Beth snored in the passenger seat to my right as I pushed my head over the steering wheel of our Ford Fiesta, hoping that would somehow make it easier to see through the downpour.
Fuck the Jersey Turnpike. Fuck the rain.
I tried flipping on the radio, totally forgetting that it was broken. My Iphone, mounted to the dash, stood silent— its map informing me that I had many hours to go before I could sleep. The coffee was long gone, my eyes were getting heavy, and the windshield wipers did an awful job even when cranked to the max.
A stupid thought slipped into my mind in that moment: people always talk about the best time for needing a vacation is right after a vacation and that’s because they spend it driving, and oh-ing and ah-ing and taking pictures of all the places they hike to. There’s little relaxation during a productive vacation. The plan was to make our way north to Maine and stay at a secluded bed & breakfast before slowly returning down the coast, catching the big eastern cities on the drive home, or stopping wherever we felt like. That seemed nice enough— I’d always wanted to see more than what our little corner of the states had to offer. However, nobody informed me that Yanks drive like they don’t want to be alive anymore. I’d almost been run off the road twice and everyone went twenty over on the freeway.
The car in front of me, a Prius, braked hard— this forced me to give my own brakes a healthy push and that’s when I felt the wheel shake in my hands and the Fiesta groaned as the whole car quaked. The Prius took off again and I tried the gas, but the shaking continued until I nearly felt my teeth rattle.
Beth let out a noise, rubbed her red puffy face and lifted her head— her dirty-blonde hair clung to her right cheek and crept into the corner of her mouth. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I think it’s the fucking rotors,” I said.
“That’s impossible. I had the car looked over for the trip, just like you said.”
“Did you tell them to specifically look at the rotors?”
“I gave them a list of stuff.”
“Dammit, Beth, did you tell them to check the rotors or not?”
“Could you not? I literally just opened my eyes.” She said.
I shifted my gaze over to her for a millisecond, never wanting to take my eyes from the road for long— not around these crazy drivers. My shoulders slumped and a sigh escaped me. “I’m sorry. I’m just really tired.”
Beth leaned forward and popped open the glove box. “Look, I know they left the papers in here somewhere for the different stuff they checked. Brakes were on there. Tires. Oil. All that stuff was on it.” She rifled through the papers. “Ah. Here it is!” A quietness entered the car as she looked over the bill. “Yup. Rotors are on here.”
“Then I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with it. But it’s freaking me out.”
I felt the cool touch of her fingers tickle around my collar, forcing my skin to break out in goosepimples. “Oh, baby, you really are tired. Would you like to swap?”
Against my exhausted body’s will, my head shook. “I think if we stop off at the next place for gas, I could push on for another two hours.”
“No, no. You’re totally obliterated. Look at you.”
I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, my eyes glistened red, bloodshot, totally manic. “Alright. Alright. You’re right. I’ll just go for a little while longer— until we need to stop for gas.”
The rain continued the further north I went and the hum of it hitting the roof of the car created a white noise that made it impossible to focus, so I pulled off at a Wawa station sooner than I’d expected.
We filled the tank with the rain still pissing and I leaned against the car, watching the numbers while Beth ran inside for the bathroom and snacks.
Life should’ve been easier; nobody tells you you’re going to end up in your thirties on a vacation that’s supposed to relieve the stress on your marriage. No one tells you that you end up fighting well past midnight. And it’s no wonder that they don’t, because I don’t think that most people do those sorts of things in good relationships. Beth’s miscarriage took an otherwise perfect marriage and strangled it. The worst of it was for her. The physical toll of carrying a child for seven months only to notice heavy spotting when you go to the bathroom. You rush to your husband in a panic and he tries to calm you but he has no idea what’s going on— he only knows he should hurry you to the hospital to make sure it’s nothing out of the ordinary— all the while he’s freaking out inside. Then you get the news, and they need to take it from your body because it’s no longer viable.
