Bea sighed, a bit too dramatically. “That’s not what I meant. I meant maybe the goal is artificial. We’re acting as if all we have to do is get there, and then this adventure will be complete, and we will have accomplished something. But we’ll still be us. We’ll still be out here. Needing to figure out what to do.”
“Well,” Allie said. “Yeah, but . . . cross that boardwalk when we come to it.”
“I believe the expression is ‘bridge.’ ‘Cross that bridge when we come to it.’”
“I was trying to make a little joke. Because Jackson said you walk on these boardwalks out to the cape.”
Before Bea could comment on the little joke—before she could even register dread over whether the cape would be too far a walk, over too many boardwalks—a vehicle pulled in. One of those bus-size motor homes. It completely ruined the privacy of the moment.
Bea quickly and discreetly emptied her bucket, and they drove on.
Driving across a very long bridge over what appeared to be a bay, Bea began to feel uneasy. Her stomach registered the fear, like a roller coaster ride. Oh, she knew in her head that people drove over the bridge every day and the structure held. Still, she could see water beneath them in her peripheral vision, on both sides. It felt as though there was nothing underneath the van. It felt like falling. Or, in any case, being about to.
So Bea talked to cover over the feeling.
“What is this?” she asked the girl, who was staring at the map.
“What is what?”
“This bay, or whatever body of water we’re crossing.”
“It’s not a bay. It’s the Columbia River.”
“Awfully wide for a river.”
“Well, it’s the mouth of the river. It’s wider at the mouth. You know, if we weren’t in such a hurry, there’s a really pretty drive you can take along the Columbia River Gorge. It has these high waterfalls right at the road, and nice places to hike.”
“It says that on the map?”
“No. A kid I went to school with did a report on it once after his family’s vacation.”
“Maybe on the way back,” Bea said.
“Right,” Allie replied, folding up the map. “Everything on the way back. Here’s the thing about us driving over the Columbia River. By the time we get off this bridge we’ll have crossed the state line. We’ll be in Washington.”
“Good,” Bea said.
They drove in silence for a moment or two, and the panicky feeling of falling began to set in again.
“Here’s the thing for me about driving over this river,” Bea said. “I get scared. I get scared on long automotive bridges because it feels like there’s nothing underneath me.”
“Here’s what you do. You raise your eyes to the other end of the bridge. The way we’re going. And you just keep them lifted like that. You never take your eyes off the other end of the bridge.”
“Oh,” Bea said after trying it for a time. “That actually helps.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I had a thought about what we could do after Cape Flattery.” She paused, but the girl only left space for Bea to continue. “I thought we could wind our way back down, more slowly, and this time drive the coast from Pacific Palisades to Mexico. Then we can honestly say we’ve seen the whole West Coast of the United States. Maybe we could even pop into Canada on our way up and Mexico at the end.”
“We can’t go to Canada or Mexico.”
“Why can’t we?”
“We don’t have passports. I mean, I don’t have mine along. And I’m guessing you don’t have one at all.”
“You don’t need them for just Canada and Mexico.”
“Oh, yes you do.”
“Now this is a subject I happen to know something about,” Bea said forcefully, her gaze still glued to the far end of the bridge. “I grew up in Buffalo, New York. Just a short drive from the Peace Bridge into Ontario. And you do not need a passport to cross the border. My family took that drive more times than I could count.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you, Bea. But things change.”
“When did they change that?”
“After the whole September eleventh thing. It’s a Homeland Security–type change. You know, after we get off this bridge we should find a place to stop for the night. I think we’re only about six hours or so from where we’re going. And we’ll be right on the water. But then in the morning when we drive again, we’ll be inland a whole lot of the time. Probably it’ll be hotter.”
Their drive across the bridge ended. Finally, blessedly ended. Bea let out a huge breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
“That’s really a shame,” she said.
“Stopping to sleep is not a bad thing, Bea.”
“I meant the way terrorism changes everything. It wasn’t that way when I was younger. The world was a safer place.”
“When you were younger there was World War Two!” Allie exclaimed.
“Oh,” Bea said. “True. I guess that is a point.”
“Maybe a place with a shower? I could use a shower again. It’s been two days since Casper’s house.”
“I could go for that myself,” Bea said.
“Bea,” Allie whispered in the darkened van. “Hey, Bea. Are you asleep?”
“I was. Almost. Now not so much.”
Bea opened her eyes, but they had not adjusted to the lack of light. So the effect was more or less the same. She had showered and changed into clean pajamas before bed. The comfort was something that actually broke through enough for Bea to feel, despite the fact that she was not consciously thinking about it.
The little campground near Willapa Bay was surprisingly free of artificial lights, which Bea felt might be a good thing. She wondered if she should stick her head out and look at the stars.
“Sorry,” the girl said after a time.
“Might as well say what you have on your mind.”
“That money I got for the gold. And the coins. He gave it to me in an envelope. I had it in my pocket at first, but I just want you to know I put it in the glove compartment. Way at the bottom, just in case somebody steals the van or breaks into it.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer with you?”
“I was just thinking . . .”
But for a strange length of time Allie didn’t say what she was thinking.
“Finish,” Bea said, perhaps too abruptly.
“I was thinking that if we got separated, I’d want you to have it. You know. For gas and food and all. And so you’ll be all right.”
The words made Bea’s face feel tingly and red.
“Why would we get separated?”
“If the police picked me up and dragged me back to L.A. That sort of thing.”
“That won’t happen now. We’re almost to Cape Flattery.”
But even as she said it, Bea knew that made no difference. They would always be somewhere. They had to be somewhere. And the police could always be in the same place.
“Well, whenever it happens. If it does. I just want you to know where that money is. I wrote my full name and my date of birth on the envelope. You know.”
“Not really,” Bea said. “I don’t think I do know.”
“If we got separated . . . you don’t even know my whole name. I just wanted to make sure you could . . . un-separate us again. You know. If you wanted to.”
“Oh,” Bea said. “Thank you.”