The Past-Life Chronicles

12

As we venture southwest of home, the landscape doesn't differ much from Ohio; just a whole lot of flat land, open fields, and dilapidated barns, with the occasional working-class neighborhood or mobile home community. By the time we cross the border from southern Indiana into southern Illinois, hunger is our unanimous interest.

Going by the road signs promising gas stations and fast food, Henry takes an exit, carrying us into another small Midwestern town. There's barely anything here but a Home Depot, two gas stations across the street from each other, a McDonald's, and a bunch of gnarly, naked trees leaning precariously over miles of telephone wire.

"I guess no choice but Mickey D's?" I say.

"What's that place?" Mason points.

Henry slows the car. There's no one else on the road but an eighteen-wheeler pulling out of the gas station in the opposite direction. He squints behind his glasses. "Mae's Diner," he reads the faded lettering over the cheap-looking vinyl building. "Is it even open?"

"Looks like it," Mason says. "There're some pickups parked on the side. That must be the entrance."

"Homemade lemon meringue pie," I read from the sign in the window as we roll closer. "I'm sold. McDonald's doesn't have lemon meringue pie."

"Mae's it is, then." Henry pulls into the unpaved parking lot and parks the sedan adjacent to the line of rusty pickups.

My knees feel creaky as I stretch them for the first time in hours and exit the car. I bend down to massage them, then hitch my handbag over my shoulder. Henry holds the door open for me, and the guys follow me in.

A freestanding 'Please Be Seated' sign greets us over super old-fashioned black-and-white tiles. I glance from wall to wall. The place is decorated like any other diner, with Americana across the twentieth century. A mishmash of dusty black frames covers the walls, showcasing pictures both in color and black-and-white of classic cars, American musicians, and magazine ads from the 1940s through sixties. A giant buck head stares out over the bar area, antlers sprawled in a mighty breadth, meeting two doorframes—supposedly leading to the kitchen—on either side. I recoil, sure that it's real. In most parts of the States, it's still cool to kill animals for sport. My Wiccan mom would lose her mind if she saw it.

"Where do you want to sit?" Mason asks.

I select a booth by the window, where we can keep an eye on his car. "How about here?"

The guys unzip their coats as I slide into the booth. Mason sits next to me. My stepbrother lowers himself across from us, carefully removing his glasses.

As we're settling in, a middle-aged waitress who still styles her hair and makeup like it's 1975 hands us each a sticky, one-page menu. I order a glass of ice water with lemon, then turn to stare out the window. My stomach feels weird.

The waitress walks away. Save for us and a man eating alone at a table toward the back, the diner is empty. Faint country western music warbles from a speaker above our heads, and I catch the unappetizing smell of bleach.

"Hmm." Henry peruses the menu which, I now notice, consists solely of red meat, burgers, and fried chicken strips. "How do I want to clog my arteries today?"

Mason smirks. "Not much of a meat eater?"

Henry glances up. "What makes you say that?"

Without thinking, I swat my menu playfully at my stepbrother's knuckles. "Henry eats everything under the sun. He's just trying to sound sophisticated."

Henry grins at me. I grin back, and my heart does a strange little flip-flop.

Wait.

I feel my face warm up. That wasn't supposed to happen. No, my heartbeat does that weird jerky stuff for Mason—Mason, not Henry.