Pinch of Love (9781101558638) (17 page)

With a new Hannah Montana song, Ingrid's singing gets a little louder, and the Memory Smack shrinks. Real time, real place. We're almost in New Hampshire now. Quietly, while Ingrid belts out tunes, I tell Garrett everything: about Gail's house, Nick's favorite place in the whole world. About the bathroom there, and the photograph Gail wants me to re-create on the bathroom wall, and the day I almost finished the project. I tell Garrett exactly how Nick died, including some details Dennis's article didn't divulge. It doesn't feel good to talk about all this, but amazingly, it doesn't feel horrible, either.

Ingrid's head pokes between the front seats. “Can we stay at Zell's sister's tonight?” she asks.

Garrett slows at a BLACK ICE warning sign. “I'm afraid not.”

“Can we go skiing tomorrow?”

“No, baby. I have to study. You know that.”

“You study all the time,” Ingrid says. “Drop me off with Zell.”

Garrett glances at me, as if to say, How about it?

“Could be fun,” I say.

He laughs and shakes his head. “We're going to drop off Zell, and then we're going to turn around and go home, baby. Sorry. Some other time.”

“Aww,” Ingrid says. “That's no fun.” She leans back and sings. After a while, just as we pass Allison's Orchard, she yawns through certain words. Before long she falls asleep with her head slumped against the window.

Garrett switches his iPod to John Legend. “That's a sad story, Zell,” he says.

“I know.”

“I'm sorry it's a
true
story.”

“Everyone is.”

He hums and drives. On Route 12 the snow thickens, and he slows even more. We gain elevation. The houses and gas stations along the side of the road grow sparse. We pass fewer cars.

“I really appreciate this, Garrett,” I say. “Your driving me.”

“It's all good,” he says.

My eyelids droop and pop open. Droop and pop open. Droop . . .

 

 

I JOLT AWAKE. The truck swerves and fishtails—right, left, right. Garrett's palms slap the wheel as he tries to steady the truck and steer into the skid. We careen into the oncoming lane, which is empty—no headlights crest the hill.

My arms cover my face. My heart races. I don't breathe.

From the backseat Ingrid wails. “Daddy?”

And then we're completely spinning. 360. 720. 1080. Nonbeats: My chest seems to twirl with that empty, weightless wind.

Stillness.

Out the windshield all I see is the wide trunk of an old maple. We haven't hit it, I don't think. But we came close. The bed of the truck sticks out into the shoulder of the road, and the cabin plunges into the woods.

Garrett seems out of breath. “Everybody okay?” He twists around and caresses Ingrid's chin. She nods. Ahab whines, and she pulls him close and kisses his nose.

“Zell?” Garrett puts his hand on my knee. “You okay?”

“I'm fine,” I say, despite the galloping in my chest. “You?”

He drops his head on the steering wheel—thud!—and mutters something.

“Garrett?” I say.

“Two-wheel drive.” He sighs. “It only has two-wheel drive. It was thousands of dollars less than the four-wheel-drive option.”

“Oh. Well, that's sensible, then.”

“Yeah. It's sensible. If you live in Florida.” He puts the truck in reverse, but the tires spin. An eighteen-wheeler hurtles past, spitting slush.

“You must slip and slide all the way to and from Boston,” I say.

“Actually, I don't. That trip's relatively flat.”

“True. Well, do you have any sand in the back? Or kitty litter?”

“You'd think,” says Garrett. “But no.” He throws it into reverse again and taps the gas pedal. The truck rocks a bit, but then the tires spin, and we slide a little farther into the ditch, on a steep incline. He yanks the emergency brake and sighs heavily. He's trembling, I realize—though barely perceptibly. He gets out of the truck, investigates the situation, climbs back in. “I don't think you're going to make it to your sister's house tonight,” he says.

“That's okay. You have AAA or anything?”

He switches off John Legend and kills the engine. “Sorry.”

“Nah,” I say. “Don't worry about it. Not your fault.” I glance at my cell phone: twelve thirty A.M.

“Should we call the police?” Ingrid says. “Call Officer Frances. She'll help us.”

