Dekker turned in his seat to look back at me. “Yeah, Jenny. What did you say?”
I couldn’t say anything then, because I realized I’d used Dekker’s real name. Luckily, Debbie didn’t know what I was talking about.
“Did you have a bad dream?” Debbie said.
“No,” I said. I pointed between the front seats at the windshield.
“What is it?” Dekker said.
“The mountains! The mountains! There they are!”
“Give us some warning before you freak out next time, will you?” Dekker had his hand on his chest as if he were trying to keep his heart from popping out.
“I’m sorry, but . . . the mountains!” They really were purple, and the tops of them really were frosted in snow, though it was late April. I’d never seen anything so beautiful, not in real life.
“Yes. Mountains. Shit. You’re going to get us killed.”
I was so excited I couldn’t stop bouncing in my seat, and Dekker finally started to smile. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Let’s stop in Limon,” Debbie said. “We can get food and use the restroom. Then it’s another hour and a half to Denver.”
AT THE TRUCK stop there were dozens of semi rigs, and I was afraid Ray might be there and get us in trouble. Dekker looked worried too. But then in the parking lot he pointed at a white Buick with a FOR SALE sign in the window. It said $900 and See manager inside.
A half hour later the manager signed over the title for just $800, and we gave Debbie fifty dollars for gas and said goodbye to her. Then we spent another $125 in the convenience store. We bought some fruit, toiletries, a -couple of T--shirts, a new zip--up hoodie for me, and a map of Denver. We had $2500 left between the two of us, but I had no intention of letting Dekker spend any of his share.
The truck stop had showers, so we both paid to use them. I didn’t want us to show up at my maybe--grandmother’s house looking like drowned rats. I felt much fresher as I exited the shower room with my dirty clothes in a plastic sack.
“I need to find a pay phone and call Uncle Curt and let him know we survived the tornado.” He tossed me the keys. “You can wait in the car, if you want.”
I carried our purchases out to the Buick and put everything in the backseat then got in the front. The seats were deep and comfortable, not like any of the other vehicles I’d been in. It was like riding on a sofa. Maybe Dekker could teach me to drive once we got to Denver.
He startled me by opening the driver’s side door and getting in.
“Boy, Uncle Curt was pissed,” he said.
“Why?”
“Said he’s been out of his mind with worry. Didn’t know if we were alive or dead. He actually said we should turn around and come home and hide in his basement. I said this was the first time we’ve been anywhere near a phone. He told me call him when we get to Denver.”
I pulled the folded paper out of my pocket, the one with Mrs. Bart I. Davis’s address on it, and read it over again. Was this actually kin of mine, and if so, what was she like? Dekker’s grandma popped into my mind, her and her casserole and the way she put Dekker in his place, and I hoped that mine was like her.
Dekker unfolded the map. “Can you navigate?”
“Yes,” I said. “Dad taught me how to read maps almost as soon as I could read.”
Every time I used that word—-Dad—-it hit me in the chest. Charlie Moshen, Michael Rhones—-who had he really been? He was obviously much more disturbed than I could ever have imagined, taking me away from Mom and my real dad.
Dekker handed me the map. I looked at the address Curt had written for us and found where it was located on the map within a few minutes.
Dekker started up the car and drove us to I--70.
An hour and a half later we pulled up in front of Mrs. Bart I. Davis’s address, which looked like a run--down hotel. The paint was faded and peeling, the lawn in front sparse. It was called the Village at Xanthia.
And now that we were here, I was suddenly immobilized by fear. What if Mrs. Bart I. Davis didn’t want anything to do with me? What if she was a mean old lady?
What if she wasn’t my grandma at all?
I FOLLOWED PETTY up to the building and through the front door to a desk. My heart sank. I’d been expecting an apartment complex, but this was a nursing home. The place seemed cheery enough, but there were several old folks in bathrobes sitting in wheelchairs, staring at nothing. Underneath the floral air--freshener scent, I smelled urine. The clock, to my surprise, said three P.M. No wonder I was so tired and hungry. I’d been driving nonstop since breakfast.
A fleshy woman in scrubs sat behind the reception desk, talking on the phone. She held up a finger to us.
We waited until she hung up and turned to us. “How can I help you?”
Petty opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I came to her rescue.
“We’re here to see Mrs. Bart I. Davis.”
She consulted a notebook. “Jeannie Davis?”
“Yes,” I said with authority.
“And who are you?”
Petty and I glanced at each other. We couldn’t give our real names, of course.