moving to different places whenever you want?

Me
: Yes.

Them
: Don’t you have family?

Me
: No.

(That’s a lie. I have family, I just don’t like to talk about her.)

Them
: And you’re... happy?

(There was always a pause before happy. Always. As though it was so unbelievable that I might actually like my life that it took extra effort to get the words out.)

Me
: Yes. I’m. Happy.

That would pretty much kill the conversation every time, and then I’d end up feeling like there was something wrong with me. Which, well obviously, there was, but still. I didn’t want to have it thrown in my face. I knew I was socially disabled, I didn’t need their looks of pity to remind me. So that night, as I sat in my trailer eating Strawberry Frosted Mini-Wheats for dinner and watching my DVD of
North by Northwest
, I gently fumed. Who was this Jess, anyway, to decide that
I
was the one who needed
her
help? She was the crazy one. If anyone needed help, it was her, okay? And how could she be so sure it wasn’t Springfield whose life was such a big fat mess that she had to be sent from Heaven above to come clean it up? I mean, he bought five packs of Doublemint and a tank of gas in cash every Tuesday night. If that wasn’t a cry for help, what was? And I liked my life. I was doing great. I was... okay,
fine
, I wasn’t exactly happy, but who’s happy?

No one. That’s who. And who cared what one crazy angel thought anyway?

Not me.

I pushed myself up from the foldout table and continued to steam as I took the three steps to my kitchen. I washed out my bowl and spoon and stuck them in my tiny dish rack, then stared down into my tiny, tiny sink as the familiar wave of emotion slammed into me.

Here we go.

I closed my eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm my heart rate as I rode out the episode. In one powerful whisper, I heard the voice, my own voice, tell me what I already knew.

It’s time.

When I opened my eyes, my lashes were wet with tears, which was weird, because I had no memory of actually crying. With a shaking hand, I reached up and swiped at my face. That one had been stronger than the last one, which had been stronger than the one before it. Seemed a bad trend. Not that it mattered much, though, because in the end, they all meant the same thing.

Wearily, I made my way to the door of my trailer and stepped out into the balmy June night. I walked barefoot over the warm gravel to my truck, stuck my head through the open passenger window, and reached for the glove compartment.

Minutes later, I was back in the Airstream, my AAA United States map tacked up on my corkboard, my trusty red dart at the ready. I closed my eyes, said my prayer, and hurled the dart. When I opened my eyes, I could see that the dart had landed somewhere in Colorado. It didn’t really matter where; I’d figure out the specifics later. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed with exhaustion, and my mind whirled with all the tasks I had before me. Give my notice at the Quik ‘n Go. Get a prorated rent refund from the RV park for the remainder of the month I wouldn’t be using. Unhook the Airstream and latch it onto my truck.

And then... go.

I glanced up at the television to see Cary Grant scaling Mount Rushmore with Eva Marie Saint, gunmen on their heels.

Maybe I’ll check out Mount Rushmore on the way,
I thought as I picked up the remote and clicked off the television.
Nobody at Mount Rushmore thinks twice about a girl living in a trailer.

***

“So, how exactly does this angel thing work?” I asked when Jess opened her motel room door. I was glad to see she didn’t wear frou-frou floral cotton nightgowns to bed; she was respectably clad in a University of Arizona Wildcats sweatshirt and a pair of black yoga pants with her hair pulled back into an off-kilter ponytail. I was dressed in my best pair of dark jeans and a shirt I’d had to iron, and I’d actually washed, dried and curled my hair. And put on mascara.

It was sad. So very, very sad.

“I brought coffee.” I lifted up the cardboard drink carrier in my hands, trying to look as if I hadn’t been up all night obsessing over what exactly the crazy angel lady thought was wrong with me.

Jess took a moment before stepping away from the door to let me enter. “You didn’t have to bring me coffee, but thank you. It’s very thoughtful.”

There it was, an open zone for me to pitch my big, fat lies into. I went for it.

“Well, it’s the least I can do, considering that I’m waking you up at the crack of dawn. But, see, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me and it occurred to me, you know, before I fell asleep last night, that you might be an interesting person to talk to.” I took the coffees out and set the cardboard tray on the motel dresser. “You know. For my book.”

Her eyebrows raised as she sat on the edge of one double-bed, motioning for me to sit on the other. “Wow. You’re writing a book?”

“Yes,” I said over-brightly, putting one of the coffees in her hand. “I’m writing a memoir of my travels. Young woman on the road, occupational... adventures. Kind of. The people I meet, that sort of thing. And it occurred to me that I may have dismissed you a little... abruptly last night. You know, because even though I’m just fine and don’t need your help, I thought that maybe you might be an interesting person to talk to. You know. For the book.”

I took a sip of my coffee; it was too hot, and I tried to mask my cringe as it scorched its way down my gullet.
Liar, liar, esophagus on fire
, the smug voice of reason inside me cooed.

“Wow,” Jess said. “You’re writing a book? Really? I’m honored you would think of me for it.”

“Oh, of course.” I added a small, “
pffft
” as though it were an obvious choice and absolutely no big deal. Which it wouldn’t be. If there was a book. I pulled out a notebook from my bag and flipped it open.