God, we tried for so long. It was going to be a girl and even though I joked about how if it weren’t a boy I wouldn’t help, I didn’t mean it. That’s the sort of stuff that pops into my head sometimes. Like I somehow willed it to happen. Grief will fuck you up like that.
Like I said, the worst of it was for her; that’s probably why she shut down the way she did. Then I did something. Something I’ll never be able to take back. There was this young girl that worked the counter at Tastee Freez in our hometown; she was so full of life and so happy and leggy and tan and she laughed at my jokes. And Beth felt so far away.
There are no good reasons and there never will be. That’s what I told Beth when I confessed. Something like, “I have no excuse for my actions. All I can say is that I’m sorry and I won’t ever ever ever do anything like that ever again.”
I still remember the expression on her face; it hardly changed. Beth was like a zombie. It seemed that she’d been so broken down that she accepted my infidelity like it was the obvious next step in the world falling apart. At least that’s how it was for a moment. Then the crying came; she bawled— I cried too. But she slapped me. A lot. Her arms came so fast I didn’t even feel them; I was stunned and all I could do was take the blows till she fell into my chest and screamed and when she pulled away from me, I could see hurt there— undoubtedly— but I saw anger like I’d never seen before.
I think there was a constant shift for a while between her hating me and her hating herself. I could take the hate, I think, but her hating herself because of what I’d done hurt a thousand times more.
The gas pump clicked to let me know the tank on the Fiesta was full and I blinked, cradling the handle before screwing the gas cap closed. Beth ran up to the rear of the car with a bag of goodies in one hand while she attempted to maneuver the minefield of rain puddles in the parking lot.
“I got those gummies you like,” she said. “They’re sour, just like you.”
I stood frozen; the way the overhead lights of the gas station pump roof caught her rain-drenched hair and how she smiled felt good and normal. “I love you.”
She seemed surprised. “I love you too.”
Sleeping in a car is something I’ve never been good at, because no matter how I adjust myself it always seems like I wake up with a crick in my neck; still, I tried slumping my body in the corner against the window in the passenger side of the Fiesta with my right hand against my cheek. Surprisingly, sleep came much easier than expected and I did not open my eyes again until it was full dark out except car lights. Looking to Beth, I could see she was stiff and hypnotized by a long drive.
“Hey.” I rubbed my eyes. “Where are we?”
Beth flinched at my words popping the quiet. “Coming up on Belfast.”
“How long was I out?”
“Quite a few hours. God, I’m glad you’re awake though. You were sleeping like the dead and had me worried. I thought about poking you to make sure you were still alive.” This was followed by a small snicker.
I looked at the time on the dashboard; it read 9:14. “Oh my god. We’re getting there later than I thought.”
She nodded along drearily. “GPS rerouted and took me for a ride while you were out. Brakes are still acting up, but we haven’t wrecked yet, have we?”
“Yeah-yeah.”
The trees lining the freeway reminded me of home. Northern pines were much the same as the ones down south as far as I could tell, and the only real difference was the abundance of scrawny birch trees that stood stark white against the night.
Beth spoke up again. “You don’t think the bed and breakfast people are going to be upset with us showing up so late, do you?”
“They know we’re from out-of-town. I think they’ll understand.” That was more of a hope than a fact. I’d spoken to the woman on the phone— Retta— to reserve our room, but beyond pictures of the place and minor details, I knew hardly anything about them. As far as I could tell, it was a couple of retirees that had settled in Ellsworth, near Lamoine. The bed & breakfast was quaint, directly by a lake, and had amazing reviews online. Really, it was far from all our problems at home, so this seemed as good a place as any other far-off land.
“I really hope that’s the case,” said Beth. “I hate to think that we’re going to wake them up, banging on their door in the middle of the night.”
“Eh. We’re like an hour out. It’ll be before midnight by the time we get there.” And then I went on to add, “As long as the GPS doesn’t play anymore of its tricks on us.”
