Chapter 6

Raegan

Something happened in that driveway with Micah, and then again in Mama's den. Something I've struggled dozens of times over to describe in my fiction. Something not nearly as cliché as a spark but not nearly as dramatic as a divine revelation either. I suppose, at the very least, it was a connection, one unlike any I've experienced before.

I run our conversation over in my head again, trying to sort it out as Micah loads our remaining totes onto the bus as if his sole reason for being on this trip is to live up to the job title he's accepted. Yet I know it's more complicated than that. He told me so himself. And perhaps it's that—the depth of what he shared with me—that's the most disorienting part of it all.

Still is.

From my place on the bus sofa, I watch Micah from the corner of my eye as he situates himself in the driver's seat and speaks logistics with my mama for what is obviously not the first time. How many phone calls had the two of them shared? And why hadn't Mama told me she'd been in contact with Lynn's family members since her death? The questions are like an irritant in my eye. Small in size, but noticeable enough that all I want to do is flush it out.

Mama has been different since she came home from saying her final good-bye to Lynn in April, and strangely, I was the only one who seemed to notice her frequent musings about a past she'd rarely spoken of before. How I'd hear her in the den playing old songs I'd never heard her sing. How I'd walk in on private conversations with Jana—likely scheming about this very road trip. I'd mentioned it to Adele once, telling her how I'd stumbled upon her digging through old boxes of photo albums and journals at midnight more than once. And how she started sharing bits and pieces of her history with me that I'd never heard before. For most of my childhood, Luella Farrow had fought to prove her place in country music, but suddenly, in the quiet of the night, it was as if she was trying to prove she'd once been a regular girl who'd lived in a regular world with regular friends.

The dichotomy has been disorienting to say the least.

Adele dismissed my concerns, saying it was normal for people Mama's age to have bouts of nostalgia and that it would pass. Besides, she had the festival coming up, and Mama loves nothing more than being on stage playing for tens of thousands. I tried to seek Hattie's opinion on the matter as well, but she was too distraught over Peter filing for temporary custody for the summer to focus on anything else. So I stopped bringing it up. Instead, I stuffed it all down inside—all the strange things I saw and overheard as Mama's roommate. Only, now I'm starting to wonder if I'd missed something. Perhaps there was someone else Mama had been talking to these last few months.

I watch her place a hand on Micah's shoulder, and the realization hits me anew: this man is Lynn Davenport's son. I allow the fact to roll around in my brain a half dozen times until I accept it as truth. Lynn Hershel-Davenport's past connection to Mama has never been a secret. Her name even appears on the official Luella Farrow bio page as a former band member, though from all Mama's stories, especially the ones as of late, I know they were much more than that—best friends who parted badly because one of them couldn't handle the mounting pressures of fame. Right up until this moment, I believed the only thing I would ever share in common with the woman in my mama's vintage photographs is my given middle name.

And yet ... here is her son.

It's a chore to tear my eyes away from his profile as he taps in whatever address Mama has given him into his map app, but Hattie's concerning sighs and manic scrolling of her photo album on her phone switches me into a different mode. I knew this moment of panic would come for her, I just hadn't expected it before we pulled out of the driveway.

I touch her leg in an effort to distract her. "Hey, I meant to tell you I repacked everything from the brown bag into a blue duffle." Minus one pair of panties, I think.

She barely reacts. Not a good sign.

"Hattie?" I try again, switching my tactic. "What time is it in Greece right now?"

Maybe if I can get her talking about Annabelle and Aiden, it'll help her internal spiral.

"Nearly four," she answers robotically, looking at a picture of Annabelle pulling a wagon full of apples at an orchard last fall. It's an adorable photo, one that could easily belong on the front of a blank stationery card for people who despise corny, canned messages. Like me.

"And what time did you agree on for your video call tonight?" It's a stipulation of the summer custody agreement. At least three video chats a week and a phone call on the off days.

"Eight their time."

