Northbound

“Shit, Mallory. Get it together.”

Pulling hard, she managed to dislodge a well-loved map from the workbench, but not after cutting herself on a monkey wrench along the way. She stuck her finger in her mouth and assessed the map’s barely visible roads, blurred into a mess of faded ink and fast-food stains. With a short sigh, she folded it gingerly and stuffed it in her back pocket.

A bead of sweat rolled down the slope of her nose and fell onto her chest. Turning her gaze toward the sky with a hand shielding her eyes, she figured now was as good a time as any to leave. The blistering summer heat in the desert was never Mallory’s preferred climate. Her dad, on the other hand, could bake on the porch for hours unmoved by the demanding sun.

Mallory stared at an old wooden chair she had made with him as a kid. Dried circular rings from years of perspiring Coke bottles stained the arms of the chair, forever imprinted in the wood like the grooves of her dad’s legs from sitting in quiet observation. She wondered what possessed him to bear the heat for all those years, looking quietly at the vast, cactus-riddled landscape. Maybe it was the same internal burn of escaping their lives that Mallory inherited, or perhaps unbridled content with the life he curated for himself and his daughter. Whatever it was, he left it—and her— behind.

Mallory pushed her way through the flimsy screen door into the dated kitchen. She swiped an apple and a Pepsi to take on the road. The beverage choice triggered a sudden prickle of hot tears at the corner of her eyes. She’d been teased countless times at the light blue card table about choosing the “inferior pop”. Her dad would crinkle his sun-kissed nose in fake disgust as she’d slurp the Pepsi as fast as possible, and belch louder than a grown man. Her dad would laugh in return, filling her ears with unparalleled joy.

She shook off the memory and straightened her back. She double checked her purse and scanned the house in less than two minutes for any last remnants to shove into her car, then pulled the front door shut. When the click of the deadbolt slid into place, she wondered why she bothered to lock the door to a place she never intended to return to.

Clambering into the driver’s seat of her car, she regretted not spending the $300 last summer to get her AC fixed. She leaned over the seat to the glove compartment and grabbed a few old takeout napkins to wipe off her forehead. The car sputtered to life with a noisy clang and rattled as she backed out of the gravel driveway. She wouldn’t miss the small stones lodging themselves between her toes. She tossed the map her dad used to get from coast to coast dozens of times onto the passenger seat and bid farewell to Wilcox.

Three hours later, she pulled into a café parking lot hungry and dripping in sweat. The weathered, pink sign above the door read Margie’s. Mallory scoffed at the kitschy name and opened her car door, apple core and empty Pepsi bottle tumbling to the ground. She scolded herself for not bringing more and meandered inside.

Plopping into a booth covered in plastic that clung to the back of her thighs, she sent a quick text to her dad.

Hit the road this morning. Just stopped for food. Send me your grocery list. See you tomorrow.

Her fingers hovered over the screen. She wanted to type the three words she hadn’t said for months. A soft tap on her shoulder spared her the decision. Mallory jumped and turned her attention to a preteen holding an order pad. The girl wore a sparkly sequin top and light purple jeans. Mallory tugged at her tattered shorts.

“Are you going to order?” The girl tapped her pen on the pad.

“Are you old enough to work?” The question was met with a melodramatic eye roll. “Tough crowd… I’ll take the…” Mallory scanned the menu. “‘Bacon My Way Downtown’ sandwich, I guess.”

The girl, whose name tag had a smudged collection of letters, scribbled the order and loped back to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, Mallory inhaled a sandwich larger than her head. She left a balled up twenty on the table and returned to her car.

The next hour and a half of the drive was occupied by thinking about the girl and the brimming promise of life in front of her. By the time Mallory was fifteen, she had worked a handful of odd jobs trying to pay the bills. Her dad had been in the construction business. The money he brought in for a while was great, until it wasn’t. Buildings didn’t go up often in Wilcox, but the tremors were what stopped him from handling power tools. So, Mallory filled the hole by bussing tables, cleaning houses, and watching the neighborhood kids. She spent her weekend elbow-deep in work while her peers relished their childhood. Resentment started to fester for her dad. She thought he could’ve worked harder to pay the bills and buy the groceries. Unbeknownst to her, she only had to support him until he left when she turned nineteen.

He felt guilty about leaving, she knew he did. How could a father burden his daughter with medical and therapy bills? Besides, she’d been dating boyfriend-number-whatever at the time and felt secure. At least that’s what she’d told him. From their last phone call a few weeks ago, he seemed to be doing better. Mallory drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She hoped he wasn’t lying.

After almost a full day of driving, Mallory longed for a bed and a hot shower. Her back cramped from the sparse cushioning on her seat, and she smelled riper than a melon left in the sun. The replacement map she bought from a gas station was inked with a red marker to show a more efficient travel route. She pulled over to get her bearings. Squinting at a road sign that read, she was relieved to find that she was at least traveling northbound.