“I'm sure she would,” Garrett says. “But Officer Frances is about fifty miles that way.” He gestures behind us.

I peer out the window. The snow coats it so thickly now, it's hard to see. “Maybe someone will stop.”

We wait for a few minutes, but no cars pass.

Garrett inspects his cell. “No bars.”

I check my phone for a signal—none.

“Well,” he says. “We just passed a place. We can walk there. It's not far. We'll get a couple rooms for the night? Figure out what to do in the morning?”

I shrug. “What else
can
we do?”

He exhales and shakes his head. He's frustrated, I can tell; maybe he's even embarrassed. But he doesn't want to show it. “How far are we from your sister's?” he asks.

“At least an hour. Probably more.”

“Eff,” he whispers.

We hop out of the truck, brace ourselves against the gusty snowfall, and climb out of the ditch. In the shoulder of the road, I help Ahab into his coat.

“Isn't Ahab the cutest thing in the world?” Ingrid says as she helps me fasten his booties. She seems to be recovered from any fear she felt when the truck spun out, and she's not daunted by the snow whipping all around us. She's ready for another adventure. That's her Ingrid style.

Garrett's too tense to comment about Ahab. He looks down the road as I clip on the leash. I feel guilty; I never should have let him drive me. In truth, I wonder why he was so insistent on driving me in the first place, especially considering the weather, and the late hour, and the fact that his truck is only two-wheel drive.

We walk: Garrett first, then Ingrid, then me, Ahab leashed at my side. No vehicles pass. The wind blows so cold that the skin of my face tightens. We approach a clapboard farmhouse. Shingled cottages form a crescent around the house, and plastic sheets cover all the windows. By the walkway a spotlighted sign reads, TUNKAMOG LAKE SUMMER CABINS.

“Garrett,” I call ahead.

“This is the place,” he says. His steps quicken. “This is the place we passed.”

“I think it's seasonal.”

“Seasonal?”

“Only open in the summertime.”

Garrett stops. He observes the cabins, the house, the sign. I join him on the walkway.

“Seasonal,” he whispers.

Ingrid tugs his sleeve. “Daddy, will you carry me?”

He scoops her up in his arms. “Eff it,” he whispers over her head. “We're knocking.”

Just then the house's front door opens. A rotund, half-toothless woman in a kitten-patterned bathrobe steps outside. “Thought you were a ruh-
coon,
” she says.

Garrett smiles.

She squints at us. “Cold enough for ya?”

“Do you have any vacancy?” he asks.

“We're a hundred percent vacant. But we're closed.”

“We really need a place just for the night.”

“There's a motor lodge ten miles back, in Walpole.”

“My truck's stuck.”

She squints at Ingrid, whose face is smooshed against Garrett's chest.

“Hi,” Ingrid says.

This woman must think we're a family. I'm the mom; Garrett's the dad; Ingrid's our baby. Garrett smirks at me; the same thought's going through his mind, probably.

Finally the woman shakes her head. Her silver bangs swing across her forehead. “I'll call you a tow. But they usually take their sweet time getting here. In a storm like this, you're looking at a two-, three-hour wait.”

“We really need to sleep,” Garrett says.

“Me, too. I'll call the police. They can take you into protective custody for the night. They do it all the time for stranded motorists. 'Specially in the winter.”

“And spend the night in a jail cell?” Ingrid says. She shivers and snuggles against Garrett.

“It's not like you're
in jail,
” says the woman.

Ahab whines. I hear his teeth chatter.

“Zell, my wallet's in my back pocket,” Garrett says. “Could you?”

I lift the hem of his ski coat and pull his wallet out. I try not to touch his butt, which I must admit is nicely shaped. I open the wallet—scuffed fake leather—and sift through a few twenty-dollar bills.

He eyes the woman. “Surely you have something for us.”

She rubs her hands together and winks. “I suppose there is one cabin I could fix up for you. But there could be mice in it.”

“Aww,” Ingrid says. “Mice are so cute.”

“Perfect,” I say. “We'll take it.”

“You sure?” Garrett whispers.

I nod because I can't think of any other realistic option.

