They turned onto University and drove past the Circle K, where he and his friends had said their final farewells the night before. He looked away from the convenience store, feeling strangely embarrassed. Saying good-bye last night had been awkward not because of the emotions involved but because of the lack of them. He’d supposed he should hug his friends good-bye, tell them how much they meant to him and how much he would miss them, but he’d felt none of that, and after a few hesitant, misguided attempts on all of their parts to drum up that sort of emotion, they had given up and parted in much the same way they always had, as though they would see each other again tomorrow.
None of them, he realized, had even promised to write.
Now he was starting to feel depressed.
They drove down University toward Tempe and the freeway. As he watched the familiar streets pass by, the familiar stores and personal landmarks, he found it hard to believe that they were really going, that they were actually leaving Arizona.
They passed by ASU. He had wanted to see the university one final time, to say good-bye to the walks and bikeways where he had spent so many weekends, but for once they hit all green lights, and the car sped by the campus inappropriately fast, denying him even the opportunity to savor his last look. Then the university was behind them.
He had half hoped that he’d be able to attend ASU, though he knew realistically that his mother could not afford to send him to anything but a community college. Now he knew it would never come to pass.
A few minutes later, they hit the freeway.
A half hour later, they were in the desert and Phoenix was in their rearview mirror.
Ten minutes after that, no buildings at all could be seen silhouetted against the orange globe of the rising sun.
They took turns driving, trading off at the infrequent rest areas they encountered. For the first hour or so they were silent, listening to the radio, each lost in private thoughts, but when static finally overpowered even the rhythm of the music, Dion turned the radio off. The lack of conversation, which had seemed normal and natural up to a few moments ago, suddenly seemed tense and strained, and he cleared his throat as he tried to think of something to say to his mom.
But it was she who spoke first.
“Things are going to be different,” she said, glancing over at him.
“This is going to be good for both of us. We’ll be able to start over.”
She paused. “Or rather, I’ll be able to start over.”
He felt his face reddening, and he looked away.
“We have to talk about this. I know it’s hard. I know it’s difficult. But it’s important that we communicate.” She tried to smile, almost succeeded. “Besides, I have you trapped in the car and you’re going to have to listen.”
He smiled half-heartedly back.
“I know I’ve disappointed you. Too many times. I’ve disappointed myself too. I haven’t always been the type of mother you wanted me to be or I wanted me to be.”
“That’s not true—” he began.
“It is true, and we both know it.” She smiled sadly. “I’ll tell you, there’s nothing that hurts me more than seeing the disappointment in your eyes when I lose another job. It makes me hate myself, and each time afterward I tell myself that I’m not going to do it again, that things are going to change, but… well, they don’t change. I don’t know why. I just can’t seem to… you know.” She looked at him. “But they’re going to change now. We’re going to start a new life in California, and I’m going to be a different person. You’ll see. I know I can’t just tell you; I have to show you. And I will. It’s all over now. All that’s behind me. It’s in the past. This is a fresh start for both of us, and we’re going to make the best of it. Okay?”
Dion nodded.
“Okay?” she said again.
“Okay.” He stared out the window, at the sagebrush and saguaro passing by. It sounded good, what she said, and she obviously meant it and believed it herself, but it also sounded slightly familiar and more than a little pat. He found himself wondering if she had taken it from a movie. He hated himself for thinking such a thought, but his mom had given him these sorts of reassurances before, with equal conviction, only to abandon them when she met a guy with a bottle and good buns.
He thought of Cleveland, thought of Albuquerque.
They were silent until they reached a rest area. Dion got out and stretched before walking around to the driver’s side. He leaned against the hood of the car. “I don’t understand why we’re moving to Napa,” he said.
His mom, adjusting her halter top, frowned. “What do you mean, you don’t understand why? I got a job there, that’s why.”
“But you could’ve gotten a job anywhere.”
“You have something against Napa?”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s just… I don’t know.”
“Just what?”
“Well, it seems like people usually have a reason for moving.” He glanced at her, reddening. “I mean moving to a specific place,” he added quickly. “They have family there or they grew up there or they really love the area or their company transfers them or… something. But we don’t really have any reason to be going.”
“Dion,” she said, “shut up and get in the car.”
He grinned at her. “All right,” he said. “All right.”
They spent that night in a Motel Six in Santa Barbara,
