Into the woods, then out of the woods, and home before dark.
Three hours later I passed the sign that told me I’d just entered Connecticut, and I pulled off into the first rest station that I saw. I killed the engine and pulled out of my pocket what Roger had given me—an object, wrapped in a note.
The magnet had AMERICA written across it. I turned it in my hand, thinking about the trip. Thinking about the people we had met, and everything that we had seen.
I read his words over again. I wasn’t sure what would happen with us. I knew that there were no guarantees. Terrible things happened when you were least expecting them, on sunny Saturday mornings, and the consequences just had to be lived with, every day. But it seemed that wonderful things could happen too. You could be forced to take a trip, not knowing who you would meet. Not knowing that it would change your life.
I got out of the car and stretched my legs, taking in my first real view of Connecticut. It was pretty, I realized with some surprise, even at the rest station.
I took out the Connecticut map I’d bought at a gas station and unfolded it when I realized that I didn’t have the address of my mother’s—our—new house. I began to think about the house as a real place, one that I would be at in under an hour. I couldn’t picture it, but I hoped it had Internet access. I owed Julia a long-overdue e-mail. I took out my phone and dialed my mother’s cell, expecting it to go straight to voice mail, as all my other calls had.
She answered after the second ring. “Amy?” she asked, her voice a little hesitant.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to speak around the lump in my throat that had formed just hearing her voice.
“Are you okay?” my mother asked, and I could hear how tense she sounded. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, and I could hear her let out a breath. “I’m okay. I’m in Connecticut.”
“You’re—here?” she asked, the worry in her voice replaced by surprise. “Now? With Roger?”
“No, just me,” I said, still a little surprised that it was true. “I dropped Roger off at his father’s a few hours ago.”
“You dropped him off?” my mother was sounding more and more confused. “You mean—you’re driving?”
“I am,” I said. And I felt, in the silence that followed, everything that had happened on the trip to bring me to this place.
“Well,” she said, sounding a little stunned. “That … that’s great. I mean, that you …,” her voice trailed off. “Not that I’m not upset with you,” she said, in a tone that was probably meant to be stern. But she didn’t quite pull it off. “I am. And we’re going to talk about consequences.”
“We’re going to have to talk about a lot,” I said. “I hope.”
“Well … yes,” my mother said slowly, probably trying to figure out what I was talking about. But if she didn’t get it now, it was okay. I could tell her later.
“Can I have the address?” I asked. “I just crossed the state line.”
“Oh, of course,” my mother said. She read me the address and gave me basic directions, and then silence fell between us.
“Okay,” I said after a moment. “So—”
“Are you hungry?” my mother asked, a little abruptly. “I was just about to get dinner started. But if you haven’t eaten, I’ll wait.”
“I haven’t eaten,” I said. As I said, this I realized that I actually was hungry. And that a home-cooked meal sounded pretty good.
“Well, I’ll start it now,” my mother said. “And you’ll drive safe?”
“I will,” I promised. “I’ll see you soon.” I hung up the phone and got back into the car. I placed Roger’s magnet carefully in my purse. As I did, I saw the copy of Food, Gas, and Lodging—the book that had come with me across the country. I pulled it out and opened it up to the note card, to the last page my father had read. As I looked at it, I knew I was going to be able to read beyond page sixty-two. Otherwise, I was never going to find out what happened next. I would read through to the end, even though I knew that I wouldn’t be able to discuss it with my father. But maybe Charlie and I could talk about it when he came back.
As I smoothed out the Connecticut map, the state motto on the cover caught my eye. He who transplanted sustains.
I looked at it for a long time. Even though that had obviously been Connecticut’s motto for a long time—since 1622, the map helpfully told me—it felt like a sign. It felt like it meant that maybe I was going to be okay here. That transplanted as I was, I might find a way to thrive here.
I looked at it for a moment longer, then realized that if I didn’t leave soon, I was going to be late for dinner. I turned on the car and scrolled through my mix until I found an Elvis song. Then I signaled, turned up the volume, and pulled back out onto the highway.