Beth cut her eyes in my direction before sighing and smiling. “Route one is gorgeous. You get to see so much coast on it. I rolled down the windows earlier to catch the smell of saltwater— I’m surprised it didn’t wake you.”
“I really was dead, wasn’t I? My bad. I didn’t mean to sleep that long.”
The rest of the car ride was filled with the hum of the Fiesta’s engine, coupled with an occasional bout of shaking whenever she’d hit the brakes— like all long car rides, we spoke in brief sprints about the most inane, inconsequential things that could easily be forgotten in the next breath.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
By the time we pulled into the gravel lot of the bed & breakfast, it was sometime after ten and we hurried from the car to stretch our legs and tug at the shirts clinging on our sweaty backs.
Just beyond the gravel lot was the lake and beside it was the two-story house— dense trees told us we were miles from anywhere. The structure stood against the already dark sky, cut out black and angular it cast its long shadow over us— yellow light coming from just beyond thin curtains in its square windows let us know those inside were still awake. Cat tail plants stood along the edge of the drainage ditch between the desolate street and the wood-burned sign that read: Happy Place B&B. The house was obviously much longer than it was wide which hinted at the fact that an addition had been added, but I could scarcely make out where the old and new met. A porch sat along the front of it, adorned with wooden benches and chairs with kitschy pillows. Beside the parking area was an immaculately kept garden in the shape of a heart; this had not been in any of the pictures online, but it was a welcome sight. Whoever lived here had undoubtedly filled the house with love and maybe me and Beth could learn something from it.
The parking lot could’ve held at least ten cars, but there was only our Fiesta and a black Chevrolet truck.
We popped the trunk, and I started the task of slipping straps of luggage around my throat, trying my best to balance out my right side from my left. I grinned at Beth as she rolled her eyes before removing a roller case from the back seat. “I could help with those, you know.”
I reassured her, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”
I followed her with a wide gait, taking the small stone path leading to the steps of the porch.
The door opened before our feet touched the steps and a warm yellow glow traced the outline of two old people— a man and a woman. He stood tall and broad with a gut poking out from beneath his shirt. She looked small and slightly bent with a warm smile beneath her glasses that doubled the size of her eyes.
“Hello!” said the woman. “I’m Retta and this is my husband, John. Would you two like any help with your luggage?”
I shook my head, angling up to the doorway just behind Beth’s shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
John, grinning, said, “That’s a surefire way to hurt your back, son.” I immediately felt like he was the sort of old guy that called everyone ‘son’ and that felt welcoming after such a long drive.
The old woman pushed the glasses up on her nose. “You two must be awfully tired from the drive. Why don’t you come on in and I’ll give you the tour before we head off to bed.”
Beth’s voice came small and apologetic, “You’ve not been waiting up for us, have you?”
“Oh, honey,” said Retta, “Don’t worry about that. John’s arthritis normally keeps him up most nights anyway.”
Retta led us in, and John shut the door behind us before locking it. The first thing that struck me was just how cozy everything felt. Stacked from floor to ceiling were books of varying sizes. Most were by famous authors like John Grisham, Dean Koontz, and Patricia Cornwell. But some of them looked like they were religious, spiritual, or otherwise informative field guides on Maine’s wilderness. Ornaments dotted the shelves; a few of them were model cars, but the bulk of them were small porcelain children milking cows or leisurely sitting around a picnic basket or doing some other uneventful activity. Vintage automotive sheet-metal posters hung in some odd spaces of the walls, each one dedicated to a piece of Americana gone-by.
“This is the common area,” said Retta. “Although you two probably won’t be sharing it with any other guests— things have been uncommonly slow around here these days.” A self-reflective sigh came from the small woman. “Just on the other side of this door,” she motioned to a door leading toward the rear of the house; a piece of white paper was taped to it that read: PRIVATE. Strangely enough, I caught the scent of a bitterness waft from it, but I shrugged this off as old-people-smell. “Is where John and I live, so if you have any inquiries, just give us a knock and we’ll help in any way we can.” Then she nodded at the innumerable piles of books. “Also, feel free to read any of the books you see here. I’m sure you’ve seen the lake; our house sits on twenty acres so feel free to explore the property. It doesn’t seem like much, and you probably didn’t see it in the dark, but just by the lake, there’s a trail that leads into the woods. It’s quite peaceful. Now, do either of you drink coffee?”
