I watched other drivers pull level with our car, slow down, and stare. And point. And laugh.
I listened to Molly playing road games with Etta.
“Blue car!” Molly shouted.
I glanced in the mirror and watched her pretend to punch Etta on the upper arm. But very, very gently.
Etta laughed. It was such a magical sound. Not that I hadn’t heard it before. Not that I didn’t hear it nearly every day. It was just magical. Every time.
“Boo car,” Etta said.
“Blue,” I said. I used my talking-to-Etta voice. So she would know.
“Boo,” Etta said.
“Blue. Ba. Loo.”
“Ba. Loo.”
“Blue.”
“Boo.”
Molly laughed. “She’ll get it,” she said. “She’s only two.”
“I’m not worried about it,” I said.
I was worried about quite a few things in that moment. But I was not worried about the word “blue.”
When I’d driven as far as I felt I could for the day, I had to stop. I had to find us a motel. And that’s one of the things I was worried about.
I didn’t know this girl. I only knew that her mother never wanted Molly around her little sisters ever again. Still, she’d clearly been good to Etta over an extended time alone.
But to fall asleep in the presence of this unknown homeless teen?
I could have gotten her a separate room. But that would have been twice as expensive. And that went straight to my other worry: Would all these trip expenses fit onto my new credit card? And, if not, how would we get home?
I pushed it all out of my head and stopped at the first place that presented itself.
It was a cheap motel on a vast dirt lot, with a broken neon sign that read STAGECOACH MOTEL, and a flashing VACANCY sign underneath. A massive wooden wagon wheel was secured beside the sign. It looked like a throwback to the old west. A century before I was born. And yet just beyond it, an easy walk away, sat a thoroughly modern strip mall with outlet stores and a big-box department store, and chain fast-food restaurants.
I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot near the office. It wasn’t hard. The place was nearly deserted.
“Oh,” Molly said. “This is as far as we drive today?”
“I think so,” I said. “I’m tired.”
Etta was fast asleep. Car rides had that effect on her. I unbuckled her and pulled her into my arms. Molly held her while I emptied the trunk.
“Whoa,” she said as I pulled out bag after bag. She peered inside. “We’re only going to be gone a few days, you know.”
For some reason I felt defensive about how much stuff I’d packed. I snapped at her. A little bit, anyway.
I said, “Not everybody travels as light as you do, Molly. In fact, hardly anybody does. You must know it’s something of an aberration.”
She looked away. Looked around. As if suddenly fascinated by our surroundings. She didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s mostly stuff I needed to bring for the baby. You need a lot of supplies for a baby.”
Then again, I was talking to the girl who had kept Etta reasonably happy for twenty-four hours on apple juice and goldfish crackers. And imagination.
I handed her the diaper bag, and she slung its strap over her shoulder.
“But seriously,” I said, “did you really walk out of your parents’ house with nothing but the clothes you have on your back now?”
“No,” she said. Still looking around. Still not looking at me. “I packed a few things to take with me. But then they got stolen.”
“Do you have a hairbrush?”
“I used to, but I lost it somehow. A while ago I lost it. I used to take it with me when I went to gas stations to use their bathroom and clean up so I guess I must’ve left it at one, but I swear I looked at every place I ever took it. It’s a little bit of a mystery.”
“Toothbrush?”
“Yeah, but not with me. We didn’t stop back at the crate to get my things. Well. That’s pretty much all my things at this point—the toothbrush.”
I hefted two of the big bags and she took the smaller one with her free hand. And we walked to the office together.
“Where are we?” she asked, still looking around.
“Not sure. But somewhere in Nevada. Past Las Vegas.”
“How did we get past Las Vegas? Where was I?”
“Maybe you fell asleep.”
Actually, I knew she had. I’d seen it.
“Oh. Yeah. Maybe.”
We walked inside.
The rates were clearly posted on the office wall. I was a bit shocked to see that they wanted ninety-five dollars plus tax for a room. It didn’t seem like much of a place to charge ninety-five dollars for. Then again, I hadn’t stayed in a hotel or motel for years. And everything goes up in price.
The desk clerk was a tired-looking man in his forties with thin hair and narrow features. “One room?” he asked, looking at the three of us. As though we were a hard group to figure out.
“Yes,” I said. “One room.”
He slid a form across the counter.
I began filling it out with a pen that dispensed ink in fits and starts as I scribbled. About one letter out of two came out looking legible.
I handed him my credit card.
When I had done my best with the form—I didn’t know the license plate number of my mother’s car by heart—I slid it back.
“I need your car license number,” he said.
“I don’t have it memorized. I could go back out if I absolutely have to. But there are only about three cars out there.”
“We need to know who’s authorized to park in the lot and who isn’t.”
“Oh. I see. You figure my car will be hard to identify. Well, try this on for size. It’s half painted yellow. It’s a midnight-blue Mercedes with yellow paint on one side, and on half the hood. That should pretty much clear up who owns
