Liza finally found her voice. “Route 66? You can’t possibly be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. I’ve already done the research.” Kathleen thought about the box file under the desk in her study, bulging with maps and guidebooks.
“But why California? If you want sunshine, then come to the South of France with us. Or is it because you want to see Ruth after all these years?”
“I don’t know if Ruth is still there. She might have moved, or—” She might be dead. At their age, it was a distinct possibility. But this trip wasn’t about Ruth. Kathleen had no wish to see her, and she was sure Ruth would feel the same way.
The past could never be undone.
“I don’t want sunshine. I want adventure. And I’ve wanted to do Route 66 for a long time.”
“So why didn’t you do it?”
“It never seemed to be the right time.” Kathleen kept her reply purposefully vague. “But now it does.”
Liza appeared to be struggling for words. “You’re ignoring one very big problem.”
There were a million problems. It made her dizzy to think of them all, but she was determined to handle each and every one.
She’d beaned an intruder with a skillet. She was confident she could handle anything that came her way, even an uncomfortable set of memories.
“I have a passport, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s right here in my bag.” She closed her fingers around the handle and pulled it a little closer.
Liza glanced from her mother to the bag. “You carry your passport with you?”
“Yes.”
“To the village shop? To the post office?”
“I have it on my person at all times.” Not that she’d traveled anywhere for years, but carrying her passport around made her think she might.
Liza looked aghast. “What if someone snatches your bag?”
“What will they do? Clone my identity? Frankly they’re welcome to it, providing I can have theirs and they don’t suffer from creaking bones.”
Her daughter shook her head. “You don’t just need a passport, Mum. You need a driving license. A road trip across America requires you to have a car and drive it. You don’t drive anymore.”
Kathleen sat up a little straighter. “Then I’ll need to find someone who does.”
4
MARTHA
“Will you at least listen to me?”
“No.” Martha stalked up the path to the house, her bag of library books knocking against her legs. She couldn’t wait to lose herself in a fictional world, which was currently her only escape from the real world. Anxiety swarmed through her. “There is nothing you have to say that I want to hear.”
“I know it’s mostly my fault, but everyone makes mistakes, right?” Steven stumbled as he tried to keep up with her. “And you’ve got to admit you’ve let yourself go a bit. Although your bum does look good in those jeans.”
“I don’t want to see you again.” Martha elongated her body in order to look slimmer and hated herself for doing it. Her jeans were too tight. She should have bought new ones, but if there was one thing that was tighter than her jeans, it was money.
How had her life turned out like this? And how was she going to get out of this mess?
She was starting to dread leaving the house, and it wasn’t as if home was a sanctuary. Things were almost as bad inside as they were outside.
She wanted to run away, but you needed money to run away.
Steven stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Do you want to know your problem, Martha?”
“No.” She didn’t need help identifying her problems. She could list them easily, thanks to the people around her who never let her forget her shortcomings.
“You expect too much. People are human. We’re not all bloody perfect.”
She fumbled in her bag for her keys.
“Martha, are you even listening?”
“I’ve done all the listening I intend to do. Bye, Steven. Don’t call me.” Proud of her restraint, she slammed the front door and heard her mother call from the kitchen.
“Was that Steven? Invite him in. He could take a look at the pipe in the kitchen. We have a leak.”
Only her mother could put the state of the plumbing above her daughter’s happiness.
“Ask Dad to do it.”
There were many downsides of living with her parents at the age of twenty-four, but being trapped with people who didn’t understand you was the biggest one. Lack of privacy came a close second. There was no space to lick your wounds, or mope with your head under a pillow. No chance of seeking emotional comfort from the TV and a box of chocolates because someone would change the channel and eat half of whatever you were about to put in your mouth.
And there was no way of avoiding an inquisition.
“Your dad is out.” Her mother emerged from the kitchen, a cleaning cloth in her hand and a frown on her face. “And Steven is a plumber. He knows his way around a pipe.”
But very little else.
The last thing she wanted was a conversation with her mother, but their house was small and what she wanted didn’t figure much in anyone’s plans. “He’s gone.”
Her mother flicked her cloth over the mirror. “You’ve been very unforgiving. You should at least talk to him.”
“I’ve said all there is to say.”
“Oh Martha.” Her mother gave her a look of weary despair.
“What?” She did not need this. “What now?”
“He’s nice enough and handy around the house. You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss someone in a steady job.”
“Settling for someone because they know how to fix a toilet is a pretty low bar. I’m hoping for more than that.”
“You are too fussy—that’s your problem. Real life isn’t like it is in those books you read, you know. I will never understand you, Martha.”
That went both ways.
When she was ten she’d actually asked her parents if she was adopted because she saw nothing of herself in either of them. She’d secretly dreamed of a lovely woman knocking on the door one day to claim her. But it had never happened.
Each time her mother criticized her it chipped another piece from Martha until she felt less and less like herself.
“It’s over.”