She was supposed to be able to wait and take off on the third of next month, with a bank account full of money. With that lovely feeling that it was all hers this time. No rent, no bills. Just gas and food, and maybe some loose quarters for a Laundromat or a campground shower.
She wasn’t supposed to have to take off with a bank balance of zero, leaving behind half the food she’d bought for the month because she hadn’t realized when she’d bought it that she would be giving up her refrigerator so soon.
Then again, she thought, it wasn’t supposed to be like any of this. I wasn’t supposed to be making plans to live in this old van at all.
Bea climbed down from the driver’s seat of the van and walked back into her trailer.
Three boxes sat in the middle of her living room floor, where the easy chair had once lived. They were carefully taped and labeled with a marking pen in big, bold letters: “OPAL MARTIN C/O ROBERT MARTIN.” Those she would drop off on her way out of the valley. Not to Opal personally, because her friend would only try to talk her out of going, and feel guilty that there was not more she could do. No, Bea would leave them with the guard at the gate, and be long out of town before Opal knew she was gone.
Everything else except the cat would stay.
Bea stood in the living room, looked around, and was struck by her first overwhelming wave of panic. Everything in this tiny place, no matter how small and insignificant, was something she wanted to keep. It all had a history. It was all so familiar. It was her life, it was her. She couldn’t leave all this behind.
Every lamp had a story as to where she had gotten it. Every kitchen utensil felt weighted with history. The spoon rest from the Santa Barbara pier, bought on their first trip to the coast. The champagne glasses that had been a wedding gift. The mugs brought from Herbert’s bakery when it closed its doors. The idea of walking out and abandoning the minutiae that added up to her very existence made Bea dizzy. Literally, physically dizzy.
She sat on the couch for a moment or two, steadying herself.
Then, in one sudden act of mental fortitude, she decided it was time to go. Now. Not tomorrow, now. Arthur might stumble on the evidence of her planning if she waited. And besides, it might be like everything else: The anticipation of the thing might be worse than the thing itself.
She loaded up the three boxes for Opal, and as much perishable food as she felt she could stuff into her face before it spoiled. She had a picnic cooler, so at least it would last two or three days if she used all the ice in her freezer.
She cleaned the litter box and carted it out to the van, placing it on the passenger-side floor.
Then she made her final trip—for Phyllis.
She scooped up the ancient cat, hugging the warm, purring body tightly to her chest, then placed her in a box she’d prepared, with holes for air. Phyllis likely wouldn’t be in it long. Just to go from trailer to van. But still, living things need air.
Phyllis—who had never been outside once in her life, and had not lived anywhere but the trailer in the eighteen years since Bea had adopted her as a kitten—yowled. It was a deep, threatened, and threatening sound, emanating from a place low in the cat’s throat. It was loud. It carried.
And of course Bea wanted no attention drawn to her nighttime retreat. So she ran like a thief, tossing the key to the trailer over her shoulder and onto the carpet, and leaving the door unlocked.
It was likely for the best, and probably saved Bea from another moment of abject panic. She was too busy racing out of her home of nineteen years to fully absorb what it meant to do so.
At least, in that moment.
Later it would catch Bea, and catch her hard. And she knew it.
But this was not later. And Bea had no intention of hurrying trouble along. So she only gunned the engine and tore away.
Chapter Six
Why Do You Have So Much, and Why Do I Have So Little?
Bea parked the van at something like ten a.m., and turned off the engine. She listened to the ticking of metal as it cooled.
She might have been in Ventura, or it might have been Oxnard. Bottom line, she had made it to the Pacific Ocean. And she had found a BuyMart parking lot where she could park under a light and a security camera.
For three weeks?
Maybe. BuyMart was vocal about welcoming RVers to park overnight. And wasn’t Bea just an RVer but with a smaller rig?
It had been a long drive, and the gas gauge hovered frighteningly under one-quarter. But she felt it had been worth it to get to the coast. It was always cooler by day and warmer by night at the coast.
Her first thought had been the mountains, but she was afraid. Towns were few and far between up there. What if she ran out of gas in exactly nowhere? What if there were no support services? She needed more than just a restroom. She needed access to water, and the safety of other people in case of emergency. She couldn’t just park in a wilderness setting. So she had aimed for the comfort of the beach climate, not at all sure the gas would last.
She saw a woman walking through the parking lot between cars, not far away. She powered down the driver’s window and called to her.
“Excuse me.”
The woman looked around. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Do you live around here?”
The woman’s face twisted into a mask of defense and suspicion.
“Why?”
“I just wondered what the weather’s been like here. Does it get hot in the day?”
“Midseventies,” the woman said, her face and body language relaxing some.
“What about night? Is it cold at night?”
“No. Not cold. Fifties, maybe.”
Bea waved her thanks and put the window back up. Removed her key from the ignition. She stepped into the back of the van and pulled the curtain closed behind her. Then she moved to the rear doors and pulled those curtains closed as well.
She lifted the box of cat from her easy chair and sat.
The plan had been to let Phyllis out immediately. And Bea had. But the cat had nearly caused an accident by hunkering down under the brake pedal, then throwing her full weight on the gas when Bea tried to move her with one foot. So she’d gone back in the box until the van was holding still. Until Phyllis could look around and get comfortable without causing trouble.
Bea opened the box, and Phyllis stuck her head out like a soldier daring to rise out of a foxhole on the front lines. As if missiles might whiz between her ears at any second. Then she leapt out of the box all at once and ducked under the curtain, disappearing into the van’s cab.
Bea sat back and sighed.
Well, here I am, she thought.
What followed qualified as her second moment of abject panic.
Here she was. For weeks. Now what? What was she supposed to do?
Bea felt overwhelmed with a sense of claustrophobia. The inside of the van felt close and dank. How could there be no more to her world than this? How was that even possible? What was she supposed to do to make these hours, these days, pass?
Breathe, Bea, she thought. Books. You brought books. And you can have a little something to eat.
But her stomach felt tight and chancy, and she read page after page without any absorption of the words and their meanings.