Halfway to Nowhere

At twenty-four, Angie Barrett had slept in more strange beds than she cared to admit. Her back ached almost as much as her head did. Working only brought frustration. Nothing would silence the demons wreaking havoc on her mind after a shocking conversation with her parents. The young woman was ready for a change and Route 66 called to her soul. She realized she didn't even need a specific destination as long as she followed the popular highway.

A week later, she was Halfway to Nowhere.

****

Angie grabbed the coffee pot as the elderly couple walked toward the corner booth. The Sanders ate at Lou Mitchell's Café every night. Angie was their favorite waitress.

"Young lady, do you ever have any time off?"

"Every morning, Mr. Sanders," Angie replied as she filled the coffee mugs on the table.

"You look tired, honey," the older woman said, her concern reminding the young girl of her grandmother. "Are you having trouble?"

"Now, Martha," the old man said. "You remember what it was like at her age. The boys around here would have to be blind if they didn't notice this one."

Angie shook her head at the elderly man's suggestion. She enjoyed serving the couple and took a few minutes to visit with them whenever she could.

"Git busy, girl," the cook yelled. "Food's gittin' cold."

"Time to work again," she said.

"You should tell that horrible man where to put his job," Mrs. Sanders said.

The young girl laughed at how feisty the eighty-year old woman sounded. But Angie hadn't gone to college and didn't have many job skills. Working at the diner suited her friendly personality.

"Someday I will," the young girl said with a wink.

The cook glared at her as she loaded several platters of food onto the oversized tray. Her shoulders ached from carrying them each day. Yet she didn't complain. She knew it wouldn't do any good.

"Table four needs coffee. Six and eight are waitin' for dessert. You're fallin' behind, girl."

The balding and overweight cook chewed on a toothpick as he spoke. His constant stares gave Angie the creeps so she stayed as far away from him as she could.

"Ya' can't keep up, I kin find someone else," he said, already anticipating hiring a meek young girl who would thank him in ways Angie refused.

He harassed her for the rest of her shift until the young woman lost her temper.

"Keep your fucking hands away from me!" she yelled when he reached around her with both arms.

"Jes' gittin' the salt offen the shelf."

"You could ask the way most normal people do."

The dark glare he intended as a way to frighten her did the opposite. She threw a stack of plates against the wall. Then she wagged her finger in front of him. Before she could say anything, she made a decision.

"You know what? You're not worth what I'm thinking. I quit," she said, untying her apron as she spoke.

"Ya' can't talk to me like that, you scrawny little whore. I'll—"

"No you won't do anything because you're afraid I'll tell the cops about that illegal gambling you've got going on in the back room."

"Git back here!"

She yanked her jacket off the hook in the back room and ignored his screaming threats. Before she shoved the front door open, she faced him and raised her middle finger.

"Go fuck yourself."

His stunned look made her laugh as she ran to her car and drove away. Reality set in as she realized he most likely wouldn't pay her for the week. She still lived with her parents and although they didn't charge her rent she couldn't go without any income, either. Thinking about what to tell them, she parked at the curb in front of their house and went inside, hoping they would understand.

"Mom, dad, I'm home."

"Angela, would you join us in the den, please?"

Her mother's words were more a demand than a question. She generally obeyed her parents anyway, but there was something about the tone of voice the older woman used that bothered the young girl.

"What's going on? You guys OK?"

"Your father and I . . . sit down, Angela; we have something to tell you."

"You look so serious."

"Angie, sit down and listen," her father said.

Stan Barrett stood next to the fireplace. Agitation replaced his normally cheery disposition and that worried Angie.

"Daddy?" Her fear and uncertainty of the situation made her feel six years old again.

"No matter what, I love you," he said.

"You're scaring me," the young girl said. "What's happening?"

"There isn't an easy way to say any of this. But it's time you know the truth." Her mother paused to clear her throat. "You know about the years your father served in the military. The war . . . I was lonely and scared when he left. So many men weren't returning and, it isn't an excuse, but, I spent several weeks with someone else."

Angie stared at her mother. Her father remained silent as his wife continued.

