He Started It Page 2

  ‘I mean about seeing Eddie and Portia. Been a while.’

  It has. None of us live in the same area. Eddie and Krista live on Dauphin Island, Alabama, just south of Mobile – the other side of the state from our current location. Felix and I live in Woodview, Florida, while Portia went to Tulane in New Orleans and still lives there. None of us live in Atlanta, but we grew up there. It’s where our last trip started.

  For the Morgan siblings, separation is the best form of togetherness.

  The last time we were all together was a few years ago, when Portia graduated from college. Two days in the same city and we spent about eight hours together, all of it intoxicated. Portia insisted we try the hurricane, the mint julep, and the Pimm’s cup. Dangerous on their own, lethal together.

  Grandpa wasn’t there. None of us had seen him in years.

  This was back when Eddie was still with Tracy, the girlfriend he used to live with. He hadn’t met Krista yet. I liked Tracy. She was smarter than my brother and told him that a lot. He even seemed to like it.

  I remember being at a bar uptown, near the university, on the night before graduation. It was hot as hell and I wore a tank top with a print skirt. Tracy wore a fancy sundress that showed off her arms. They were ridiculously toned.

  ‘You know the thing about your brother,’ she said. A gentle slur, not sloppy. ‘He can be an asshole but he’s a lovable asshole, you know?’

  I do. You know the type, you’ve met him. He’s the guy who gets away with mouthing off in class, the one who can convince teachers to give him a makeup exam, the one everyone wants to be around even when he screws up. Especially when he screws up.

  That’s Eddie.

  I never got a chance to ask Tracy what she thought about the woman Eddie went out with right out of college. Bet that woman wouldn’t call him lovable. She said Eddie slapped her, and she even reported him, but nothing came of it. Eddie said she was the crazy one and he never hit her, not in a million years.

  I believed him. I believed her. Back and forth, back and forth, just like that seesaw. Still haven’t decided who’s right, if he’s a lovable asshole or just the latter.

  This is what I’m thinking about in bed, at the Stardust, when Felix asks me how I’m doing. I’m trying to keep my balance.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’m doing fine.’

  ‘I’m glad. Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  I wait for his breathing to slow. Doesn’t take long. Felix has always been able to fall asleep instantly, no matter where he is.

  I get up, get dressed, and leave the room.

  Outside, I glance around, looking for any movement, any form of life. It’s not even ten thirty at night and I know Portia isn’t lying in bed, listening to Eddie and Krista breathe. The options are the diner across the street or the liquor store behind the motel. I go that way first.

  The parking lot is empty enough to hear footsteps, and I think I hear someone behind me. Twice I stop to check. Once I kneel down to look for feet on the other side of that broken-down truck. This place is so empty, so quiet, I am convinced someone else must be out here.

  I don’t see anyone until I get to the liquor store. The parking lot is full, and there are living, breathing people everywhere. Dan’s Drip-Drop Liquors is the closest thing to a bar for at least a mile or two.

  Portia is inside the store, waiting her turn at the register. She is one of two females around; the other is sitting in the passenger seat of a car smoking a cigarette. Busy night at the Drip-Drop.

  Portia doesn’t see me until I’m right beside her. ‘Get enough for two,’ I say.

  She smiles and holds up a six-pack of Coke and a bottle of rum. I nod. A stack of plastic cups sits on the counter. The price – five cents each – is handwritten in red marker on the back of a lottery ticket. We get two cups.

  ‘Let’s go back to the car,’ Portia says. ‘I’ve got Eddie’s keys.’

  She never did get enough credit for being smart. Maybe there were too many years between us.

  Minutes later, we’re in the back seat of the car and I’m drinking my first rum and coke in years. Maybe since college. We don’t have ice but the coke is cold and this seems perfect, given where we are at the moment. Environment is everything.

  ‘This is weird,’ Portia says.

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘Did you know about the will?’ she says.

  ‘No. I found out when Grandpa’s lawyer read it.’ I look toward the back of the car, where his ashes are stored.

