I know he’s trying to reassure me, but his words have exactly the opposite effect, and as I watch the bus pull back onto the highway and speed away, I feel like I’ve been abandoned at the gates of Hell.
My thoughts start crashing into one another like chunks of carrot in a food processor. What if my uncle isn’t here? What if I got off at the wrong stop? What if I’ve lost his phone number? Who can I call? Should I stay at the motel? Should I take the next bus home?
I stomp on my panic while I still can, grab the handle of my suitcase, and march towards the motel office. Slipping the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, I open the door to a tinkling of chimes and push my way inside.
My mother’s bathroom is bigger than this office, and I have to pull my suitcase out of the way to shut the door. Straight ahead is a revolving rack containing brochures and postcards. To the left is the registration counter, but there’s no one behind it.
I drop my backpack onto the floor beside my suitcase. “Hello?” I peer through the doorway behind the counter. No answer. There’s a bell on the counter, so I ring it and call again — louder. “Hello? Is anybody here?”
A movie star wannabe complete with bottle-blonde hair and kiss-me-red lips comes running from the back. The woman is fifty if she’s a day. She smiles when she sees me, revealing dental-white veneers, but the tip of one of them is coated with lipstick, so now I’m thinking vampire.
She pulls a pen from her hair and lays it on top of a registration card. Then she slides the whole works toward me. “Lookin’ for a room, sugar?”
Before I can answer, the door chimes tinkle again, and the deepest voice I’ve ever heard says, “Kathy Ann, has the —”
Kathy Ann doesn’t let the man finish. She frowns and clucks her tongue. “For goodness sake, Sam, can’t you see I’m with a customer?”
Sam? I swivel toward the voice. At first all I see is a big, old, battered cowboy hat and a moustache that could be used as a broom. Kathy Ann called the man Sam. How many Sams can there be in this town? The guy has to be my uncle. I should introduce myself, but suddenly I can’t find my voice. My mouth doesn’t work either. So I just continue to stare. He’s too close. I can see all the parts of him, but I can’t pull them together into one picture. Tall and wiry. Tanned face and hands. Thick salt-and-pepper hair curling over the collar of a white buttoned shirt. Well-worn jeans. Big silver belt buckle. Scuffed cowboy boots.
I’m not sure how long I stand there gawking, but it must be quite awhile, because finally Sam laughs, and waves of happy lines break out around his eyes and moustache — I still can’t see his mouth. He sticks out his hand. I put out mine. His grip is firm, and his skin is rough.
He’s not laughing anymore, but he is grinning. “I’m Sam,” he says in that voice that starts somewhere down in his boots. “And unless I’m mistaken, you’re Dani.”
“You’re not.” My voice is barely there. “Mistaken, I mean. I am Dani.”
He keeps hold of my hand as he looks me over. His eyes narrow and travel from my head down to my feet and back up again. He’s clearly assessing me, and I suddenly feel self-conscious. Finally, he lets go of my hand. “You look like your mother.”
“Do I?” It’s a stupid thing to say considering people are always comparing Mom and me.
Sam doesn’t answer. Instead he picks up my back-pack and holds the door open for me and my suitcase.
“Hey, where are you going with my customer?” Kathy Ann complains. And then, “Aren’t you even going to introduce us?”
“Not today,” Sam says. “Have a nice evening now, Kathy Ann.” Once the door shuts behind us, he whispers, “Biggest gossip in Webb’s River. The whole town will know about you before suppertime.”
“What town?” I blurt.
Sam stops and looks me over for a second time. Then he shakes his head and resumes walking. “Not only do you look like your mother, you have the same sharp tongue.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Sorry,” I say apologetically and hurry to catch up. “But it is a pretty small town. How many people actually live here?”
“You’d be surprised.”
I can’t argue with that. Anything more than a dozen and I’d be drop-dead amazed. There isn’t a house anywhere.
“Maybe tomorrow we’ll take a tour,” Sam says, “but right now I think we should get you settled in. Come on. Lizzie’s right over here.”
Lizzie? Now I’m confused. Mom never mentioned anybody but Sam. “Who’s Lizzie?”
Sam chuckles and nods toward a truck parked where the bus had been.
I expect to see someone sitting in the cab, but it’s empty. And that’s when it hits me — Lizzie isn’t a person. She’s Sam’s truck, and from the look of her, she’s about the same age as Kathy Ann. I think Lizzie must have been red once, but now she’s so faded, her paint blends in with the rust.
Sam heaves my suitcase and backpack into the bed of the truck on his way to the driver’s side.
“Hop in,” he says. “It’s not locked.”
As I grab the door handle, I prepare myself for the worst. The outside of the truck is mostly road dust and rust, so I can only imagine what the inside is like.
But I’m pleasantly surprised. Oh, there’s no denying the truck is old — the black vinyl upholstery on the bench seat is cracked, there’s duct tape over a rip up the back, and the chrome around the gauges has pretty much rubbed off — but there’s not a single hamburger wrapper or drink cup anywhere. The truck is clean.
I climb in and reach for the seat belt. After scrab-bling blindly for several seconds I finally hunt for it with my eyes. It isn’t there. “What the — ” I mutter, feeling all around the window and down the door panel.
Sam reaches over and pulls a strap out of nowhere. Then he draws it across my body and buckles it. “Lizzie doesn’t have shoulder harnesses — just lap belts,” he says.
My mouth drops open. “You’re kidding! Is that even legal? How old is — Lizzie?”
Sam smiles. “Same age as me. We were both born in 1972. It was a very good year.” He pats the dash affectionately. “Now, be a good girl, Lizzie, and take us home nice and easy. No fussing like you did on the way here.” He turns the key, and the truck chugs for a few seconds before rumbling to life. He pats the dash again. “Good girl.” His next words are directed at me. “Lizzie had a bit of a hissy fit earlier. She wasn’t in the mood for a drive. That’s why I was late picking you up. Sorry about that.”
“Do you always talk to your truck?” I ask.
I can tell by the creases around his eyes that my question amuses him. “Not always.” He shrugs. “But the truth is she’s better company than most people.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugs again. “She’s a good listener.”
As we pull onto the highway, Sam switches on the radio, and Shania Twain shoots into every crack and crevice of the cab. Conversation is impossible, so I concentrate on where we’re going instead. Sam rolls down the window, and some of Shania swooshes out with the wind.
We start back toward downtown Webb’s River, but just before we get there, Sam turns onto the crossroad leading to the school. As we hit the crest of the hill, I see it. I’m expecting a little red schoolhouse, but this building has at least eight classrooms. It looks like there’s a gym too. The school’s not new, but I’ve