Her dad’s new place was tucked away in some podunk town in Wyoming. Not that she wasn’t used to podunk.

That’s the word her mother had loved to throw at her dad as an insult. He was too uncultured, uneducated, and podunk. When she left her daughter and her husband for a new beau who swept her up to the Pacific Northwest, ten-year-old Mallory felt relieved. Between bouts of heavy drinking and enlightened sobriety, her mother wasn’t the picture of stability.

Mallory gripped the steering wheel and pressed down on the gas pedal. How dare her mother, whose hobby was passing out on the couch with a bottle of gin in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other, accuse her father of being the lesser parent? She wasn’t there to see her husband crying when he thought no one was around.

He had a softness beneath the hard shell of a tradesman who stood well over six feet tall and had a scruffy beard. Callouses peppered his hands, making him look strong despite the tremors, and he could work wonders in the kitchen. Mallory adored waking up on Sunday mornings to the smell of homemade waffles. Her dad’s tenderness was rarely seen by the outside world, but when she glimpsed it, she held on to it like a precious jewel. Excitement fluttered in her throat.

***

Mallory arrived in Castle Dale around 10:00 pm. Exhausted from the day and ready to turn in, she drove around the sleepy town looking for a place to retire. A neon sign flickered up the road, indicating available rooms.

“Excuse me?” Mallory rapped lightly on the chipped wood counter of the motel. AN older gentleman was fast asleep on a rolling chair. His feet were housed in worn gray loafers and propped on the counter. Mallory slapped an open palm onto the wood.

“What in—“ he shot awake and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, sorry, ma’am. We don’t get much business this late. Do you need a room?” His voice was disproportionately high compared to the mass of his protruding stomach.

“Yes, I need room.” Mallory tried to keep her impatience at bay.

The man grabbed a key attached to a plastic disc with her room number and handed it over in exchange for payment. Mallory’s footsteps echoed down the hallway as she passed a few doors with peeling red paint before reaching her room.

She opened the door to reveal a singular twin bed with a worn plaid quilt in the middle of the wall to her right. A dingy lamp crowded with cobwebs and moths cast unsettling shadows against the yellow walls. She plugged her phone into the outlet next to the lamp. A large wardrobe occupied the opposite corner of the room. Next to that was an alcove for the bathroom. Despite the sweat and dirt from her day of travel, Mallory refused to take a shower; God forbid she acquired some sort of fungus. It took her a few minutes to muster the courage to sit on the bed, but exhaustion won out. She flipped on the TV. The screen flickered to life. Mallory flipped through the five channels offered and settled on an obscure old movie.

She checked her phone. No response from her dad. Not unusual, but annoying. Mallory sent another text.

Made it to Castle Dale. Staying in a shitty old motel. I’ll get pancake mix on my way up.

Grocery list please!

Five minutes later, she was fast asleep on top of the quilt, shoes and all.

A light knocking at the door woke her. Mallory cracked an eye open. Her phone read 4:12 am. She grumbled at the thief of her sleep to go away and pulled a pillow over her head.

Another knock. Louder and more hurried.

Groaning, she stretched and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “One second.” She shuffled to the door. “Hello?”

“Are you Mallory Thompson?” A deep voice replied from the other side, snapping Mallory out of her stupor. Her heart shook her entire chest. The dark outline of the unfamiliar man swallowed the door frame. Mallory glanced behind her for any suitable weapon.

“Who are you?” She made her voice as stern as she could muster.

“I’m Officer Waltz from the Castle Dale police department.”

The police? Mallory unlocked the door chain and held up a hand to shield her eyes from the bright hall lighting. Office Waltz’s lips were pinched tight beneath a thick mustache.

“I’m sorry, officer. Is something wrong? If it’s my car, I can grab my keys, they’re right over—“

“Mallory,” his voice softened. Her stomach dropped at the sight of his hands twisting and untwisting. “We received a call from your mother, Tabitha Reynolds.”

Mallory snorted. A third last name in six years. “I don’t want anything to do with Tabitha. Thanks for stopping by.” She started to close the door, but Office Waltz held out a hand.

“She called to report an accident involving your father. She said she didn’t have your updated cell phone number, so Wilcox PD has been trying to contact your landline, but seeing as you’re here…”

Everything around Mallory swayed. Her vision bobbed in and out of focus.

“How’d you find me here?”

“His cell was recovered with your location services enabled. Mallory, do you want to sit?”

“No, please,” she choked out. “What happened? Is he okay? I needed his grocery list. I should’ve just called him. Was he trying to drive? He has tremors in his hands and legs, you know? It makes it hard for him to—“

“It wasn’t a car accident, Mallory. Your father called your mother last night. He was pretty inebriated from her statement. She called his local department, but it was too late. I’m so sorry.”

The rest of the officer’s words rang in Mallory’s ears with a terrible resonance. An accident, they called it. Mallory knew it wasn’t. An accident couldn’t explain the sadness that had plagued his eyes for years and his hands that forgot how to make Sunday morning pancakes.