  ‘Eddie brought them to his room,’ Portia says.

  ‘Oh. Of course.’

  We take another gulp of our drinks. Goes down easier after a few sips.

  ‘This is what we drink at work,’ she says. ‘Because it looks like soda. The whole waitstaff does it.’

  Lie.

  Portia claims to be a waitress in a bar. She’s a stripper, and she has been through most of her college years and now beyond. I may not see my siblings very often, but I know what they’re up to.

  ‘You must get sick of being around drunk people all the time,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, it got old a while ago. Just can’t make the same money in an entry-level job.’

  ‘I bet not.’

  ‘I mean, I’m not going to do it forever,’ she says, pausing to finish off her first drink. ‘Just until I find a good starter job.’

  ‘Grandpa’s money will pay for your student loans,’ I say.

  Portia nods. ‘Thank God.’

  We’re the only ones left to inherit his estate. Grandma passed away long before he did, and our parents are not in the picture.

  ‘What do you think you’ll do?’ I say.

  She shrugs, refilling her glass and topping off mine. ‘I’d like to get into the medical field. Maybe be a physician’s assistant or something. One day maybe I’ll go to nursing school.’

  ‘You’d be good at that.’

  She smiles. There’s just enough light for me to see her eyes. Clear blue, just like Grandpa had. Mine are murky, like dark water, and Eddie’s look like blue marbles.

  ‘How do you think this trip will go?’ she says.

  Funny she asks this now, when we’re already on our way. This is the question we all should have asked about, pondered over, and discussed before we got on the road.

  We all heard about this trip at the same time, on the conference call with Grandpa’s lawyer.

  ‘No funeral, no memorial service. He specifically notes this,’ the man said. He spoke with a deep Georgian drawl. Grandpa didn’t have that. ‘Your grandfather requested just a brief obituary in the local paper. He has provided the wording that should be used.’

  It’s odd how silent we all were. Like we were having a staring contest through the phone.

  ‘Your grandfather asked that his body be cremated. The next part I will read exactly as he stated it,’ the lawyer said. A paper shuffled. The sound was strange, like Grandpa had found the one lawyer who didn’t use a computer. ‘“Go on the road trip. Scatter my ashes at the end. Once I’m in my final resting place, my estate will be equally divided between you.” There’s also a provision for a rental car. Any questions?’

  The road trip, not a road trip. There had been only one.

  No, we had no questions.

  ‘As for the estate, your grandfather’s assets include his house, a car, a retirement fund, and an investment account. Everything is to be divided equally between the three of you.’ The lawyer paused. ‘While the house, car, and furnishings still have to be valued, the total in liquid assets is $3,453,000. By the time his remains have been delivered to their designated place, we’ll have the total.’

  The amount seemed staggering, at least to me, and that was just the cash.

  ‘There are a few final conditions to receiving your inheritance,’ the lawyer said. ‘Your grandfather stipulated that anyone who ends up in jail, who does not complete the trip, or who deviates from the original trip in any way w
ill get nothing.’

  This is how it must go. First the trip, then the money. Grandpa didn’t even work for it – he inherited it from Grandma’s sister, who had no kids of her own, and he’d kept it all to himself ever since.

  When the call ended, Eddie sent an e-mail to Portia and me asking about logistics. He did not question what Grandpa said or if we would do it. No one did.

  We deserved that money. Our payment had been a long time coming.

  Twenty years ago, when we first went on this road trip, Grandpa wanted to show us the world, starting with as many states as possible. Instead, it turned into one of those things we don’t mention, don’t talk about. It stays in our heads, swimming around in denial, in disbelief, even in delusion.

  So how do I think this second trip will go? It’s going to be the trip of a lifetime. And when it’s over, everything is going to be different. Just like the first time.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say to Portia. ‘It will all be just fine.’

  She rolls her eyes. I don’t argue with her.

  I also don’t tell her about the journal. No one knows I have it. The paper has yellowed, the stickers on the front faded, but the fancy title is still readable.

