All depressing signs of the crushing weight we’ve shared lately.
But deep down, he’s still a Sellers. He won’t stop, and neither will I.
As long as this old Ford trudges on, so will we, all the way to Montana.
Same with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—aka Rosie and Stern—the two horses riding in the trailer behind us in my rearview mirror. I’m not sure who loves them more, Dad or me.
They were his pride and joy once, and my best friends growing up. Practically the only friends I’d had when we’d left the city for the small farm north of Milwaukee to raise pumpkins.
Yes, pumpkins.
Feels like an eternity ago now. I’d finished high school while living on the farm, moved out, went to college for interior design, and dreamed of covering pretty places in prettier ideas.
Sadly, pretty anything hasn’t been in the cards for a long time.
I watched too many dreams get demolished on that farm. And then one day, when there was nothing left but smoldering ruins, we threw together our things and hit the road while we still could.
Someday, I’ll have my freaking slice of pretty.
Even if it feels like someday might as well be in the next century with this dark, deserted road and white dunes that could swallow a person whole crowding every mile.
“Gracie,” Dad says, breathing heavy. “It’s getting damn near impassable. You’re gonna have an accident. Pull over.”
“I can’t just stop here, Dad. There’s nowhere to park.” Not without potentially trapping the truck in an icy grave, and us with it. Believe me, I would if I could. Even in my boots, my toes are frozen nubs because the heater can’t keep up with the cold air invading the cab. “I can’t make out a shoulder, let alone how deep the ditches are.”
It’s the truth, but I don’t need to say it.
Dad’s eyes aren’t that bad.
He can see the snow-covered road and the huge flakes swirling around in the beams of our headlights before splattering against the windshield and being swept away by frantic wipers.
“We’ll pull over as soon as I find a hint of civilization,” I tell him, scratching my cheek.
“There has to be a town somewhere. I checked the map a hundred miles back; I know I saw something,” he grumbles.
“Only you still read off of a paper atlas. Every phone has GPS that works most of the time, even when the service sucks.” I give him a teasing smile, but it fades just as fast when I see the look on his face.
I can tell how he’s trying to hold in another cough. It’s there behind the slight sideways quirk of his lips.
My heart hurts for him, and worry sours my stomach.
Congestive heart failure.
Probable.
That’s what the emergency room doc said last week. We didn’t get a chance to stick around for the follow-up with the cardiologist. Honestly, his ticker running out is the whole reason we’re in God Forsaken Nowhere, North Dakota.
As soon as we got the bad news, I said we had to go.
Leave.
Before it’s too late for him to find a little peace.
I’m still praying it isn’t. Nobody deserves to spend their last days on earth being hunted.
“Can’t believe how long this is taking,” he says, reaching up to wipe at his side of the windshield. “There has to be a pit stop up ahead, a gas station...something.”
“You’d think so,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood. “But I’m pretty sure there are more oil drills than people out in these parts.”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard all about the oil boom out here a few years back. Hell of an industry to be in,” he answers dryly, but with a hint of a smile. “Oil crews gotta eat, though. That means a town somewhere in this mess.”
“It’s coming,” I say. “And then we’ll stop for an overdue breather.”
“Not too long,” he reminds me, tapping a finger against his seat belt. “Just enough to take a leak and give Noelle a call. You said she left a few messages?”
“Right. I just haven’t had time to—”
Those words stop short in my mouth when I notice an odd purple flashing light in the swirling wintry darkness beyond the headlights.
My eyes narrow to a squint.
It’s almost like the purple light winks right back at me the harder I stare, holding the truck in what I hope is still our lane.
Weird.
I haven’t seen a patch of clear pavement or another vehicle for miles, and I’m almost wondering if I’m seeing things. Hallucinating out of desperation.
Nope.
Purple lights. Still there. Still pulsing.
I’m hoping it’s a business, not just some kind of derelict radio tower or utility site. My hands are cramped from white-knuckling the steering wheel for what’s felt like hours.
The tension in my shoulders and neck makes my muscles burn. It hurts to turn my head enough to glance at Dad again.
“You see that?” he asks. “That purple light?”
“Sure do. Glad it’s not just me.”
Coming closer now, I see the flashing light belongs to a sign. A tall one hoisted high in the sky. Between the snow and the distance, I can’t see anything below the sign, yet.
An old motel, maybe, but it could be something else, too.
“It looks like...a cat?” I whisper, trying to make sense of the round face outlined in bright royal purple with what looks like two pointy ears. “Definitely a cat. Meow.”
Now I can see the whiskers, the cartoonish grin, one eye winking as the sign flicks back and forth.
“Thank God. Hope it’s not just a snowmobile dealer,” Dad mutters.
I get the reference to a big brand in winter gear, but I’m pretty sure their logo doesn’t look anything like this. That winking face is actually kinda ridiculous, and by far the happiest thing I’ve seen all night.
“I think we’re in luck,” I say, smiling.
We’re close enough to read the name stenciled in curly lit letters under the cat’s face.
The Purple Bobcat, it reads. Good eats. Beer. Fun.
“Looks like a dive,” Dad says as the building comes into view. “Whatever, it’ll do.”
I nod, holding my breath for signs of vehicles in the lot. I don’t want to get my hopes up unless it’s still open.
The bar itself is a one-story wooden building painted bright purple. The owner must be a huge Prince fan or just hellbent on grabbing attention out here in the sticks.
Coming closer, the windows are lit up bright with beer signs. Looks like a few trucks parked in front of the building.
I exhale that breath I’ve been holding.
It may not be much, but right now a parking lot and a few walls feel like a luxury resort.
“It’s still open. Hope you’re hungry,” I say, easing my foot off the gas.
I refrain from tapping the brakes. It’s hard to determine just how much ice is packed under the snow.
The last thing I need is to send the trailer fishtailing across the lot and smack right into some good old boy’s favorite pickup.
Two little blue reflectors sticking out above the snow tell me where the driveway is. I slowly steer the truck between the reflectors and pull up along what I’m assuming is the edge of the parking area where there’s room to park without boxing in other vehicles. Plenty of room to make an easy turn when it’s time to leave, too.