Chapter_25_A_Very_Spe

Driving from Illinois through Iowa into Nebraska with its miles of flat, uninterrupted terrain will give us some much-needed peace after the Bicycle Incident. The Simpsons-blue skies spotted with misshaped marshmallow clouds give us a calming energy that we happily invite. But like the smooshed bugs on the car’s grill and windshield, our relationship angst still needs a good wash.

As Biz drives, I close my eyes for a second, feeling a little spent.

“Should we call Flora back?” Biz asks.

I check our phones to see if there are any messages. “Let’s give her some space. She’ll update us after the doctor.”

“I just hope everything’s okay.”

“It will be,” I say, unsure. “Let’s stay positive. Flora’s doctor is the best.”

Biz nods in agreement as we try to push forward.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Biz asks.

“Like what?”

“Baseball statistics,” he jokes. “What do you think?”

“I’m happy just staying quiet for a while.” I shut my eyes meditatively. I know this isn’t the answer Biz wants to hear but a car nap is calling my name right now, which happens so rarely, I feel like I should give in to it.

“Fine with me,” Biz says a few seconds later, waking me up this time. “I can totally do quiet...” He shifts in his seat. “Yep, I love it... Just pure unadulterated silence... No talking whatsoever... Zero sound... You can hear a pin drop over here... All quiet on the Western Front. Or should I say Midwestern Front?... Quiet as a snowflake landing on a mouse, sitting on a lamb in a soundproof—”

I open one eye and point it at him. “Biz?”

“Sorry,” Biz whispers. A minute later: “Not even some music? Maybe some yacht rock? Christopher Cross? Saaaailiiing... Takes me awaaaay...”

“Seriously? I just need quiet right now.” I shut my eyes again and it seems like Biz finally gets the memo. I desperately want to fall asleep, but I’m not like Biz, who could sleep anywhere, slumped over, mouth open and probably snoring with just the perfect amount of drool. He’s like a “funny” stock photo of someone sleeping.

My body shifts into a dozen positions. It’s impossible to get comfortable inside this cramped car.

I’m also slightly concerned that Biz might even fall asleep at the wheel. I pop my eyes open every once in a while, making sure he’s still awake. I’m impressed he’s not multitasking with his phone anymore, keeping both hands on the wheel when I’m not looking.

And now I can’t get that Christopher Cross song out of my head.

We drive. And drive. Then we keep driving after that. I doze in and out of sleep. When I’m awake, I anguish over how I’m going to address my father’s letters with my mom. And what does my brother know?

In between my tiny naps, we decide to stop at a gas station car wash to clean up the Gatorade bomb that’s still bright red and probably sticky all over the hood of Virginia Woolf.

Slowly exiting the car wash dryer, we joke that we’re about to see the cyclist standing there, lying in wait to make good on his promise of murdering us. Luckily, he’s gone forever.

Conveniently, Matilda throws up the second after we leave the car wash.

Halfway through Nebraska, I spot a billboard for Burger King advertising something called chicken fries. They look incredible. Maybe it’s the way they’re breaded and deep-fried, mozzarella sticks–esque. Or maybe it’s the appealing packaging of the french fry container with a cute face of a cartoon chicken on it. Either way, my whole world is suddenly about them.

“Can we pull over?” I ask Biz, who’s still driving. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I actually do have to go to the bathroom, but I also want those chicken fries, and I don’t want Biz judging me for wanting fast food again.

He looks at me suspiciously. He knows if I had my way while driving long distance, we would never stop. I’d prefer it if we drive straight across the country without ever eating, drinking, sleeping or peeing. It’s like a commercial production. I just want to power through.

“You need to wear a diaper,” Biz jokes, imitating my joke to him whenever he wants to pull over.

This particular Burger King is a straight shot off the exit ramp. We don’t want to disturb a napping, snoring Matilda in her cozy bed in the back seat, so we leave our angel undisturbed and head inside.

Walking toward the cashiers, I notice the only people inside the restaurant are elderly folks.

“Retirement community?” I ask Biz, trying to guess where the group is from.

Biz narrows his eyes and tries to guess. “Book club,” he says.

“I’m changing my guess. They’re an Alcoholics Anonymous group,” I say.

“Maybe a sober book club from a retirement community,” Biz says as we both laugh.