"Your father returned and we resumed our marriage. I remained faithful from that day on, but I was already pregnant by then. He didn't know, at first, but I couldn't hide the timing for long. We agreed no one would know. Angela, I never intended to . . . if I could take it back, I would. It happened before I even realized what I was doing."

"Who is he?" Angie asked.

"I don't know. I mean, I knew his first name, but we never really shared anything personal."

"Nothing personal? How much more personal can you get than to sleep with someone?"

Angie struggled not to say more. Her head hurt. Nothing made sense. She glared at her mother before she ran to her bedroom. How could her father not be her father? How could her parents have lied to her all her life? She couldn't understand how her mother could have cheated. Not only had she slept with another man, she had done so while her husband was fighting a war in a foreign country.

Suddenly she felt as if she didn't have an identity. She was a Barrett, yet she wasn't really a Barrett. Her father—no, he wasn't her father. Some nameless stranger her mother had sex with was her father. Married less than a year, her mother opened her legs to another man, just because she was lonely.

The young girl shifted her attention to the man she called her father. He loved her, she didn't doubt that, but who was her real father? Angie tried to imagine what drew her mother to another man when she had a husband. She began envisioning the color of his eyes and his hair and wondered if she took after him. How would she ever know since her mother apparently didn't have any idea what his full name was or where he was from?

The sun slid from the sky and the moon took its place. Angie remained in her room, wide-awake. At some point, she realized she couldn't stay living with her parents any longer. She couldn't promise not to lash out at her mother or inundate her with questions. And the man she thought of as her father . . . she didn't even know what to call him anymore.

The rising sun brought her answer. She had to leave. It didn't take long to pack and even less time to toss her bags into her old Chevy. For a moment, she thought about writing a note. When she realized she didn't know what to say, she walked out the back door, pulling it shut behind her.

Without a destination in mind, she drove across town and headed toward Route 66. Choosing the famous highway was a conscious decision. Working at the café, serving travelers and tourists as well as locals, she often heard stories about the adventures people found on Route 66, something she desperately needed.

Taking off on a whim, without her family's knowledge, didn't seem dangerous to her. After her mother's admission about her true father, Angie needed to find a sense of calm to her world again. She settled behind the wheel of her old Chevy, increased the volume on the radio, and ignored the fingers of fear threatening to choke her. It didn't take long before Angie realized she needed to stop for gas. The attendant sauntered across the dusty driveway and nodded.

"Howdy, little lady. Whats kin I do fer ya?"

The man, his age disguised by a bushy beard and overly long mustache, turned to spit before she replied.

"Fill it, please. Do you have a soda machine here?"

He waved in the general direction of the dilapidated building behind him. A handwritten sign taped against the filthy window warned intruders of guard dogs. Angie hesitated, listening for the tell tale barking associated with the animal. When she heard nothing more than the thumping of her own heart, she took a step.

"Ain't no dogs."

Startled that the man seemed to know her thoughts, she hesitated. A little voice inside her head reminded her she chose to travel alone and might face challenges along the way. She stood straighter, determined to prove she had the strength and courage to survive. Then she ignored that same little voice pointing out she ran away instead of facing her mother. Angie shoved the rickety screen door open and scraped her feet over the wood floor in hopes of silencing the voice. After seeing the flies swarming around the aged soda machine, she changed her mind, retreating from the building without a beverage.

"Gas'll be three ninety."

The man stood next to her car. He scratched his chin and spit again before holding his hand out for her money. She cringed at the sight of the filth underneath his fingernails and covering his skin.

"Thank you," she said, placing four one-dollar bills in his palm. "Keep the change."

She didn't wait for a reply before sliding into her car to continue her journey. An hour later her stomach growled. The pounding in her head had refused to leave since the night before. The young girl checked her watch as she waited for a traffic light in Braidwood. She spotted a billboard that directed travelers to the Polk-a-Dot drive-in. Making another quick decision, she drove to the small restaurant and pulled into the first empty space she saw.

A teenager on roller skates stopped at her window and asked for her order. Too tired to read the neon menu flickering in front of her, she chose to rely on the teen's advice.

"What do you recommend?"