“I do,” I said.
“Well,” said Retta as she pointed to a small nook with a table and chairs that looked out over the porch. “We serve breakfast every morning at about eight thirty, but we should have the coffee on by seven. Upstairs.” She pointed up and led us by a pile of old crime novels, before slowly taking the stairs one at a time. She went on, “We keep plenty of board games on one of our bookcases and you are more than welcome to them. Everything from Boggle to Monopoly.”
The second-floor landing was also piled with books and hardly an inch of wall was left blank. Cutesy scarecrows smiled at us, and ragdolls filled portions of unused space. Retta took us down a hallway by a small limp clown in a child’s rocking chair.
“And here,” said Retta, pushing in the nearest door, “Is your room.”
Beth entered first, rolling her case around to the far side of the bed, and I stumbled in after her with the other luggage, gratefully slipping the bags off me and settling on the bed. The room was small— perhaps a foot of room between the bed and the walls remained on all sides— and it too had what I might call “grandma things” on the walls; most notably, there was a small chipped wooden plank hanging over the inside of the doorway that read: Happy Are Those That Share Their Toys. It had the same wood-burned lettering as the sign that hung outside; it was homemade.
“Do you have any questions?” asked Retta.
“No, I think we’ll be fine,” said Beth.
“Alright.” The old woman closed the door, but just before it latched, she got in a quick, “Goodnight.”
I went to the door and locked it. Scanning the room, I saw there was a door at the foot of the bed, I moseyed over to it and pushed it in to reveal a small bathroom with hardly enough room for the shower, toilet, and sink contained therein. “It’s cozy, isn’t it?” I asked Beth, but as I turned, I saw she’d already splayed out on the bed with her face down on one of the pillows. I smiled and moved to her. “Tired?”
“Uh-huh,” she muffled.
I nudged her over and took the place next to her. She scooted in close to me and put her head on my shoulder; I could feel her breath on my neck while I stroked her hair. Physical intimacy was a rarity, and it was gone in a flash as she shifted to kick off her shoes then her pants before curling into a ball facing away from me. We clicked off the lamps and I sat in the dark, totally wired, as Beth began to snore next to me.
Me sleeping on the drive in made it difficult to close my eyes and keep them that way, so I slid from the blankets and rummaged through a bag by the light of my phone; once I’d found my deck of smokes, I crept into the hallway, shutting the bedroom door behind me as slowly as I could manage. With nothing more than the dim light of my phone— I didn’t want to accidentally blind either John or Retta if I happened upon them in the dark with the flashlight— I made my way down the stairs and found the door leading outside. I heard the faint sound of music, but it wasn’t coming from their PRIVATE area of the house, it was instead coming from the porch. I pushed the front door open and stepped outside to find John sitting on a wooden chair with an old fold-out record player next to him on a side table.
He acknowledged me with a comfortable nod as Nat King Cole’s soothing voice exited the speaker of the player. “Can’t sleep?” asked the old man. He took a few quick puffs off a fat cigar.
I nodded. “Yeah.” Removing a cigarette, I lit it and joined him in an opposite chair. “Good music.” I nodded at the player.
“Yeah, he’s alright. Would you care for a drink? It might help you sleep.” John craned over in his chair and removed a small bottle of vodka from behind the opened top of the player.
I probably shouldn’t have. It seemed somehow inappropriate, but something about John’s relaxed demeanor encouraged me. “Sure.”
He produced two glasses and poured us each a glass before taking a hefty swig from one of them and passing me the other; looking at his outstretched hand I could see his knuckles were swollen and my mind returned to what Retta had said about his arthritis. I sipped mine before placing it between my knees.
