“Go,” I said once more, almost as if I was impatient for her to take off. In a way, I was. I hated long, lingering goodbyes. I’d had enough of those in my childhood to last me the rest of my life. I didn’t want my aunt to see the shake of my hands, so I clasped them together instead of waving. I was confident that I had the chops to take over for my aunt in her absence, but it was the unknown that worried me. Just like long, lingering goodbyes, unknowns were a plague from my childhood that I couldn’t shake.
My early childhood was filled with memories of temporary living—hotels and rest areas and campgrounds, of bedrooms I had for only a few months at a time, of staying with Aunt Isabel when my parents were sick of being tied down by their kids. Memories of birthdays and lies that led to broken promises went hand in hand whenever I thought too long about my mom and dad.
After one particularly traumatic tenth birthday, where I’d spent nearly my entire party in my bed, crying from a wish that hadn’t come true, Aunt Isabel had laid the law down with my mom and dad. I overheard the call to them, admonishing them for their behavior and explaining in no uncertain terms to never make another promise. We’d already lived with my aunt consistently for a few years at that point, but that solidified it—from age ten on, our aunt was our sole guardian.
The phone calls on holidays from them since then had all but disappeared. The visits, even less so.
That was why pinky promises—while juvenile—were so important to me. And why those who knew me made them to me.
She mouthed I love you before she disappeared beyond the machines.
Once I was out of the parking garage, I hit the speakerphone button on my aunt’s car and initiated a call to my sister Violet via the weird number she’d given me. She was only three years younger than me, but sometimes speaking to her made me feel like I was speaking to someone from another generation entirely. Maybe it was the big sister in me—the oldest of four girls—but sometimes I felt more like my sisters’ mom than the sister I was supposed to be.
“Hey,” she said, curtly and without emotion.
“Violet?” I turned onto the exit to leave the airport; not entirely sure I was talking to my sister. Violet hardly ever answered the phone without a long, drawn out, “Naaaaavy Jaaaaaane.”
“Yup. It’s me.” I heard her blow out a breath on the other end, like she had just completed a run.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, and I could hear the sounds of skateboards on the other end. “I mean. No. No, of course I’m not okay.”
My stomach sank as I mentally ran through as many possibilities as I could in a span of three seconds.
She’s hurt.
She’s in trouble with the police.
She killed someone.
I could thank the late-night murder documentary I’d watched with my roommate, Hollis, and her friend Tori, for that last one. Violet was many things—impulsive, wild—but she wasn’t reckless. “Whose number is this?”
“It’s my friend’s number.”
“Is your phone broken?”
“No,” she said with an edge of impatience on her voice.
I stopped my interrogation and simply asked, “What do you need?” I knew it wasn’t money; whenever Violet needed money she’d send me a Venmo request with a half dozen heart emojis. I knew my sister, but this version of her was foreign to me.
“I need a bus ticket.” I heard her sniffle and my heart pattered nervously in my chest.
“Of course. I’m driving, but text me the departure and arrival cities and the day.”
“Do you think there are buses I could get on tonight?”
“Do you need to?”
“I…” The sound of skates became quieter, and I sensed she was moving away from the noise. “I think so.”
“Would a plane ticket be better?”
“That’s expensive.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, feeling the desperation in my voice. “I can pull off the road right now and get it.” I hadn’t asked yet why she needed it or where she needed to go. Because the fact that she was asking was reason enough, besides the fact that she was my sister.
“No. No, that’s not a good idea. Those can be tracked, right? Like, someone could see if I was on a flight?”
“Someone like the police?” I didn’t want to ask it, because I was so afraid the answer would be yes. Already, my brain was working a mile a second, trying to figure out what I would do if the answer were yes.
“I’m not in trouble with the police.” It was firmly said.
“Okay.” I racked my brain. “I’m not sure if they can be tracked. Maybe? But if they can, maybe a bus ticket can too?”
“Well, I have a fake ID. I know it wouldn’t pass for airport security, but I bet a bus driver wouldn’t stare at it too long if I used it for my ticket.”
I wanted to delve into the fake ID part, but that wasn’t really the focus. She was twenty years old and living in Los Angeles. I supposed a fake ID wasn’t too shocking. Certainly, our younger sisters had surprised us with wilder shenanigans. “Okay.” I pulled off the road anyway, wanting to start looking up tickets as I spoke with her. “What’s the departure city?”
“The Barstow bus station is closest to me.”
“I thought you were in LA?”
“I was… I am. I’m just in Barstow at the moment.”
“Where are you traveling to?”
“What’s the closest bus station to home?”
“Amber Lake?” I asked, pausing my search.
“Yeah.”
“Probably Twin Falls.”
“Close enough. Right?” Her voice got muffled for a moment. “You wouldn’t mind picking me up?”
“There’s one tomorrow morning. Leaves just before eight in the morning.” I scrolled down. “You’ll have a long layover in Salt Lake, but you’ll get here at one in the morning on Monday. I know that’s not ideal. Let me keep looking.”
“No, that’s fine. I can make that work.”
“What’s your fake ID name?”
“Jessica Butterfield.”
It was such a random name—though, I supposed most fake IDs were. After getting the rest of the information from her, I purchased the ticket. “I emailed it to myself. What email do you want me to send it to?”
“Don’t!” It was the loudest she’d been the entire call. “Don’t email it. That would… that would ruin everything.”
“Violet.”
“What?”
“What’s going on?”
“I-I’ll tell you when I get there, okay? Just, don’t email it. They give you an option of giving me a code or something, so that I can pick it up at the station.”
“I’ll text it to you.”
“No!”
“I can’t text you, either? You said your phone isn’t broken, right?
“No. I don’t… I can’t talk about it right now. Just don’t—do not—call or text my number, okay?” I heard a whisper of a cry—no tears, but the thickness in her voice told me she was close. Closing my eyes, I resolved to accept that she could only tell me so much. “Just tell me what the code is, Navy. I can remember.”