I can’t stand this. I can’t.
It smells musty in here after a few days of vacancy. The food in the small fridge will go bad if I don’t clean it out, so I bag that up, feeling awful and guilty. Wandering the trailer, I end up in Shane’s bedroom. His guitar is propped against the wall by the bed, and books are scattered on the floor. This is a tiny room with the bed built into the wall. I didn’t register much the other night; I saw only him. I lie down on his bed and pull his pillow to my chest, breathing him in. This is what home smells like.
He’s pinned a few pictures on the wall, including one of me. My chest tightens until I can hardly breathe, so I squeeze my eyes shut. I fall asleep in his bed, and half an hour later, I wake up feeling better, more centered. So I head back into the front room, where I poke around, unsure of what I’m looking for. I open the packet of photos he showed me and find some new ones. This is all Shane has left of his old life. A few minutes later, I find an old picture of his mom and dad, dated 1989. They look so young. On the back, it reads: Jude and Henry, together forever. But life tears people apart, breaks them down. Young, pretty Jude got cancer and Henry ran away. In my head, I hear the chorus of Shane’s song: Life is bitter, bittersweet …
Then I find it—the postcard tacked to the wall. On the front is a photo of some diner, nothing special. Pulling it down, I flip it over and read: Glad things are going well at your new school. If you have an emergency, this is where you can reach me. There’s a phone number, but no address. The card is signed, Dad.
Asshole.
But now I have a plan.
Once I check to make sure I didn’t leave anything plugged in or turned on, I grab his guitar and iPod for safekeeping, get back on my bike, and race home. This time the trip takes me less than half an hour, though I’m sweaty and panting when I run into the house. After putting Shane’s stuff in my closet, I head straight for my computer, fingers crossed that the reverse lookup will work. A few seconds later, I have an address. I input that into Google maps, which tells me it’s fifty miles away. I switch to street view and zoom in, until I can tell it’s a crappy motel. Well, Shane did tell me his dad usually just crashes at truck stops when he’s not driving. So I guess he has a room here.
I dial the number on my cell and a male voice answers on the fourth ring, sounding groggy. “Hello?”
He’s there. Shocked, I put down the phone. I could call back, beg for his help, but it’s too easy to turn somebody down and hang up. In an instant, I make up my mind, grab the old note I left my aunt, and write a new one. Because I’m not trying to worry her, I’m specific, leaving both the name of the place, the address, and the phone number. Then I wrap up by promising to be back as soon as possible. It’s past noon already, so it might be midnight by the time I get home. She’ll be furious, as I’ve never gone for such a long ride before, but I don’t care.
I can’t breathe until I talk to Henry Cavendish.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It’s cold as hell out here.
That’s actually a plus because I’m not as sweaty as I would ordinarily be when I ride into the motel parking lot, five and a half hours later. The place is L-shaped with the office situated at the center, upstairs and downstairs running on either side. At some point, it was probably blue, but most of the paint has peeled away, leaving gray concrete blocks. The drive is gravel, making it precarious for me to ride farther, so I get down and walk my bike.