SIXTEEN

Dagne

I drop a coin into the machine outside the store, starting the metal pony up for the little girl who had been tugging futilely on its ears while her mother has a smoke. The kid squeals in excitement, gaining a confused smile from her mom who didn’t see what I did.

Air-conditioning is a welcome reprieve after that roadside rendezvous with the police. Given the age of the truck I’m driving, it didn’t really surprise me when I discovered a while back that I had only hot air blasting out the vents.

I select a bottle of sports water and then peruse the magazine rack on my way back to the counter. I messaged Hooch the exit number like I said I would and then parked the truck in plain sight, but given where I am, I’ve got at least an hour to kill.

The clerk gives me a curious glance when I hand over the motorcycle magazine as well as the drink, and rings the total up. I figure I may as well make the selection something useful to leave with the truck when I’m done here. Plus, maybe I’ll get some insight into the type of people these motorcycle mad are by reading the subscriber contributions and looking at the articles.

The kid and her mom are gone by the time I exit. Coins in my hand, I circle them in my palm while eyeing up the payphone at the end of the building. It’s been around four months since I last tried. Not that I expect the outcome to be any different. I made my bed when I left three years ago. I suppose I assumed that after the right amount of time she’d see reasoning in my decision.

Guess three years isn’t quite long enough.

Having so much time to kill, I figure what’s the harm in trying anyway. The receiver is hot in my hand thanks to the limited shelter over the phone. I insert the coins and punch the number I couldn’t forget if I tried.

“Mason International. How may I direct your call?”

“Fiona Alderson, please.”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Her daughter.”

“One moment.” My heart speeds a little at getting one step closer as the receptionist places me on hold. I’m guessing she’s new at the desk and has no idea of our little historical game of cat and mouse.

The call disconnects.

Damn it. I insert another coin and dial again, going through the whole greeting/request motions a second time.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist says when I ask for my mother again. “She’s asked not to be disturbed for the rest of the day.”

Bullshit. She’s told them not to put me through. The thought’s crossed my mind to phone and pretend to be somebody else. But I’ve never gone through with it. Somewhere deep inside I know that if I heard her voice without it leading to us actually talking it would kill me, the familiarity and the memories.

The pain.

I’ve been told in the past that the fact I still love my mother and seek her approval is odd considering she was the one person who could have helped me, but didn’t. We’re told as youngsters that if a situation gets out of control, if your best efforts are futile against those who harm and oppress you, that your parents are the ones you should turn to for help. Yet, when your father is the one who hurts you, and your mother is so blinded by love that she can’t believe the things you tell her, even if the evidence points firmly toward that being the truth, where do you turn?

To yourself.

At seventeen years old I learned the hardest truth of all: the only person you can rely on without doubt or fear, is yourself.

I replace the receiver and turn to face the sunbaked parking lot. The truck is parked in semi-shade, but given the direction the sun travels I’ll be roasting within an hour. A large oak covers the far corner of the lot with sprawling branches, providing shade that’ll last until the sun goes down in a few hours. Dejected, yet expecting nothing more from my failed phone call, I head for the bark chip covered garden bed at the base of the tree’s trunk. Cigarette butts litter the area, a few spent lighters and beer caps interspersed between. It takes me ten minutes to flick them all aside with the toe of my boot, but it’s worth it when I drop beneath the tree and hear the birdsong that greets me from above.

This is why I do it, why I travel.

Nothing centers you more than realizing how small you are in the scheme of things. Troubles fade to insignificance when you take a long hard look at the functioning machine that is nature around us. Millions of animals, bugs, and plants all working together to keep things running as they should. Should one fall, its importance isn’t lost; it transitions into another role. Everything has a purpose, everything has limits, and nothing living takes advantage of either.

Nature is life at it’s most complex, yet basic. Do the job you’re intended for, and don’t try to take more than you’re entitled to.

A rule that the human race as a whole seems to have a problem grasping the concept of.

Head back against the bark of the tree, I close my eyes and listen to the bird chatter. Under one hour, and he’ll be here. Hooch can figure out how to get the truck back to Fort Worth himself; it’s not my problem.

The only thing I have to focus on is moving on.