  Your Feelings: A Guide

  Thoughtful Questions for Thoughtful Girls

  AUGUST 12, 1999

  Which three women do you most admire?

  First, I was never going to use this journal for anything. It was a birthday present, a lame one, and it’s been under my bed until today. I saw it when I pulled out my suitcase to use for the trip. I brought it in case I got bored and here we are. So there’s that.

  Second, I don’t admire anyone. This is a trick question, because I’d basically be saying ‘I’m not these three women, I’ll never be these three women, but I admire them more than I admire myself.’

  That’s screwed up, if you ask me. Like girls don’t have enough self-esteem problems already.

  On the upside, my therapist would probably be crazy proud of me for recognizing such an unhealthy question. I’m going to tell him about it when we get back. Dr Lang isn’t a real doctor, he’s just a therapist, but I call him Dr Lang to remind him of what he’s not.

  Our sessions are like being on one of those spinning things on the playground – the metal kind with the bars on them. Why can’t adults see how stupid and dangerous those things are?

  I ask the same question about my therapy sessions.

  13 Days Left

  Felix doesn’t know a lot about the first road trip. He knows it happened, yes, but not everything about it. I know, it’s terrible of me to keep such big things from my husband, but I stand by my decision, even now. Couples who think they need to tell each other every little thing they do or did are destined to fail. All those details build up to a heaping pile of crap and you can’t stay married to that.

  But I’m in no condition to go on a walk, so I don’t hide my late night with Portia.

  ‘Good for you,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you spent some time with your sister.’

  I want to hit him. It’s probably the hangover.

  Even when I get to the diner for breakfast, the rum is still seeping out of my pores. Portia is young, so she still looks good without makeup, and her hair is tied up in a knot on top of her head. Just looking at it makes mine hurt more.

  ‘You guys went out last night?’ Eddie says. He looks crisp and ironed, even in a T-shirt and khakis.

  Krista is beside him and she’s pouting. I bet she didn’t realize what kind of motels we’d be staying in.

  ‘We didn’t go out,’ I say. ‘We just drank.’

  ‘Yeah, we didn’t go anywhere,’ Portia says.

  Eddie’s eyes narrow, like he’s about to say something fatherly: We should be careful. We’re not here to party. We have no business drinking alone in a strange town.

  But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he smiles. It lights up his eyes and shows off his dimples. Eddie morphs from asshole to loveable asshole just like that.

  ‘You should have asked me to join,’ he says. ‘We need to have some fun on this trip.’

  Portia nods. ‘You need to have some fun. You’re starting to be a boring old man.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘If I don’t tell you, who will?’ Portia asks.

  ‘That’s what little sisters are for,’ I say.

  Eddie is still smiling as he looks over at Felix. ‘They’re ganging up on me.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Felix says.

  ‘Any advice?’

  ‘Head down, mouth shut?’

  ‘Solid.’

  They bump fists.

  We return to the motel to get our things. On the first trip, I took an ashtray from every motel room. Twenty years ago, motels like this had ashtrays and matchbooks. All the rooms were smoking rooms. Every ashtray was the same, too, like they were all bought from the same company: square, with indents at each corner for the cigarettes. Made of glass, I think. They felt heavy and solid and I liked that, so I took them.

  I wrapped them up in my T-shirts so they didn’t clink together. When I had five, Grandpa noticed how heavy my bag was.

  ‘Books,’ I said.

  He gave me a funny look, like it was weird that I’d have books.

  A few nights later, my bag was even heavier. Grandpa emptied it that time. He unwrapped ashtray after ashtray, eight in total. ‘But Beth,’ he said, ‘why?’

  I shrugged. ‘Because I can.’

  Grandpa hemmed and hawed, saying what we should do is take them back. If we were honest people, that is. Grandpa wasn’t.

  ‘Keep one,’ he finally said. ‘We’ll drop the rest off at a Salvation Army or something.’

  I kept two. Never settle. Even at the age of twelve, I knew better.

