None of the lights work. All the plumbing is dry.
No matter how many luxuries you get, something will be missing. No matter how carefully you choose, you'll never be totally happy.
We choose the Springhill Castle, and Adam slices the knife along the bottom edge of the plastic sealing its open side. Adam slices only about two feet, only far enough for his head and shoulders to slip inside.
Stale air from inside the house comes out the slice hot and dry.
With Adam slid inside as far as his waist, his butt and his legs still outside with us, Adam says, 'This one has the cornflower-blue interior.' His voice coming from inside the wall of translucent plastic, he says, 'Here we have the premium furniture package. A modular living room pit group. Built-in microwave in the kitchen. Plexiglas dining-room chandelier.'
Adam boosts all of himself inside, then his blond head sticks out the slice in the plastic and grins at us. 'California-king-sized beds.
Faux wood-grain countertops. Low-line Euro-style commode and vertical-blind window treatments,' he says. 'You've made an excellent choice for your starter home.'
First Fertility and then me slide through the plastic.
The way the inside of the house, the furniture shapes and the colors, looked blurred and vague from outside, that's how the outside world, the real world, looks out of focus and unreal from inside the plastic. The neon lights of the truck stop are just coming on, dim and smeared outside the plastic. The noise of the highway sounds soft and muffled from inside.
Adam kneels down with a roll of clear strapping tape and seals the slice he made from the inside.
'We won't need this anymore,' he says. 'When we get where we're going, we'll walk out the front or the back door just like real people.'
The wall-to-wall carpet is rolled up against one wall, awaiting the rest of the house before it's installed. The furniture and mattresses stand around covered with dry-cleaning-plastic-thin dust covers. The kitchen cabinets are each taped shut.
Fertility tries the light switch for the dining-room chandelier. Nothing happens.
'Don't use the toilet either,' Adam says, 'or we'll be living with your business until we move out.'
Neon from the truck stop and headlights from the highway flicker through the dining-room French doors while we sit around the maple-veneer table eating our fried chicken.
This part of our broken home has one bedroom, the living room, kitchen, and dining room, and half a bath.
If we get all the way to Dallas, Adam tells us, we can move into a house headed up Interstate 35 to Oklahoma. Then we can catch houses up Interstate 35 to Kansas. Then north on Interstate 135 in Kansas to westbound Interstate 70 to Denver. In Colorado, we'll catch a house going northeast on Interstate 76 until it turns into Interstate 80 in Nebraska.
Nebraska?
Adam looks at me and says, 'Yeah. Our old stomping grounds, yours and mine,' he says with his mouth full of chewed-up fried chicken.
Why Nebraska?
'To get to Canada,' Adam says and looks at Fertility who looks at her food. 'We'll follow Interstate 80 to Interstate 29 across the state line in Iowa. Then we just cruise north up 29 through South Dakota and North Dakota, all the way to Canada.'
'Right straight to Canada,' Fertility says and gives me a smile that looks fake because Fertility never smiles.
When we say good night, Fertility takes the mattress in the bedroom. Adam falls asleep on one length of the blue velvet sectional pit group.
Pillowed in the blue velvet he looks dead in a casket.
For a long time, I lie awake on the other length of the sectional and wonder about the lives I left behind. Fertility's brother, Trevor. The caseworker. The agent. My all-dead family. Almost all dead.
Adam snores, and nearby a diesel truck engine rumbles to life.
I wonder about Canada, if running is going to resolve anything. Lying here in the cornflower-blue darkness, I wonder if running is just another fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a problem I can't remember.
The whole house shudders. The chandelier swings. The leaves of the silk ferns in their wicker baskets vibrate. The window treatments sway. Quiet.
Outside the plastic, the world starts moving, sliding by, faster and faster until it's erased.
Until I fall asleep.
Our second day on the road, my teeth feel dull and yellow. My muscles feel less toned. I can't live my life as a brunette. I need some time, just a minute, just thirty seconds, under a spotlight.
No matter how much I try and hide this, bit by bit, I start to fall apart.
We're in Dallas, Texas, considering half a Wilmington Villa with faux tile countertops and a bidet in the master bath. It has no master bedroom, but it has a laundry room with washer/dryer hookups. Of course, it has no water or power or phone. It has almond-colored appliances in the kitchen. There isn't a fireplace, but the dining room has floor-length drapes.
This is after we look at more houses than I can remember. Houses with gas fireplaces. Houses with French Provincial furniture, vast glass-topped coffee tables, and track lighting.
This is with the sunset red and gold on the flat Texas horizon, in a truck stop parking lot outside Dallas proper. I wanted to go with a house that had separate bedrooms for each of us, but no kitchen. Adam wanted the house that had only two bedrooms, a kitchen, but no bathroom.
Our time was almost up. The sun was almost down and the drivers were about to start their all-night drives.
My skin felt cold and rolling with sweat. All of me, even the blond roots of my hair, ached. Right there in the gravel, I just started doing push-ups in the middle of the parking lot. I rolled onto my back and started doing stomach crunches with the intensity of convulsions.
The subcutaneous fat was already building up. My abdominal muscles were disappearing. My pecs were starting to sag. I needed bronzer. I needed to log some time in a sun bed.
Just five minutes, I beg Adam and Fertility. Before we hit the road again, just give me ten minutes in a Wolff tanning bed.
'No can do, little brother,' Adam says. 'The FBI will be watching every gym and every tanning salon and health food store in the Midwest.'
After just two days, I was sick of the crap deep-fried food they serve at truck stops. I wanted celery. I wanted mung beans. I wanted fiber and oat bran and brown rice and diuretics.
'What I told you about,' Fertility says, looking at Adam, 'it's starting. We need to get him locked up someplace, stat. He's going into Attention Withdrawal Syndrome.'
The two of them hustled me into a Maison d'Elegance just as the driver was putting his truck in gear. They pushed me into a back bedroom with just a bare mattress and a giant Mediterranean dresser with a big mirror above it. Outside the bedroom door, I could hear them piling Mediterranean furniture, sofa groups and end tables, lamps made to look like old wine bottles, entertainment centers and bar stools against the outside of the bedroom door.
Texas is speeding past the bedroom window outside. In the twilight, a sign goes by the window saying, Oklahoma City 250 Miles. The whole room shakes. The walls are papered with tiny yellow flowers vibrating so fast they make me travel-sick. Anywhere I go in this bedroom, I can still see myself in the mirror.
My skin is going regular white without the ultraviolet light I need. Maybe it's just my imagination, but one of my caps feels loose. I try not to panic.
I tear off my shirt and study myself for damage. I stand sideways and suck in my stomach. I could really use a preloaded syringe of Durateston right about now. Or Anavar. Or Deca-Durabolin. My new hair color makes me look washed-out. My last eyelid surgery didn't take, and already my eye bags show. My hair plugs feel loose. I turn to study myself in the mirror for any hair growing on my back.
A sign goes by the window saying, Soft Shoulders.
The last of my bronzer is caked in the corners of my eyes and the wrinkles around my mouth and across my