Biz looks up at the menu. “Ugh. Cheetos chicken fries? All this food looks like it would make you constipated.”

“Today’s the day I’m going to make you understand the pleasures of fast food,” I confidently declare.

We order our food—chicken fries and Whoppers—and take our trays outside, sidling up to a picnic table in the back. We check on Matilda, who’s still fast asleep in the car.

“Aren’t they good?” I say to Biz, as we chomp into our chicken fries. After several bites, I see Biz’s mind churning, trying to figure out his take on what he’s eating.

“Don’t analyze it. Just enjoy it,” I tell him.

“My job is literally to analyze food,” Biz says. “Was.” Biz goes quiet for a moment, sinking his teeth into his Whopper. I can’t tell if he thinks it tastes good or not but he’s going back in for more.

I turn up an I-toldja grin.

It doesn’t seem like Biz is focused on the food. He looks up from his burger. “Remember that one very special episode of Back in the Saddle I did...?” Biz starts, fondly remembering his teenage television years. “Where Kaylynn reveals to the gang that she’s dyslexic?”

“I can’t say I’m super familiar with that one,” I admit, wondering where this is going.

“Well, that storyline got press at the time. They called it groundbreaking. But it was the same episode where Cole, the older owner of the ranch, passes away. The actor had a three-episode arc,” Biz continues.

“I didn’t realize Disney shows had episode arcs,” I say, finishing my chicken fries.

“Anyway, I found out later the head writer on the show was dealing with the death of his own dad so he worked through it by writing it into the show. I just remember getting that script and we all sat around reading it out loud for the first time at the table read. When we reached the end where we’re all talking about Cole’s death, I burst into tears,” Biz says, reliving the emotion from that day.

I hear the pain in his voice. “Were you thinking of your dad?” I ask.

“It brought up the fear of my dad passing away. Since he was older, losing him was something I thought about a lot growing up. He wasn’t going to live as long as my friends’ dads. Plus, that actor looked like the cowboy version of my dad; it was eerie. And when they brought him in just to kill him off, it was slightly traumatic for me,” Biz says, contemplating another bite of his Whopper.

“That’s so hard,” I say, feeling bad for the kid in Biz. “You were so young.”

“There was even a funeral scene,” Biz goes on.

“Wasn’t this a sitcom for tweens?” I ask. I know the answer but I’m just making sure.

“It was. We shot the funeral and scattered his ashes on the ranch,” Biz says.

“Kinda heavy,” I say.

“I know. When we wrapped though, I cried again. The whole cast did. I had to call my dad just to make sure he was okay, and that my mom was fine, and I made them promise me that nothing bad would happen to them while I was away.”

“Oh, Biz,” I say, heartbroken.

“This news of my dad’s health I’ve sort of been waiting for my whole life. It’s just a thing I’d always prepared myself for and now that it’s here... You just can’t be prepared for something like this, ya know?” Biz looks up from his food at me, wanting answers.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear but you just have to treasure every moment with your dad while he’s still here. You’re lucky. I was never able to do that with my father. You still have time,” I say. The absence of my dad has given me a lifetime of perspective.

“You’re right,” Biz says, thinking it through.

“Say everything you want to say to him now. Talk to him on the phone every day. Reply to his dumb funny emails and jokey puns that he texts you. I know you do that anyway but appreciate him every day. Be present for him. Have your parents stay with us when the baby’s born. We’ll go to Chicago too so they can see their baby’s baby,” I suggest.

This makes Biz smile.

“Your dad gave you the best blueprint for parenthood you can ever have. I didn’t get one. I have to figure out how to write my own version of being a father.”

“Thank you for that,” Biz says appreciatively. “It’s amazing you grew up without a father and yet you have all this wisdom about being a parent.”

“You can’t know what you’re missing until it’s gone,” I say, letting Biz interpret this about his father, about us, about all of it.

Biz eats his chicken fries, savoring them, really enjoying the taste now.

“And don’t give me a hard time about fast-food places anymore,” I add. “I can tell you love those fries.”

Biz throws an entire chicken fry into his mouth and chews. “They’re okay,” he feigns indifference.

I slow clap, feeling proud that he can do what he puts his mind to. Both with his dad and the chicken fries.

We finish our food, immediately feeling sick to our stomachs from all the grease, and mosey our way back to the car only to discover something extremely shocking and terrible.

Matilda is missing.