Reality Boy
When we can see the motel up the road a ways, I clear my throat. “You’re sure you don’t just want to drive home?” I ask. “We could pick up our stuff and be back by tomorrow.”
She lets a minute pass. “I thought this was, like, the perfect idea, you know?” she says. She sniffles.
“Okay,” I answer.
“I was serious when I said I thought I loved you. I meant it.” I notice the past tense in this sentence. I dread what she’ll say next. “I don’t know if running away was the answer, but I’m not going back. Not today, not tomorrow. I have needs, you know?” she says.
“Yeah. I know. That’s why we did this.”
She starts to cry again and I start to cry, too. I think she’s surprised. I’m not sure she knows what to do with a crying boy.
In nature, crying is okay. Waterfalls cry all the time.
We hug each other when we pull into the motel parking lot. We cry until nature makes us stop crying. A pressure has released from my chest. I feel lighter. Hannah doesn’t look like she feels lighter, though. She still looks worried.
We get back to the room and change into drier clothing. Hannah turns the heating unit on and places her wet book on top, standing it up so the pages will dry. She doesn’t say a word to me about it. I turn off all the lights except for the bathroom light, and I leave the bathroom door open. Hannah sits at the table in front of our stupid, pointless list of half-witted demands.
“My mom’s probably tracking me with my phone,” she says. I walk over and squat next to her chair and put my arm around her back.
“Let’s turn it on and see if she’s texted today,” I say.
“I already did.”
“So?”
She hands me the phone, text messages from her mother lined up like battlefield soldiers. Hundreds of them.
Where are you?
Come home now!
I need you!
Where’s the milk?
Where’s the cereal?
Where are my pink-and-blue-striped socks?
Your father has a headache and I can’t find the aspirin.
I’m calling the police.
I think you were kidnapped.
Were you kidnapped?
Is it your brother?
Did he come to get you?
Both of you get back here now.
Your father needs his asthma medicine, where did you put it?
The police say I can’t report you missing until I know for sure you’re really not at work. I called that place, but your boss won’t tell me if you’re there.
Your boss is a bitch.
They don’t believe me that you were kidnapped.
KIDNAPPER! Give me my girl back!
I need her!
Don’t do anything bad to her! And if that’s you, Ronald, get your ass home and bring Hannah with you.
Where are you?
The police say they can trace you with your phone.
They told me to tell you that.
Don’t tell the kidnapper.
Where’s my white bra?
And Dad’s striped sweat socks?
I forget how to turn on the stove.
Can you call and tell me how to turn on the stove?
Hannah eats cold chicken fried rice while I sit on the edge of the bed and scan through the texts from her mother. I stop a few times and look at her, realizing that this goes far beyond Cinderella jokes and junkman’s-daughter CDs. I don’t think I ever realized that Roger was right when he said that I can’t see anyone but myself. I thought it was something we could work on. But it’s not.
I never thought anyone could have a worse life than the Crapper. I never thought anyone would have as good a reason to run away as the Crapper. I never thought anyone would have as much reason to cry as the Crapper. I know about the starving kids in Africa and war-weary refugees and women getting stoned to death for stepping out their front doors. But they have always been at arm’s length. As I stare at Hannah’s phone and the texts from her mother, I realize I am a selfish ass**le. But so is everyone else.
“What’s she saying here about your brother?” I ask.
Hannah just nods as if there’s music playing inside her head.
“No pressure. You can tell me whatever you want when you want. Plenty of shit I haven’t told you yet.”
She keeps nodding to the imaginary music and wiping silent tears between bites of Chinese food.
“Want me to tell you something first?” I offer. She keeps nodding to the music. “Tasha tried to drown me in the bathtub when I was three. Maybe more than once. I don’t know. She did it to Lisi, too. She used to try and suffocate us all the time.”
“Shit,” Hannah says.
“Yeah. Lisi says she’s a psychopath.”
“Shit,” she says again.
She keeps nodding, so I start nodding, too, as if the same song is playing inside both of our heads. She stops eating chicken fried rice.
“My brother went AWOL before he got shipped to Afghanistan. He’s down here somewhere. In the South. We haven’t heard from him in over a year.”
“Oh,” I say.
“He’s mentally—uh—slow—just a little,” she adds. “So we weren’t sure if, you know, he just got lost or really ran away. Or if something… else happened. No one can tell us.”
I demand that Hannah and I get do-overs.
“It’s why I hate the word retard.”
I demand that no one uses the word retard again.
“It’s why I do all that stuff for my parents,” she says. “The whole thing kinda drove them crazy.”
I keep nodding until she comes and sits on the bed next to me. There are two beds with rust-colored bedspreads that are stiff from being new or from being unwashed; you choose. We break rule #5 again. And again. And again.
55
HANNAH FINDS A radio station that plays 100 percent 1960s Motown music on our way through Georgia. Hannah seems to know a lot of the words to Motown songs. I find this surprising for the punk rock junkman’s daughter, but maybe nothing is quite as it seems.
Just like me.
Hannah puts her hand on my thigh as I drive. It makes me think of what happened in our motel room. It makes me want to get another motel room. It makes me want to get married. Slow down. Slow down. Slow down.
Once every hour, she pokes me in the leg and says, “I can’t believe I saved my book” or “I can’t believe we jumped into that river” or “I can’t believe you threw my book into a f**king waterfall, you ass**le.” I tell her I’m sorry every time, but she doesn’t care because she has it in her pocket, dry and safe, although some pages are illegible. She’s not mad, and I find that impossible. How can she not be mad?