We're bouncing along in an old Ford pick-up. Technically, it's a flat-bed. Behind the yellow and thoroughly beaten cab is a weathered piece of wood nestled into a rusted frame. The inside of the cab is one long bench seat, both of us buckled in by lap belts. There is no music, nor is there a possibility of music as the space where the radio used to be hangs slack-jawed. I've tied my hair into an inelegant pile at the top of my head to keep it from flying out of the windows that are cranked all the way open. Davis is drumming the steering wheel and operating the stick shift. His hair's landscape formed by a thick pink headband.
"There's water in the glove box," he yells over the road noise. After wrestling with the locking mechanism I finally free a metal thermos. I take a swig and hand it to Davis, who takes a long drink. Then, not wanting to deal with the glove box again, I stuff it into the empty radio hole. Davis catches a side glance at me with a warm, lopsided grin. We're headed north, and have already passed through Santa Fe. I've done this drive before. Mostly two lane highway. Big sandy-colored mountains in the distance, little red rock formations growing out of the side of the road. We pass pueblos and casinos. The fast but warm air from the windows is just enough to keep us from being really uncomfortable.
I'm nervous. I know that you already knew that I have a crush on Davis, but I'm only fully able to admit it to myself here, on this decrepit seat that I'm sharing with him. Even as a grown woman, crushes are mortifying and debilitating. I get consumed instantly like paper kindling, as "The Crush" demands all the oxygen and reducing me to ashes. I honestly don't know how we survive it when we are younger. To be clear, The Crush is not the person. If I simply liked Davis or found him attractive I would be fine. The Crush is its own entity. The Crush is insatiable. It wants information. It wants proximity. As close as I am to Davis at this moment, The Crush wants to be closer. The Crush wants to study the creases on his hand that's operating the stick shift, wants specs on knuckle-to-finger ratio.
This is the same impulse that, in high school, drove my friends and me to learn the schedules of the boys we didn't know but loved all the same. I remember getting the bathroom pass and going, not to the bathroom, but to the gymnasium to stand on my tip toes and watch Mike McKenna miss a jump shot. Still in his street clothes (he was too cool to change for gym), his long feathered hair rose up with his jump and came down after him. It was The Crush that made me do that. In hindsight, this is definitely why I nearly flunked math that year. Now, in real time, I feel the pull of The Crush and the repulsion of reality working on me. You would think that these things would cancel each other out, but they don't. They pull me apart, separating reason from want, beckoning my body towards him and pushing my head out of the open window.
"Can we stop for a few minutes?" We've been driving for what feels about an hour. I have no watch, I left without my phone, and this rotting dashboard offers no helpful information. I am reaching critical mass, mostly because there are no distractions. No music or conversation lets The Crush run wild with alternate, dangerous soundtracks and talk tracks. I need to get grounded.
"Sure, I know a good spot."
After a few turns, we descend into a valley. Davis parks the truck on the side of the road. I get out and stretch when I hear water rushing. Davis is rooting around behind the seats of the truck and comes up with a couple of brown paper bags.
"Snack?" he offers.
"Always."
Davis leads me down a steep, shrub-covered hill to a grouping of flat orange rocks that overlook a river. All around us rise tall stone formations, not mountains exactly, but imposing enough. Gradations of orange, white and cream. It's beautiful.
"This is the Chama River," Davis tells me. "It's a tributary of the Rio Grande." He then goes on to tell me that a tributary is a small river that flows into a larger river, not to be confused with estuary. No chance in my confusion. I thought a tributary is what you are when you volunteer to go to The Hunger Games and an estuary gives you a high end facial.
The brown paper bag contains a bounty of fruit. Maryn's words, "You can't go on eating shit," ring in my head. I peel a clementine and savor the sweetness of each piece, an antidote to the sweat running down my back. I find shade under the tallest trees I've seen since we've moved to New Mexico. I take off my shoes and socks, and stick my feet into the cold, rushing water. It shocks the parts of myself that were splintering apart under the weight of The Crush and snaps them back together. Davis is sunning himself like a lizard, happily soaking up the heat. I carefully walk into the river a little further. The smooth rocks are under my feet. I roll up my overalls and get as deep as I can. A flash out of the corner of my eye is certainly Fischer. I almost catch his literal tail-end, but I'm too slow. The apparition is morphing into a memory of camping with him by the Pecos River. I flatten it out in my mind, smudging the details into something I can barely make out. The tears on my cheeks are no longer a surprise; I only wish they were cold. This is how it is, missing someone. Every memory a precarious wound that you find yourself traversing without warning. I wade back out and splash water on my face.
"We better get going," Davis says and points to the sky. While the sun is relentlessly present here on these rocks, in the distance there is a block of grey clouds decorated with a long curtain of rain. "Looks like the monsoon is early today. We want to try and beat it."
YOU ARE READING
Following Fish
ChickLit"The day my husband committed himself to inpatient treatment was the same day my dog died." When your life falls apart, and the pieces are so small and few that you can hold them in one hand, what do you do? Lucee Lekki decides to slip them into her...
