Let Your Heart Drive (5 page)

I grab my things and waltz into a rustic themed lobby filled with memorabilia from the past. Imagining my own feet following the same footsteps of some the world’s most influential movie stars. Framed autographed photos adorn the county western walls, some of the actors and actresses I had no clue who they are. I spot an original faded black and white picture of the place with words stating it’s the world’s largest ranch house, and from the early photo I had no doubt that it was. Gorgeous, vivid Navajo rugs garnish the roughhewn wooden floors and hang perfectly along the railings of the stairs. I check-in and head for my room, my feet slow at a snail’s pace as I stride by a room numbered 107 with Lucille Ball’s name displayed across the top. Next, I come to a complete stop when I arrive at my room, 109 with Doris Day’s name fashioned above it. I’m assuming each door labeled with a star’s name had at some point slept a night or two here, in the actual room. I wonder if my luck might have changed because after all I still had that intriguing dream of Humphrey earlier today.

I retrace my eager steps and politely ask the desk clerk for his room, and low and behold, she offers me a key, just like that.

Maybe it’s my ‘
sign
’ that things are changing for the better and the universe isn’t so cruel after all.

My bubble of hope pops once my eyes scan the small dark room. “Okay, you want to see the resilience of a woman scorned?” I swing my suitcase on the oddly narrow runty tiny bed and start unpacking. Jerking out a pair of lightweight cotton plaid pajamas, I dig behind the semi-folded clothes and yank my laptop free from the rubble of mismatched bras and panties. Impatiently, I huff a strand of hair from my view and search for the nearest outlet, my hands working double time to unwind the cord and I plug it in. I flip my laptop open, type the password as fast as humanly possible and wait.

And wait…

And wait…

And wait…

And wait…

Okay, maybe the Wi-Fi here is in cahoots with the universe. I puff out an exasperated sound and just as I’m about to flop my head on the lifeless keyboard, the glorious vibrant Google insignia appears. I immediately enter a song that I don’t have on my road trip playlist and unmute the volume. Alabama Shakes sings a coarse and gruff tune titled, ‘Always Alight’. I clutch my bathroom essentials and sing right along in my small rinky dink shower.

“No one knows what’s next, but everybody does it.”

—George Carlin

I’m sitting cross-legged
, trying to keep my back from slouching, palms open and resting on either bent knee. I inhale a slow breath and attempt to find some deeply rooted stillness within me. But I can’t seem to focus, clear my mind or silence the chaos inside my head. Why does this look so easy to the Buddhists?
A state of thoughtless awareness
. Oh, I’m aware all right, I’m aware that my butt hurts on this floor. I concentrate harder, squeeze my eyes tightly shut and think about sitting on a mountaintop, it’s clear, beautiful and there’s music playing in the background. Nope…that’s not music, that’s my special ringtone.

Why won’t you answer me? Hello? This is your cellphone, what’d you think you’re not gonna answer me, just keep me in your pocket like I’m some cheap dirty
little—
beep.

It’s my sister.

“Yes…?” I answer tranquilly.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Meditating.”

“Why did you answer your phone?”

“It rang…”

“Well, where are you?”

“On the floor of the hotel in Humphrey Bogart’s room.”

“So… you’re on the floor of Bogart’s room, meditating. How’s that going for you?”

“Not too good. So, what’s up?”

“Are you using that book I bought you last year?”

“Yeah, the Meditation for Dummies?” I stretch out my leg since it’s cramping all along my calf muscle, mutating into a wad of pain. I’ve read a few pages, but haven’t really practiced or grasped the whole concept yet. “I’m a few chapters in,” I admit to her and lean back against the footboard of the creaky little bed.

“It’s not an exam, it’s not something you’re just going to read and voila. Just try to relax, look at some of the videos I sent you, they might help. Hey… um, did you start your video blog thing yet?”

I groan and flop my head over toward my disheveled suitcase, a slight shiver dances through my spine. Before I let myself hit panic mode I scramble to my feet and rifle through my things. Hunting for that overpriced camera. With my heart in one hand and the camera in the other, I laugh, “Yeah, I’m planning on doing that, maybe tonight.”

“They say that place is haunted Sinead. You should mention that on your video,” she teases.

“I’m not into ghosts Chelsea, so, let’s not go there,” I counter slumping back to the floor. Since she so eagerly offered that this place is dwelling with spirits of the dead, I’m suddenly not so eager to fall asleep, or meditate, or sit on the floor… Slowly, I peek under the bed and when I realize Chelsea giggling like the obnoxious rotten sister that she is I switch topics and act like I’m not the scaredy-cat little sister she grew up with. “Hey, you know those beautiful blown glass lamps you liked?”

“Yeah, I hope you at least got those before you left Jake, I absolutely loved those lamps they were so gorgeous and with all those little love notes stuffed inside.”

“Nope, I didn’t.
She
made them for him.”

“Oh my god, are you serious? And the notes? Were they all from her?”

“Yeah,” I reply dryly.

“Well, I hope they were
accidently
broken then.”

“No, sadly I didn’t break them, but I did give them to the eavesdropping neighbor, you remember her? Ms. Nelson? She’s the one that hinted there was a certain ‘
visitor
’ showing up when I was gone.”