"Oh, well that's not too long to go, then," I say, using my most cheery voice. "I'm sure they're going to be thrilled to see you—and maybe you'll have something fun to show them from on the road, too." Although, I haven't a clue where our first stop will be. Every time I've inquired about the driving itinerary, Mama just says she'll let us know.

Hattie shrugs as her tears well inside her perfectly lined eyes. The reaction is enough for me to push aside her uncharacteristic forwardness with Micah earlier. I can't say I don't know what's gotten into her ... I do know. She's hurting. Tenderly, I place an arm around my fragile sister, the way she used to do with me when I was younger and knew I could talk to her about anything. I do my best to blink away the series of haunting images that invade my memory every time I see Hattie cry. Even though Micah and Mama are still engaged in conversation and Adele hasn't bothered to come out of the back room since she boarded, I keep my voice soft.

"I have no doubt Annabelle and Aiden miss you just as much as you're missing them right now. I also have no doubt that being on the road will speed up the time and give you some great content to share with them."

"I sure hope so," she says, perking up a bit. "It just feels wrong leaving on a trip without them."

Having no kids of my own yet, I have no firsthand experience with that feeling, but I do cherish my role of being an auntie. I adore both my nieces and my nephew, even though Adele's daughter, Cheyenne, is now taller, smarter, and probably all around adultier than I am. She's currently in her third year at the University of San Francisco as a business major, music minor. I miss her terribly.

I lean toward the sink counter, rip off a paper towel from the bolted-down holder, and hand it to Hattie. She blots at her eyes and sniffs.

"In good news, your makeup is on point today," I attest confidently, wishing I'd taken an extra twenty minutes to shower and freshen up in the house. My gaze finds the bathroom door on the opposite wall of the bus. It's going to be a learning curve figuring out how to get clean and ready in a two-by-two rectangle.

Hattie smiles up at me. "Thank you."

"Anytime." I tap her knee, and she sets her phone down on the cushion beside her. I hope the relief I feel is not as obvious as it seems.

Back before she had Annabelle, Hattie worked as a part-time event planner for Farrow Music. She loved collaborating with the artists for album-release parties, publicity campaigns, music videos, and more. I often wonder if she misses it. Every once in a while I can still see a glimpse of the confident, fun woman she was before she married a man who only wanted her when she was packaged a certain way—a rich trophy wife and mom whose only interests were his interests. It's no wonder Hattie struggles with her identity—she hasn't been allowed to have one for over a decade.

I'm just about to broach the subject of her considering looking into some part-time work on her off days with the kids when Mama steps into the front lounge. She stands with her back to the driver's cockpit and calls for Adele—twice. Shockingly, my oldest sister graces us with her presence without a phone affixed to her ear.

Mama smiles at each of us and clasps her hands. "I've told Micah we're not to start any day of this special journey without a prayer asking God for protection, guidance, and some good honest fun. Who'd like to pray for our first day?"

Our eyes dart away from one another, but nobody volunteers as Prayer Tribute. For reasons I can't fully articulate, I can pretty much pray in front of anybody but my two siblings. Truth is, I'd rather be caught holding a dozen random pairs of panties than be vulnerable in that way with them. Our faith journeys are not something we share with each other anymore.

"Gracious heavens, one might think I've raised a bunch of heathens. Raegan, why don't you—"

"I'll pray," says the deep voice to Mama's right.

My neck jerks up so fast I'm on the verge of whiplash when Micah meets my gaze and then dips his chin just enough for me to know he's taking one for the team. A team I'm uncertain I should join and yet ... perhaps I already have. Perhaps what we shared back in the den was the initiation of two strangers forming an alliance.

He prays for our trip—for clear roads and no traffic and easy parking and for good honest fun. He says the last part with a near-perfect impersonation of Mama, and we all chuckle a bit as we say amen.

And then Micah takes the driver's seat again and slowly begins to pull the bus out of Mama's driveway. It's strangely captivating how at ease he seems behind the steering wheel. This bus is massive, and yet nothing about his movements make him seem intimidated.