  Today, there are no ashtrays in the motel room. There’s nothing solid or heavy at all. The room has nothing except some threadbare towels and scratchy linens. No Bibles. The TV is bolted down and the remote is attached to a wire.

  This is an unexpected letdown. I leave the motel with nothing other than a drunken night of sleep. As we drive away, I look back at the Stardust sign and think about taking a picture. I don’t, because I don’t want to remember that rat hole.

  My husband is one of those picture people. If anything interesting happens, Felix takes out his phone. He’s that guy in the middle of a parade who also records the parade. He recorded us loading our luggage into the SUV, driving away from the car rental place in Atlanta, and he took pictures of the Roundabout. Probably of the Stardust, too. I didn’t ask.

  Sometimes he posts the videos on social media, other times he reviews and deletes. Doesn’t bother me. I never watch them. Does anyone? Bet not. Bet you don’t, at least not more than once. Not until someone dies, and then you watch and replay every little thing they did because it’s all you have. I’ve done that.

  One day, those pictures and videos may be all that’s left of someone. Pick and choose with care.

  But if Felix wants to spend his time recording life, that’s his choice.

  As soon as we’re on the highway, I curl up on my side of the seat and lean against the window. Sleep. It’s the only real way out of a hangover. Time and sleep and a lot of wishing I was Portia’s age.

  I drift off with ease, and wake up to the sound of laughter. Above it all, I hear Felix.

  ‘… and then they had a baby named Pop Tart,’ he says.

  ‘Strawberry Pop Tart!’ Krista yells.

  ‘And then they went back into space,’ Eddie says. ‘To find their lost loves.’

  ‘Wait,’ Portia says from the back seat. ‘Did that hedgehog have sex with the alien?’

  ‘And the mutant!’ Felix yells.

  The story game. We played it as kids, in the car, but not like this. I pretend to still be asleep as I listen to the sexual exploits of a hedgehog named Bonnie. She’s an equal opportunity fornicator, Portia says.

  On the first trip, we had an ongoing story about another hed
gehog. His name was Chester and he did not fornicate with anyone. Not once. He did, however, like a girl hedgehog named Paulina and he used to give her worms and crickets to eat. Mostly, he hung out with his friends and they went on quests like the kind in video games.

  Grandpa loved the stories. He compared the adventures to the comics he used to read as a kid. I always knew when he was giggling because his whole body would shake. I used to watch from the back seat.

  I listen to the Bonnie story until I can’t anymore, then I sit up.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t sleeping beauty,’ Eddie says.

  ‘Are you guys seriously talking about hedgehog sex?’ I say.

  Krista wags her finger at me. ‘Not strictly hedgehog sex. Hedgehogs with other animals, too.’

  ‘But not exactly animals,’ Portia says.

  Felix shakes his head at me. ‘More like creatures?’

  ‘Alien creatures!’

  ‘Mutant creatures!’

  ‘Mythological creatures!’

  ‘Gods, even. The Greek ones. And the Norse gods.’

  ‘Bestiality,’ I say. ‘This is bestiality of the worst kind.’

  ‘Look out!’

  Krista’s voice is drowned out by the squeal of tires, followed by a bang.

  We are halfway off the two-lane road and facing the wrong direction.

  ‘Is everyone okay? Is everyone okay?’ Eddie keeps saying this the same way, like a recording.

  ‘Yes,’ Felix says.

  ‘I’m alive,’ Portia says.

  I’m fine, too. No broken bones, just a pain in my arm where I slammed it against the door. Krista is crying. Well, she’s sniffling. She has a bright red spot on her forehead where she hit her head. Eddie grabs her and looks at the wound.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘No broken skin.’

  I take a look too, because you never can tell with head wounds, but he’s right. It doesn’t look bad at all, not even swollen.

  Felix stares out the window. ‘What happened?’ he says.

  ‘A truck came right toward us. You didn’t see it?’ Eddie says.

  ‘Did we hit it?’

  No one answers.