Chelsea knows all this from scrolling through Amy’s phone to check the news and search for the names of her family members to see if anything bad has happened to them. And she checks her own name for updates in her news story, but nothing new ever pops up. Keeping track of current events just now would be a full-time job, considering the huge differences in the quality of life in hot places compared with cold places. In frigid climes, life is totally normal, and everyone benefits from the huge uptick in long-term tourists grateful to be alive. Hotels are packed and business is booming, everyone fiddling in their puffer coats as the southern areas burn.
But in the South, and especially in the poor countries around the equator, life has become brutal and unruly. The governments, unable to protect or help anyone, basically gave up. Charities popped up to help the unfortunate, their coffers drained by the unrepentant. Any aid money disappears before it can do any good. Just like with Covid, the essential workers who have no choice but to go to work must go to work, wondering all day long whether their next customer might be the one who kills them before the heavily armed security guard can pull his weapon. Online ordering is through the roof, and delivery driving is considered the best and safest job available, meaning the competition for gigs is fierce.
Yes, Chelsea is very glad to be where she is, right now. It could be a lot worse.
She also noticed today that George’s pickup truck disappeared. She suspects that Harlan arranged to have it found somewhere far away, but he certainly doesn’t share his plans with his employees.
Back in the tour bus, they all take their turn in the tiny bathroom, brushing teeth and getting ready for bed. Chelsea is grateful for the little jar of Cetaphil; her face feels cleaner and softer than it has in weeks. The rain pelts down hard on the bus roof as she snuggles into her bunk, and she smiles, thinking she might actually sleep well tonight, considering the tough workout this morning followed by emotional catharsis. At the front of the bus, Arlene sets up her phone to play classical music, both to signal bedtime and help cover up the sounds of bodies rustling around. It’s unusually soothing, the same soft lullabies Chelsea used to play when her girls were babies.
She’s just drifting off when the curtains on her bunk brush aside.
“You awake?” Amy asks, leaning in.
“Sure.” Because Chelsea is a mom, and it doesn’t matter that she was falling asleep; it only matters that she’s awake now.
“Can I—I mean…” Amy trails off. “Can we talk?”
Chelsea scoots back toward the wall. The bunk isn’t very big, even smaller than a twin bed, but both of them will fit, if awkwardly. Chelsea wishes she knew what was going on; Amy is so serious and private that she can’t imagine what it’ll be like, sharing this intimate space with her. Arlene’s therapy this morning may have helped Chelsea, but it didn’t magically give her the ability to say no when someone needs her help, even when she’d like to roll over and go back to sleep in privacy.
The curtains part, and Amy slithers in. Her pajamas are almost comical—those old-timey man pajamas that button up the front. Her glasses are off, her hair back in a silk bandanna. That’s all Chelsea can see before the curtain falls back into place and they’re in darkness again. For a moment—just a moment—Chelsea panics. Does Amy want to kiss her, something like that? Because she’s so close Chelsea can smell the minty mouthwash on her breath. But then Amy shudders with an intake of breath bordering on a sob, and Chelsea goes very still.
“You okay?” she asks.
Amy clears her throat softly, and her voice is a husky whisper, barely loud enough for Chelsea to hear. Surely everyone else is listening in now, although Amy is trying to keep it private.
“So that was pretty heavy, today,” she whispers.
Chelsea is wary. She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to talk about it again.
“Yeah.”
Amy pauses, considering.
“It sounds like you had a hard time, back home. I was just wondering if you—” She clears her throat again. “Are your kids okay?”
Chelsea blinks in the darkness. “My kids? I hope so. I mean, there’s no way to know, but they’re with my rich mom, and she’s a narcissistic asshole, but she lives behind a guardhouse with huge walls. So yeah, I hope so. Why?”
She can barely see Amy, just a shape and the gleam of light on her eyes, but she senses her deflate. “I was just…I just wondered if you…never mind.” The bed rustles as she rolls to leave.
Chelsea puts a hand out. It lands on Amy’s shoulder, and she stills. “Hey, you know my darkest secrets now,” Chelsea muses, keeping her voice low. “I’m a human punching bag. Can’t get any lower than that. So you can tell me what’s on your mind, if you want.” After a moment of silence, she adds, “It feels better, having it out in the world like that. I feel better now.”
Amy resettles, sniffles, clears her throat, sighs. Chelsea’s hand doesn’t move, but Amy seems to soften a little, to relax. Chelsea isn’t the sort of person to just reach out and touch another person, but it’s more natural, in the near-dark. It’s easier, knowing this woman has watched the most painful, embarrassing splinter removal of her life and still wants to be friends. It’s a tender sort of exchange, a scary one, but Chelsea would rather ride it out now than ignore Amy’s obvious need and know her new friend is in pain.
“I’m not infected. I have—” Amy clears her throat again. “I had a son. Joshua. He was four. We lived just outside of Miami. He was at home with the nanny while I was at work. Big, important account. Deadlines. All that.” She goes quiet, and Chelsea rubs her arm a little, like she would for Brooklyn after a bad dream. “I came home late that night, and…the nanny…she was nice. An older lady. Great references. She loved Josh. But she had the Violence, and…”
Her voice breaks, and her sobs are silent but take up all the room in the little bunk. Chelsea squeezes her shoulder gently, holding the connection, tears silently spilling out onto her cheeks.
“It was early, in the spring. We didn’t really know yet, what it was. Didn’t know it was mosquitoes. Didn’t know Miami was going to be a hotbed. It was so early, before it was even in the news much. I came home and she had—he was—I can’t—” A sigh. “I was in shock. My husband came home from work and found me there, holding him. Pieces of him. The nanny had run off. She was gone. My hands were shaking too hard to try calling her. Now we all know that when it hits you, you don’t know what you’re doing, it doesn’t matter how good of a person you are or how much you care about the person you’re with. You just…do what you do. But then, we called the police, there was a manhunt. They caught her, put her behind bars. We wanted the electric chair. My husband…we didn’t do so well without Josh. We fought over whether he should’ve ever been alone with someone besides his parents. John said I should’ve been home. That if I’d been home…” She takes a shuddering breath. “It was a quick, messy divorce. He took everything. I still don’t understand how.”