“So, tell me about yourself,” I said. “Where are you from? What brought you to New Jersey? Are you from the area originally, or do you travel?”

She took a thoughtful sip of her coffee. “I’d rather learn more about you. You know, I had a feeling about you the moment we met. And... this may sound crazy, but...” She paused and I wondered what she was going to say that could possibly top, “I’m an angel,” in the crazy department. “... I feel like I know you already. You just seem so familiar.”

I thought briefly about dodging, but Jess seemed the junkyard dog type; once she got into something, my guess was that she didn’t let go easily. So, I shot straight. “I look a lot like my mother. She used to be kind of famous.”

“Really? That’s so fascinating. Who’s your mother?”

I tried to hide my internal cringe as I dropped my mother’s name. “Lilly Lorraine. She used to play—”

Jess squealed, her available hand flailing in the air by her face, making her look like a teenager who walked outside and found a brand new car with a big bow on it. I sat up straighter and pulled back a bit.

“
Twinkie
!” she screeched. “Oh my God, you’re Twinkie’s
baby
!”

I’m pretty sure my face registered stark horror at this description, but Jess didn’t seem to notice. She giggled some more and reached forward to gave my knee a playful slap of excitement. “Oh, my God, I
love
your mother. They play
Baby of the Family
all the time on Nick at Nite, and I’ve seen every episode at least twice. Your mom was
so
adorable. I loved the way she did the—”

Jess rolled her eyes skyward, donned an angelic expression of innocence, and shrugged with hands up. The gesture had been my mother’s “Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” and if I had a drop of water for every time someone had performed it for me, I’d have been drowned before the age of two.

Jess released the pose and grinned. “Wow. Lilly Lorraine. How is she doing?”

“I have no idea.” I lifted my pen. “So, tell me, how long have you been an angel? Are you born that way, or was it something you were, um...” I cleared my throat, searching for words that would make me sound like I had the slightest idea how to interview someone. “... called... to?”

She crossed her legs in front of her yoga-style and gave me an appraising look. “You really don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

“Well, you know how we...”
What was the word? Journalists? Memoirists? Sad, sad fakers?
“... writers are.”

She smiled. “Yes.” She watched me for a moment, and then sat up straighter. “Okay. We can start with me. My name is Jess Szyzynski...”

“Szyzynski?” I said, jotting in my notebook dutifully. “Can you spell that?”

She smiled and obliged. “I was born in Gulfport, Mississippi, I think.”

“You think?” I asked.

She gave a small smile. “I moved around a lot as a kid. It’s probably how I got the bug for my kind of work.”

“Yes.” I pointed my pen at her. “Speaking of which, how exactly did you end up in this line of work? I mean, it’s not like there’s a big angel corporation or anything. Unless...” My eyes widened and I glanced around at the motel room. “Do you work for some kind of
Candid Camera
show?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. No. And the angel thing... well, it’s not so much work as, like you said, a calling.”

“Oh. Okay. So, what’s your day job?”

“I don’t have one.”

I raised an eyebrow. “But where do you get money? You don’t charge for your... angeling, do you?” Jess didn’t seem like the scamming con-artist type, but I guessed the best scamming con-artists were the ones who didn’t look like scamming con-artists.

“Oh, no, I don’t charge. I don’t need money. I mean, I need it, everyone needs it, but I have money from...” She stopped, her face registering a quick flash of something that was gone before I could read it. “I mean, I have enough. I don’t need much. Kind of like you, I guess.”

“Okay. So, how does one get called to your kind of work?”

“Well...” Her thin fingers rubbed absently at the cover on her to-go cup. “I don’t know. You just wake up one day, and you
know
. You know?”

“No.”

She leaned forward. “Well, how did
you
end up traveling around alone?”

I felt a prickle of annoyance. “We were talking about you.”

“We still are. I’m just trying to show you that you and I… maybe we’re not that different.”

Of course we’re different
, I thought.
You are certifiable, whereas I am merely quirky and interesting.

I flipped my notebook shut. “Well, thank you for your time. I really need to get going. Like I said... busy day.”

Jess smiled. “Yes. It’s almost seven. Where has the time gone?”

I stood up and headed for the door, crazy angel lady on my heels.

“Thank you so much for coming by, and thank you for the coffee,” she said. “Although we’ve hardly even scratched the surface. Maybe we can talk again? Later today, if you have time?”

I pulled the door open, then turned to face her. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, you know. Busy day.”

“Surely you can find a half hour to slot me in. For the book. Books like that can’t possibly have enough colorful characters, and I am nothing if not colorful. How about twelve thirty? I can make my pancakes for you.’

“I don’t know…”

“Then one o’clock. I’ll bring all the ingredients. Do you have a skillet and a spatula, or do I need to bring those as well?”

I glanced at my watch. “I really have a lot of stuff to do...”

“Six o’clock. I’ll come by and make them for dinner. You haven’t lived until you’ve had my pancakes for dinner, I’m telling you. Yogurt and blueberries and just a touch of vanilla. Oh, they melt in your mouth.”