Mama situates herself on the sofa opposite Hattie and me. There's a marked furrow in Adele's forehead as she lifts her phone and says, "I still haven't seen the email come through with the itinerary you promised, Mama. Can you send it over now, please? I need to forward it to my assistant at the office and—"

"I've had second thoughts about that promise, darlin'." Mama says this with all the ornery conviction of a child who reveals the fingers they've crossed behind their back. "I've decided it would be more fun to keep an element of surprise for you girls."

On instinct, Hattie and I press our backs against the sofa and brace for the oncoming turbulence. Adele might be Mama's right-hand gal when it comes to her work, but they are two very different people when it comes to ... everything else.

"I abhor surprises, Mother, you know that. That was not a part of the original deal we made when you decided to pull Old Goldie from storage and do an HGTV-style makeover on her. As far as I'm concerned, that was surprise enough. I was clear when I told you I needed to be available to the label while we are away. Furthermore, it's not safe to be gallivanting around the country without a known plan. What if there's an emergency or we have a breakdown somewhere?"

"I do have a plan, a solid one at that if you must know, and I've informed our driver of it, as well," Mama says before she makes a show of counting each one of us—including Micah. "And if there's an emergency, then there are four other passengers aboard this bus who can call for help. It only takes one finger to dial 9-1-1, and all of us are able-bodied enough to use our legs and walk if the need arises. Believe it or not, I'm a survivor of the BCP years." Mama doesn't wait for someone to ask what her abbreviation stands for before she lands her own joke. "Before Cell Phones."

Micah's unexpected chuckle from the front causes my own lips to twitch.

"I'm not okay with this," Adele states, as if that was news to anyone.

"Well, I'm not okay with you working eighty-hour weeks, so we'll have to strike a compromise for the sake of this trip, sweet pea. My vote is for you to sit back and enjoy today's ride while it's still today. Let tomorrow and all the days after that take care of themselves. It's biblical, after all."

To say Adele isn't pleased with Mama's pep talk is an understatement, but she does as Mama suggests and settles herself at the dining table without further comment. She's probably planning a mutiny for after dinner.

As soon as Micah pulls onto the main road, Mama slips one of her paint-by-number canvases from her bag along with the high-end felt markers she's opted to use in place of actual paint, and I smile at this newfound hobby of hers.

"I think I'll be Micah's co-navigator for the day," Hattie announces ten minutes into our drive. She stands and stretches, and then makes her way to the jump seat beside Micah. An option I hadn't even considered until now.

A flicker of something I don't want to name pinches in my chest at her bold assumption, only I have no logical reason to protest. Micah is a grown man. And according to him, he's an unattached man. Sure, he's a good handful of years younger than my sister, but who am I to judge?

Hattie situates herself quickly. Conversation between them seems to flow as easily as Adele opening up her laptop and getting to work at the table. I can't hear a word they're saying, but that doesn't stop the sour feeling in my stomach as I observe them.

It turns out, the sour feeling never fades. In fact, it grows worse over the next two hours.

Every time I try to focus on the list I've been keeping in my notebook, nausea creeps in. It's so bad that at one point I have to put everything down and close my eyes. Slowly, I breathe out through my mouth and in through my nose the way I saw both my sisters do while in labor.

It doesn't help.

"Raegan, are you ill?" Mama asks.

"I'll be okay."

"You're white as a northerner in winter. You're carsick, aren't you?"

"I'm just a little nauseous," I mumble quietly, leaning my head against the wall, but the world keeps moving, which means my gut keeps churning.

"You're carsick," she says as if it's a clinical diagnosis. "I thought you grew out of that."

I don't bother to tell her that I'd thought I grew out of it, too, yet the times I've sat sideways on a couch in a moving vehicle as an adult are zero.

"Hattie, your sister needs the front seat," Mama spouts abruptly.

My eyes ping open wide. "What? No, I didn't say—"

"Raegan needs to look out the front window. It's the only thing that helped her when she was young."

"But, Mama," Hattie protests, "Micah and I are having a nice conversation up here."