"The Polk-a-Burger and onion rings. Oh, and a chocolate shake," the teen replied.

"That's perfect, thank you."

The teen shrugged and skated away. Several minutes later, she returned with Angie's food and bill. The drive-in was busy. Angie noticed a family in a convertible and smiled. A girl, maybe six or seven, leaned over the front seat, her hand on the shoulder of the man at the wheel. Her father, Angie assumed. A sudden vision filled her head of that young girl discovering one of her parents lied just as her own had. She tossed the last of her meal onto the tray in disgust. Emotions clogged her throat until a sob burst free.

"Can I get you anything else?"

The voice startled Angie. She brushed a tear from her cheek and shook her head. The teen unhooked the tray latched to the car window ledge and shrugged as she had before. Angie put the car into reverse and left as soon as the teen skated away.

A motel sign blinking in the distance caught Angie's attention as she stifled a yawn. She felt as if she had aged ten years overnight. Maybe sleep would help her forget for a while, she thought as she pulled into the motel parking lot. Then she grabbed one of her suitcases and went inside. It wasn't very late so she hoped that meant there was a vacancy.

"You look exhausted. Let's get you a room," the old woman behind the small counter said as soon as she saw Angie.

"I . . ."

"Harold! Come get this nice young lady's bag."

The man who emerged from a back room looked far too frail to carry anything heavier than a cotton ball.

"Oh, I can—"

"You just follow Harold and we'll sign you in tomorrow when you're feeling better," the old woman said.

"But—"

"He ain't as feeble as you think, honey. Now go. I'll be right behind you with fresh towels."

Angie didn't have any choice but to do as the woman instructed. Harold was already several feet ahead of her, whistling as he tottered down a dimly lit hallway. He carried her suitcase in one hand, a room key in the other.

"Here you go, little lady," he said after unlocking a door near the end of the hallway.

"The water takes a couple minutes to heat," the woman said as she laid a stack of fluffy white towels on the bed.

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

Once the couple left, Angie flopped onto the bed and closed her eyes. Visions of a hot shower soon had her back on her feet. She turned the handle to let the water run while she stripped. When the small room began to steam up, she stepped into the tiny enclosure. A fragrant bar of soap provided vast amounts of lather that left her skin soft and smooth. When she finished, she wrapped a towel around her body, and took another for her hair.

An extensive search in her suitcase confirmed her suspicion that she forgot to pack pajamas in her rush to leave home. That she was alone, in a strange city, surprisingly didn't bother her.

Sleeping naked didn't either. She slid into bed where the scent of roses and sunshine lured her to sleep.

Eventually voices woke her. Angie stretched and snuggled back under the covers until they got louder.

"We can't go in there."

"What if something happened? She's all alone, Harold."

"If she ain't up in an hour, and she don't answer your knock, you can go in."

Angie heard the couple from the night before. She sat up, taking a moment to familiarize herself with the small motel room, looking for a clock to check the time as she did. A soft laugh followed when she remembered she didn't have to wake up at any certain time. She tossed the blanket to the side and slid out of bed. Bright sunshine lit the room through the thin curtains. Eager to see the area, she pulled on an old T-shirt before looking outside.

Flowers in every shade and species greeted her. A small statue sat in the middle of a fountain. She imagined dozens of fish meandering through the assorted plants. Adding a pair of shorts to her T-shirt, she grabbed her room key and ran down the hall.

"There you are. I told her you were fine," Harold said when he saw her.

"Yes, I am. How do I get to that garden?"

"Well now, that's Martha's private place. You have to ask—"

"Martha?"

"My beautiful wife. And she don't take too kindly to strangers tramping through there."

"I think I can make an exception, Harold."

Angie turned to see the old woman from the night before standing behind her with a mop and broom. An assortment of cleaning supplies sat at her feet.

"If you can wait for me to finish the cleaning, I'll bring you out there."

"Can I help?" Angie asked.

"Wouldn't be right to let a guest work," Harold said.

"But if I help, we can get it done faster. I'm a good worker. What do you need to do yet?"

"Well, the room across from yours went empty this morning."

