I smirked. “Will the van even do eighty?”
Dillon laughed. “If she will it won’t be for long. I wouldn’t do more than sixty-five, if you want to keep her healthy.”
“Brilliant advice, my friend. Thanks again for everything.”
“Pleasure. Safe travels to you, Errol.”
Still exhausted, but refreshed by the break and the home cooking, and energized by the prospect of a whole country to explore, I tossed my gear into the back of the van, shook Dillon’s hand, and headed out. The radio was tuned to a local country music station—weird stuff, you ask me, but I didn’t mind it, mostly,—and I heard a phrase: “…get in my old Bronco, point the headlights south…”
No clue about the band or song, but it fit, so I turned it up and did what song said: pointed my headlights south, consulting my phone’s GPS for directions—sticking to the small highways, county lines and two-lane roads in the open country.
Windows down, stars overhead, bitter American drip coffee in a Styrofoam cup from a gas station, munching on oily crisps and jerked beef, nowhere to be, no one to please but me.
I’d a feeling this was going to be a great holiday.
Poppy
I had a stuffed-to-bursting belly, thanks to Delia insisting on making a three-egg omelet, a full pound of bacon, and two thick slices of homemade bread, along with coffee so thick I wasn’t sure she measured the grounds so much as poured with her eyes closed. She also insisted I call my mother while she drove me, as promised, thirty minutes west from her house.
“Poppy! How nice to hear from you, honey.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the sound of her voice. “Hi, Momma. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m spectacular, darling. In between showings, grabbing a bite of breakfast with Lucas. What are you up to?”
I hesitated over my answer, especially when Delia gave me a hard, expectant look. “Oh, well, you know. I, uh, officially dropped out of Columbia yesterday. Thought you should know.”
“I suppose this is a bit odd coming from your mother, but I must say, it’s about time. So what are you doing?”
“I’m traveling and exploring my options.” A nice, neutral answer.
“Exploring your options.” She sighed. “I suppose that’s teenage code for something I probably wouldn’t approve of if I knew the full story.”
“Pretty much.”
“Just make me a couple promises, Poppy. No stupid stuff. No hitchhiking on the side of the highway at midnight. If someone gives you the creeps, you run fast and far. You get into trouble, call your momma. Just be smart, Poppy. Just because you’re young doesn’t mean you’re invincible. And honestly, with your looks, you need to be even more careful.”
“I’m careful, Mom. No creepers, no dumb risks.”
“A huge part of me is screaming to demand you get on the next airplane to Ketchikan, but I know better. I think I did a little too good a job of raising you girls to be strong and independent.”
“By the way, I gave my art department advisor, Mrs. DuPuis, your address. She gave me her old vintage Minolta, and I’m going to be mailing my rolls to her to develop, and she’s going to mail the processed photographs to you to hang on to for me until I get there.”
“Am I allowed to look at them?” she asked.
I laughed. “Yes, Mother. Just don’t get fingerprints on them.”
“Darling. You do know film cameras were the only kind of cameras we had until rather recently, right?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Will there be anything in the photos that will shock me?”
I hummed. “I don’t know. Maybe? Probably not, but you never know.”
A pause. “Is this the right thing for you, Poppy? Is this going to bring you joy and happiness and purpose?”
I didn’t answer right away, because when Mom asked a question like that, she expected a thoughtful answer. “I mean, it feels like it. I was suffocating in New York. Artistically, I was being hamstrung at Columbia. I had friends; you know I’ve always made friends easily. But…I’m leaving them all behind and they don’t seem to miss me nor I them. I don’t know. I’m not going to say I’m looking for something, I’m just…”
“Eighteen and spreading your wings.”
“Something like that.”
“Just be safe. That’s all I ask.”
“I will.”
I ended the call and slid the phone into my purse, and then looked at Delia. “Satisfied?”
She shook her head. “Well, I wouldn’t have let my daughter go hitchhiking across the country at eighteen, but then I’m old-fashioned.”
“If you think about it historically, though, this is the way of life, Delia. You strike out on your own. Find your own way. It’s all I’m doing.”
“Men did that, dear—we women stayed home and raised babies.”
I snorted. “True. But there were women who did go out on their own. And anyway, it’s what I’m doing. I really do appreciate your concern. I know you mean well.”
We drove a while longer, and then we reached a junction where two highways met. Delia pulled to the shoulder and put the Buick into park. She pointed one way. “That way takes you to US-40, which will take you to Ohio.” She pointed the other way. “That way takes you to US-119, south toward Kentucky by way of West Virginia.”
I looked around—four-lane highways, a Sunoco, a maze of entrance and exit ramps; endless possibilities. “This is perfect, Delia. Thank you for setting such a wonderful tone for my trip.”
“I think what you’re doing is foolish, and you ought to go home straight away. But I’m also a bit jealous, if I’m honest. I was never brave enough to do what you’re doing.”
I leaned across and hugged her. “Thank you again for everything. Be well.”
She patted my cheek. Reached into the pocket of her cardigan and held something in her hand—she took my hand in hers and pressed something into my palm. “Take it and no arguments, if just to soothe my conscience that I’ve done everything I can to help you be safe.”
It felt like cash rolled up, and I knew I couldn’t refuse it. So I pocketed it and shook my head. “It’s not necessary, Delia. But thank you.”
She just patted my hand. “Be safe. Be smart.”
“I will.” I got out, shouldered my backpack and arranged everything properly. Waved. “Bye, Delia.”
“Goodbye, dear. Safe travels and Godspeed.”
She pulled a U-turn and headed back the way she came, and then after a moment was out of sight and I was alone. Ohio, or Kentucky? North or south?
Either direction was the wrong way for my eventual destination, but for some reason my gut said south, so south I went.
I followed US-119 on foot, on the shoulder, for a long time. Hours. Miles. A truck stopped for me, about three hours into the day, then later on a cube van marked with the logo of a local plumbing service pulled over. The gentleman within was middle-aged, rounding, balding, sweating, smelling of chemicals and tobacco. The interior of his cab was cluttered with Mt. Dew bottles, empty cigarette boxes, and McDonald’s bags, but his brown eyes were kind and he offered to take me three exits down, a good forty-five minutes drive for him and hours of walking for me. He told me about his daughter, my age, a journalism major at Penn State, who had a serious boyfriend he didn’t like, and about how she was a cheerleader and he went to all the football games just to watch her cheer even though he was more of a basketball fan…I had a feeling he was talking about his daughter more to put me at ease than anything, which was sweet. He eventually got around to introducing himself as José, and I told him my story, leaving college to explore as I headed for Alaska on foot.