"Now, Hattie," Mama demands. "You can come paint next to me. I have plenty of extra canvases for you to choose from."

And just like that, Hattie is making her way from the cockpit to the sofas.

"Go on, Raegan," Mama says with a quick jerk of her head. "You look terrible."

My stomach churns something fierce, but this time I'm certain it has more to do with who I'll be sitting next to rather than where I'll be sitting. I'm feeling so pukey that when I stand to make my way toward the cab, I have to brace myself against the wall for a few breaths.

I feel Micah's eyes on me as soon as I take the passenger seat and latch my seatbelt. We're on I-40, and it's a route I've driven a thousand times. If there are levels of carsickness shame, then I must be near the top. We're still in my home state for goodness' sake.

"I can pull over at the next exit and stop for Dramamine," comes the masculine voice to my left.

"No." I manage a whisper. "I can't take that anymore. It gives me hives."

"Okay, well you should open your eyes, then. Concentrate on those clouds in the distance, and don't look anywhere else. Take slow, deep breaths."

I'm too woozy to respond, so I do as he suggests. And within a few minutes, I feel infinitely less nauseated.

"Better?" he asks, as if he can read my mind.

"Much," I admit quietly. "That's one more punch to add to your Red Cross card."

There's a laugh in his voice when he asks, "And what happens when I reach ten punches?"

I don't trust my equilibrium enough to turn my head just yet, but my brain is finally coming online again. "That's for you to decide."

"But I'm curious what you would choose?"

My only response is a side-eye. I don't understand this game.

"If you got to choose any prize, what would it be?" he tries again.

"Time travel."

"Oh."

It's crazy how a single utterance can reveal so much. In this case, it says, Congratulations, Raegan, you discovered the only wrong answer to this hypothetical question.

"Sorry." I chance a look at him this time. "I should have disclosed ahead of time that I'm not good at that kind of stuff. Carsick or not."

"No, no, you did perfectly. I should have specified that the use of magical portals are definitely allowed in this game. Please carry on. I'd love to know where you would time travel to. Past or future?"

It's a harder question to answer than I realized. If I went back in time, back before Tav and I got entangled in a losing game of I Can Love Him Enough for the Both of Us, and back before my father passed and life as we knew it went haywire, would it have made a difference to my writing dreams? Or would it be better to travel to a time five or ten years from now and hope things might be stable enough to try my hand at publishing again under different circumstances? It's this thought that plucks at a string a little too close to another, and suddenly I'm picturing the terrifying aftermath of a tell-all that, if real, could have consequences too big to even speculate.

"I'm starting to wonder if you just slipped through a magical portal while sitting in that jump seat...." Micah turns his questioning gaze on me as the bus rolls on.

"Sorry, no. I just realized that transporting to a different time won't really solve much of anything. Things are ... what they are." I must be far sicker than I thought to admit such a thing, and yet as soon as I speak it, I feel it anew. This bizarre intimacy we stumbled into earlier.

Micah's nod is slow yet attentive. "I can relate." He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. "It's been a heck of a year."

The sudden onset of empathy weaves like a ribbon through my rib cage the way it had before at the thought of losing a parent so suddenly.

"How long was your mother sick?" I ask, though I'm fully aware of how inappropriate this question is given the amount of time we've known each other.

"Six weeks from diagnosis to hospice."

I swallow and run my fingers along the rough seam on my jump seat. "That's so quick."

"Sometimes I hate myself for being glad it went as quickly as it did in the end." He keeps his eyes straight ahead but speaks in a measured tone. "What kind of son prays for God to take their mother home to heaven over waiting on a miracle?" He expels a slow breath. "But seeing someone you love in that much pain is ... it's unbearable."

"A merciful son," I say in response to his question. "I, on the other hand, begged God to save my dad after his heart attack. I was too selfish to pray for what would be best for him because a life without my dad felt like the most unimaginable thing in the world. Still does some days."

"That's not selfish," he says.

"And praying for your mama's freedom is nothing short of loving."