"Don't you have someone to clean the rooms for you?" Angie asked.

Harold sighed and shook his head. "She quit last week. Needed more hours, she told us."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't interfere, but I don't have anywhere to be today. I'm serious about helping."

"We'll pay you," Martha said.

"We can figure that out later. I just want to . . ."

"Yes, I know. The garden is a special place with healing abilities."

"Then lead the way, boss. You can do the light stuff and I'll do the rest."

The women chatted as they worked. Angie didn't understand the pull she felt to that small space behind the motel. Neither did she comprehend her openness with the elderly couple. Not that she was shy or arrogant around others. Yet somehow, their concern touched her.

The minutes seemed endless to the young girl but the cleaning took less than an hour. Then she was in the garden.

"This is absolutely amazing. I feel as if I'm in another world," Angie whispered.

"I feel that same way when I come out here. Any time I need to think, this is where Harold will find me."

"Did you put it all here?"

"Harold and I moved into the motel thirty years ago. Our daughter died when she was a baby and we needed something to distract us. First we were going to keep it small, but each year we found more varieties to add."

"I'm sorry about your daughter."

"You remind me of how I pictured her to be."

Angie wasn't sure how to respond. The couple both seemed to have an uncanny ability to hear words she hadn't verbalized.

"You can leave your troubles here, honey. If you need someone to talk to, I'm a great listener. If you just need to talk without anyone around, you say so and I'll go inside."

Martha pointed to a bench near the fountain. The water that trickled through the statute sprayed back out from the top.

"I was just thinking how you seem to hear words I don't say."

"I've been told that a few times before," Martha said with a chuckle.

"You know nothing about me. I could be a bad person. I could be a thief . . . or worse."

"I know you're troubled."

Angie stared at the old woman. "You can't know that from a few minutes with me."

"I knew it last night when you walked in."

The young girl looked away but not fast enough to hide the pain.

"Tears can heal. Let go, honey."

The kindness from a total stranger after the shock from her mother's admission brought more tears to Angie's eyes. Instead of wiping them away, she let them fall.

"That's it, let go of the pain," Martha whispered.

She sobbed, releasing her anger at her mother. When she stopped crying, Martha handed her a tissue.

"Why do people lie?"

"I can't answer for other people really. Sometimes they're just scared."

"My parents lied. My mom cheated. She slept with someone while her new husband was fighting in the war. All my life, I thought he was my dad and he isn't. Some nameless guy my mother slept with is my father. She didn't even know his full name."

Martha didn't reply. She could tell the young girl wasn't done speaking.

"I thought he was my dad. He's been my dad all my life. When I was a kid, he played games with me. And he learned how to jump rope. But then I found out he isn't and I don't know who I am anymore."

"Do your parents know where you are?" Martha asked.

Angie didn't react to the question. Her silence was answer enough for the old woman.

"Did you plan where you were going when you left?"

"Nowhere," Angie said.

"Then you can stay here."

Surprised at the woman's offer, Angie wanted to accept. Yet the few dollars in her pocket told her she didn't have enough money to stay.

"I can't afford it."

"You can work for us. We need a housekeeper."

She stared at the fountain for several minutes before nodding. Something about the place felt comfortable. Otherwise, Angie would have questioned their offer, possibly refusing to help.

"Good. I'll have Harold show you the room you can have."

Martha summoned her husband who led her to a little room at the back of the motel. Separated from the rest of the guests, she had a small refrigerator, a hot plate, and a tiny patio. Angie loved the room despite the limited space. The couple left her to unpack but made sure she knew they were available if she needed them. Although the motel didn't have a lot of guests, Angie stayed busy the first two weeks. Martha asked for help with a thorough cleaning of the kitchen. Harold needed a hand rearranging the storeroom. They always had a task for her. Most didn't require much energy. Yet the old couple didn't seem to have the strength to complete them.

The next few days followed a pattern of cleaning rooms and helping with whatever the couple needed done. However, she soon became antsy. There hadn't been any guests at the motel for almost a week. Angie searched for answers to her restlessness in Martha's garden.

"We'll miss you."

"I haven't said I was leaving."