John took another puff from his cigar then held his arm limply off to the side, allowing a bit of ash to fall before he rubbed it into the slats of the porch boards with his shoe. “You’ll like it here. It’s nice. Acadia’s only a stone’s throw away, you know. And if you never make your way over there, we’ve got lots of scenery here too.”
“Yeah. I’ve wanted to come to Maine for a long time.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“North Carolina.”
“Carolinas are nice. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen them.”
There was a long pause in the conversation that neared on awkward. “You guys have a nice place here.”
John nodded, as though this were an obvious fact and not a compliment. “We try. It’s always been our dream to have a little place like this.”
I idly smoked my cigarette and attempted drinking my glass to match his; it burned.
“You’ve got a nice wife, mister.”
“Oh, you can call me Greg.”
“You’ve got a nice wife, Greg. You two seem like a really sweet couple. But you know when you’re in a relationship, there’s going to bumps in the road.”
This felt immediately too personal for a stranger. “Uh-huh,” I said. It also took me to my affair. Bumps in the road. He was not wrong about that. But sometimes that bump felt like a mountain.
“That’s why you’ve got to share every bit of yourself with the person you love. And never be afraid to share them with the world.” John blinked slowly then shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He held up the bottle. “I’ve had a little too much, I think. It’s none of my business. You two are young; you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks.” I must admit, in that moment, I felt a soft spot for the old codger. Under different circumstances, I might have shared a few more glasses with him and chatted the night away. Once my cigarette was gone, I drank my glass empty and stood; a warmth overtook me, and my steps were a little out of my control. He wasn’t wrong about it helping with sleep. My flushing face felt like it needed a cool pillow. With some luck, I’d be able to catch some z’s after all.
“Goodnight, Greg.”
“Goodnight, John.” I handed him my glass and moved to the front door.
Passing through the cave of books and dolls and model cars, I pushed my way upstairs and into our bedroom.
Shuffling in the dark, I removed my pants and slide under the sheet, throwing an arm around Beth. I’d guessed right, the cool pillow felt nice. I felt my mind begin to drift off to sleep.
“Aren’t you going to apologize?” asked Beth to the open black room.
“Huh?” I said.
“Well? Aren’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You tried to get fresh with me a few minutes ago and you wouldn’t stop until I slapped your hand. Then you stormed off.”
I tried remembering if I’d done anything like that. “What? I didn’t try to ‘get fresh’.”
I felt Beth roll over in the bed to face me. “Yes, you did. You kissed my neck and tried putting your hand up my shirt.”
My heart skipped a beat and panicked understanding took over. “That wasn’t me. I did not do that, honey.”
She clicked on the lamp on her bedside table. “Why are you lying?” Her face begged me to tell her that I was.
I swallowed hard and sat up in bed. “I stepped out for a cigarette and came right back.” I left out my drink with John because it felt unrelated. My mind shot to who the culprit might have been. John? No. He couldn’t have been that fast and I’d just seen him. Retta? Surely not, she seemed too nice for something like that. Was there another guest on the premises that we didn’t know about?
There was a pause as Beth’s gaze drifted across the room. “You must’ve.”
I shook my head. My heart pounded till I could hear it in my ears. Then my rational brain took over, hoping to quell the sick thought that someone had snuck into our room while I was out, and she was half-asleep. “Did you dream it?”
“Maybe? Maybe. I might have.” She sounded unsatisfied with this idea but continued trying to convince me and herself of it; it did not work. “Yeah. I probably dreamed it. Gosh, I really hope I dreamed it.”
“That’s got to be it. Probably.”
I double checked that our door was locked, and we turned out the lights, but both of us were too shaken by the possibility of an unknown prowler to go directly to sleep. We laid in the dark breathing, sweating, but not speaking a word in hopes that we may at some point forget the ordeal. The longer I stared at the black ceiling, the more I believed it was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.