We glance at each other then, realizing just how bizarre it is to be having such a raw conversation with a near stranger. Yet, perhaps Micah is more legend than stranger. I've known his name my whole life, like a comic-book character born in a parallel universe to my own. He was the baby born to a woman who broke my mama's heart and nearly her passion for music all at the same time. After the Lynn Luella's tour of '94, Mama didn't sing publicly again for close to three years. I was a toddler the first time she took the stage as a reinvented solo act—one who started from the ground up in nearly every way.

"What was he like?" Micah asks. "Your dad."

"The perfect balance to my mother." I laugh to myself. "Dad was levelheaded and logical, a goal-setter by nature. He was hardworking, innovative, and wise. No matter how many birthdays he had, retirement was always at least five years away...." I pause there for just a minute. "He loved his family, and he never stopped cheering Mama on."

"He sounds like he was a great man."

"The best," I agree.

Micah's lips part, and he looks as if he wants to say something more on the subject but then seems to reconsider. "You speak like a writer."

A quick rush of air escapes me. "What?"

"It's not just the words you use, but how you string them together."

My heart begins to race, and I'm utterly speechless at—

"Also, your sister may have mentioned you enjoy writing." He carries on as if this is a natural conversation. Hardly.

"There's no way she just came out and told you that."

"Why not? Is it a secret?" Sudden interest laces his tone as he glances in his mirrors and changes lanes. The sun is high in the sky now, radiating off the paved highway and causing those mirage-like squiggles to appear in the distance. I squint my eyes, wishing for sunglasses.

"No, it's just not something I discuss with people much, so I know Hattie wouldn't volunteer that information at random."

"You might be surprised at the information people volunteer when the right questions are asked."

I'm still struck by the implication that he asked Hattie a question about me when he hits me with: "So what kind of writer are you, Raegan? Fiction, nonfiction? Sports columns? How-to guides? Advertising? Obituaries?"

"Obituaries?" I blurt with a laugh, realizing how much better I feel sitting in this jump seat over the sofa in the back. "Do I really seem like the kind of person who writes obituaries?"

"What? Not cut out for the rigid deadlines?"

I roll my eyes. "Are you positive you're not a dad of four? Because you sure tell jokes like you are."

"Positive."

I take a minute to secure the words in my brain before I expound. "I write fiction. Mostly contemporary."

"About what?" he prompts.

"Anything that interests me. But most recently, about family." These words do come naturally. "I write about the struggling individuals who make up a family—the nuances of their roles, limitations, expectations, and pressures—and how the community around them either helps or hinders what they want most."

"And what do they want?"

"What all of us want, I suppose. Acceptance, freedom, love, a place to belong." I swallow and return my gaze to the steaming pavement ahead. "People who they belong with." I think of Allie's words when she described The Sisters of Birch Grove to Chip the night of the Christmas party. "A friend once described it as a love story dedicated to an entire town." Something in my chest stirs as I recall the many journeys of the residents of Birch Grove. I miss them. I miss writing.

"Wait—this is an actual book you've published? I admit, I mostly read nonfiction, but I usually enjoy at least one novel during the summer. I'll download yours at our next stop. I'm intrigued."

The cramp in my chest expands as I admit, "It's not published. It's only a hobby for now."

"For now," he repeats. "But you don't want it to stay that way."

He can't possibly know how right he is. I think back to my conversation with Chip, and regret and desire war within me. "The timing's not right for it to be anything more."

"Why's that?"

I screw my eyes into slits and examine his profile. "Ya know, you might be the nosiest bus driver in history."

"I had a really good teacher," he quips as a white Honda Pilot passes us on the left. "My dad always peppered us with questions when we rode in the jump seat, so you can thank him."

I study the time-to-destination numbers at the bottom of the navigational app on his phone. "Where are we headed? What's in Memphis that's worth stopping at?"

"Afraid that's a question you'll have to ask your mother." He winks. "I'm just the driver, remember?"

Only something inside me knows this man is so much more than that.