“I remember her, is she the one that kept asking you about what color of curtains would go with her tacky olive rug?” Chelsea asks refraining herself from pointing out the obvious, the obvious was that Ms. Nelson was a far cry from being polite. On her usual good days she told people what she bitterly felt, whether they asked or not. And on her bad days, you were better off turning the other way and heading in the opposite direction. She was a widow at sixty-five, alone, and in a place she wasn’t too happy about and I think that’s why she was always in everyone’s business. So she could forget her own misery, she relished in others.

“Yeah, I told her they would go really well with her rug.”

“I’m proud of you, Sinead.”

“For what?” I ask stunned, my hands pause in mid-air, holding the camera waiting for her to spew out something cynical. 

“For what you’re doing, what you’ve done, and walking away when you knew you should.” My mouth parts silently open, I’m dumbfounded. My sister never gives her approval so brazenly. I catch a proud breath as she jumps on over to the next subject at hand without missing a beat. “So, this place, what’s their layout? Is it lush and ritzy?”

Back in California I was studying at The Art Institute in LA, my goal was to have a degree in interior design, but at the end of last year I started to question myself.
Was it worth it? Is this what I really want to do?
And the answer came when I saw that lopsided number on my apartment door. None of my life was designed by my own heart, all I had wanted was to pacify my dad, alleviate the nagging from my sister and be a sane, normal girlfriend for Jake. Now that Jake is out of the picture I wonder deep down if Chelsea worries more than Dad does or vice versa. I crawl up on the small bed and switch the phone to my other ear.

“I would say it has this southern Plantation style, think of it as a rustic hunting lodge.”

“Please tell me they don’t have those mounted deer heads hanging everywhere?” I can hear her groan disgustedly over the phone. Chelsea is an animal rights activists and a vegetarian. If she walked into this place she would’ve fainted the moment she stepped foot in the lobby.

“It looks a lot like a hunting lodge.” I’m not going to lie, it is what it is. At least I’m giving her fair warning before she watches my video blog.

“And you had to pick this place to stay the night?” I smile a little, this whole trip irks her to no end and I know any minute now she’ll ask…

“So… by seven am tomorrow morning you should be back on the road and here on Saturday? Right?” She sounds exactly like Dad again, stern and serious.

I roll my eyes and huff out a sigh. “I’m not driving eleven hours straight, Chelsea. This isn’t about breaking a world record to see who can travel at nanospeed across Route 66. It’s supposed to be about the journey.”

“Okay… so Sunday then?” she retorts lessening her rigid tone. “Brett and Garrett are really looking forward to seeing you Sinead, we just want you here, that’s all.”

“I know, Sis. I’m going to work on my vlog thing and I’ll call you in the morning. Once I find a coffee shop somewhere.” I sense her hesitation, wanting to rehash the route, find a quicker path, a shorter distance, but she stamps out her habitual routine. I’m really surprised Dad hasn’t called to tell her about the car being stolen, or she would’ve interrogated me for another hour over that.

“Night Sin,” she says softly.

“Night Sea,” I return just as tenderly. Our childhood nicknames linger in the deathly still air before she hangs up. It reminds me of when we were younger in our pastel girly pink bedroom, late at night with only the glimmer of stars peeking through our window shielding us from the utter darkness. Her bed nestled far away on the other side of the room, but when I’d hear the thump, thump, thump, or the unexplainable shadows that would frighten me too much she would tiptoe across the room and crawl in my bed. And cradle her arms around me, protecting me from all my imagery monsters.

I brush my hair for the hundredth time and nervously press record. I wrote out this big sappy speech about why I wanted to drive Route 66, but I scratch that part out and talk more about the things I’ve seen so far. I even download every pic and add my own description. I speak like I’m decoding the mysteries of The Mother Road to Garrett, Brett and Chelsea. The one regret I have so far is not stopping at the Wigwam Village Motel in Holbrook, Arizona. I really wanted to own the bragging rights of saying I actually slept in a wigwam. There are only two like it –one in San Bernardino, CA and the other in the Arizona desert. I mention my next destination and I grin from ear to ear before I announce it. Simply because Chelsea and my dad will have an outright conniption fit once they hear me explain, tomorrow, I’m driving to Mesa Verde.

I save my vlog making sure I haven’t published it, and tuck myself in for the night. I lie in the awkwardly confined bed and count down till my eyes can’t stay open any longer. 

In the midst of the night my whole body aches with pain and I’m racked with the overwhelming feeling of nausea. My eyes fly open, fully awake, fully aware it’s just a rekindled nightmare. One I thought I had buried, but even now as I drag my eyes across the estranged room I know I can’t shake this feeling off alone, reaching over I grab my phone and call the one person I can whenever this happens.

“Dad, I’m scared…”

“What is it? Did you hear something, sounds
or—
”

His half-groggy, half-awake voice stops mid-sentence, maybe it’s his parental intuition that tips him off. He knows this isn’t an ordinary call. A silent tear crawls from the darkest corner of my eye and tumbles across the back of my cold hand. He doesn’t see the second tear fall, but his tenderhearted words reach out as if to grasp it and keep it from falling.

“I know Babygirl…I know…”

He hasn’t cradled me with that protective tone in ages, but I haven’t ever called him in a state like this in ages. I swipe away the third tear like it’s an ugly thought. I look around my darkened room and realize how late it really is.

“Dad?”

“Anytime Sinead, anytime you ever need me… I’m here,” he says gently. He’s making every effort in not sounding like an overbearing worried father, but I can still hear his inner thought,
I wish you’d just come home.

“I love you…”

“I love you too.”