With a wobbly hitch in her step, the woman leads us through the freezing three-season porch—plasticked over, like the cabin windows—into what serves as a reception area. It feels so good to be out of the freezing wind, and I feel my muscles relax.

Garrett drapes Ingrid in a brown plaid armchair with wooden armrests. But she doesn't sit still: She gets up and inspects her surroundings, standing on her tippy-toes to peer over the wood-paneled counter, which bears an enormous microwave and a television with a droopy rabbit-ear antenna.

The woman limps behind the counter and runs a finger under a row of keys. “I'll give you lucky number seven,” she says. “It has the best atmosphere. The farthest from the house, and the closest to the lake.” She turns and smiles at Garrett. Her gums look swollen.

“That's lovely, thanks.” He takes the key from her hammy fist. “And your name is?”

She fishes around behind the counter and slaps a name tag on her left breast, which jiggles with aftershock. BOBBIE.

Bobbie produces a stack of woolen blankets. Dust poofs up around them as she pounds them into the counter. “Better take these,” she says. “There's no heat. Pleasure doing business with you folks.”

Garrett folds some bills in his palm and shakes her hand. “Pleasure's all mine, Bobbie,” he says. “Pleasure's all mine.”

I try my cell again: one bar. I call Gail, who coos in worry and disappointment. She offers to come get us, but I decline, because all we need is for her to get stuck, too.

Outside I hold the musty blankets as far from my nose as possible. Ingrid leads Ahab, who lifts his paws laboriously through the half foot of snow. He tries to step in Garrett's footprints. I watch his broad back as he leads the way.

When we reach Cabin 7, he wiggles the key into the lock. “Brace yourself,” he says, tapping open the light-as-paper door.

Ahab steps inside and sniffs the cold air.

On a plastic table sits a little lamp. I flick it on; the lightbulb has somehow burned a hole into the duck-patterned lampshade. Two military-issue cots, with thin, stained mattresses, line the far wall. A deer head with small antlers tilts above a little fireplace. The flue must be open, or broken, because snow forms a pointy pile on the grate. A dresser in the corner seems fairly well crafted, and its varnish shines. I check the drawers: all empty except the bottom one, where mouse turds roll around like three-dimensional commas.

“Pretty much what I expected,” Garrett says.

Ingrid leaps onto one of the cots. “Ahab, here, Cap'n. This is wicked cool. It's like we're totally camping out.”

“You've got to calm yourself, boo-boo,” says Garrett, scratching Ahab's neck. “It's late.”

I set the blankets on the other cot and announce that I'm going to find the ladies' room.

“Good luck with that one,” Garrett says. “Hey, want to take Ingrid while you're at it?”

She jumps up and grabs my hand. “I've seriously got to pee.”

Outside, we duck into the spinning snow and investigate a few nearby outbuildings until we discover the bathhouse. At the sink, I inspect myself in the cracked mirror: choppy, fluffy hair all over the place. Eyebrows threatening to arch into a unibrow. Awesome.

I turn the faucet, but no water comes out. Ingrid shoots past me and darts into a stall.

“Um, Zell?” she calls. “The toilet water is frozen. Like, it's a block of ice.”

“Well, there's nothing we can do about that,” I say. “Just go.”

“Okeydokey,” she says. “Letting 'er rip. Hey. At least there's toilet paper.”

Back in Cabin 7, the Captain heaves his old body onto Ingrid's cot and curls up at one end. It's so cold, I decide to leave his booties and coat on him.

Ingrid snuggles with Ahab, and Garrett tucks a blanket around her and tugs it to her chin. He tells her a bedtime story in hushed tones.

I try not to listen. It seems an intimate moment that I shouldn't be privy to, even though Ingrid and I have shared similar moments. I unfold a blanket and spread it on the floor.

“Zell, okay if I turn the light out?” Garrett asks.

“Go ahead.”

We're plunged in darkness. In my head I say a quick prayer that the mice turds in the drawer are old, perhaps left over from last season, and that we'll remain unvisited by little critters.

Slowly my eyes adjust. I glance at Ingrid; the blanket rises and falls with her breath. Her face is old and young at the same time: about to become a woman's, but still very much a child's.