Once Again

Once Again (29)

“Owen?” I ask, my voice wavering. In the eternity that has passed since I dialed the phone number I have begun the process of officially ‘losing it.’ These past few weeks have been too much for me to handle. When I saw my dad with some other woman, it was just my breaking point.

“Cara, its James.” I immediately breathe a sigh of relief when I hear a voice finally come through. But then as I exhale, I realize I don’t know what to say. I am confused, and even pause to check the screen, verifying the number I had dialed. It was Owen’s. However, it’s James’ voice coming through.  

“Cara?” He says again, this time a quizzical question rather than a greeting.

“Cara?” Now the voice is worried. It is this tone that finally gets me to speak.

“James, it’s me.” Everything is threatening to come pouring out, but I try my best to let only the main points trickle through. “I got a flat tire while driving on the interstate. I’m at some scary exit’s motel. I don’t know what to do.” I don’t know what I want him to do either, but I know I need to talk to someone. “I can’t call my parents.” I expect him to question this, but to my relief he doesn’t. I hear muffled whispers as I wait for him to find out what is going to happen next.

“Where exactly are you?” He asks, having conferred with Owen.

“I’m not sure.”

“How long have you been driving? Which way were you driving on the interstate? What exit are you at?”

I pause. I hadn’t realized how far I had gone until he specifically asks. “3 hours.” I force myself to think hard about the other questions. “East. Exit twenty-something, I think. There was a billboard for a furniture store on it. A corner was peeling off.”

And then he proves that we really are friends again. “Me and Owen are on our way.”

“Okay,” I say in a tone that is barely above a whisper.

I search my brain for the information he wants, but it’s hard to remember; I hadn’t been paying much attention. “East.” I will myself to think of something else, something useful. “There was a split billboard right before the exit. Half was for a flea market and the other half for a furniture store. One corner was peeling off.”

“James?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah?” He replies.

I want to admit to him that I am scared, but I don’t. Instead, I ask “What do I do?”

“What do you mean? Just stay there. We are on our way.”

“I mean that I’m sitting in a sketchy parking lot. It’s late. What if...” I don’t finish my sentence. I don’t want to let James know the extent of the paranoia in my mind. Because my fear is composed partly of paranoia and partly of the reality of being stranded, alone in the parking lot of a run-down motel, late at night.

“Do you have any money or a credit card?” He asks.

‘’Yeah.”

“You’re already at a motel, right? Just go inside and get a room.” I know that I asked him for a solution to my dilemma, and now he has provided one. However, this means I have to get out of my car. And while I don’t feel completely safe in the immobilized hunk of metal, at least I am not out in the open. “Just stay on the phone with me. Be alert and keep an eye open.” He advises. “How far is it to the office?”

“Um, a hundred feet,” I estimate.

“You’ll be fine.” At first it seems as if he might be trying to tell me that I am being irrational, but I also get the sense that he is saying the words with compassion.

His reassurance is enough to get me to slowly step out of my car. Then, making sure that I talk to James the entire way, I quickly cover the ground between me and the door labeled ‘OFFICE.’

Inside, I ask the balding man behind the desk for one room. He smiles a gap-toothed, skeevy smile at me, and I refuse to look at him. I hand over the card when he requests it, and politely thank him when he offers me my room key.

“Want me to walk you to your room, sweet thang?” I am tempted to either vomit out of disgust or run in fear of the exact type of man I was trying to avoid by staying in my car. I control myself, and do neither.

“No. No thank you.” I grasp the card tightly in my hand. “I’ve got the key, James, I’ll be right there.” Instinct causes me to say these words into a phone, directed at a boy a hundred miles away. I can only hope that if the desk clerk thinks there is someone waiting for me outside, he will be less tempted to try anything weird.

I walk briskly out of the office, breathing in the night air. I quickly find the room listed on my key; I had parked my car almost directly in front of the door. I let myself in the room, and once the door is shut, I lock every lock available, and pull the curtains tightly closed.

I let myself breathe once again, not realizing that I had been holding my breath. “I’m in the room.” I say, updating James on my status. Then I hear something beep. “Shit,” I say, cursing unintentionally. “My phone battery is low.” I almost repeat a few more choice words, but manage to keep them contained in my head.

“Okay, in a minute you’ll have to hang up, so that you can use your phone later, if you need to.”

“Okay,” I say once again.

“It will be alright, Cara. I promise. Owen and I will be there soon.” I hear the sound of a car engine starting as he thanks me and says goodbye. I hang up the phone, and instantly feel ten times more alone and scared.

I sit back on the bed, relieved that help is on the way. But as 15, 20, 30 minutes pass, my anxiety amplifies. I realize I am alone in a scary motel, and will be for at least 3 hours. I sit down on the edge of the bed and use the remote to turn on the old TV. I flip through the channels, watching bits and pieces of baseball games, reality TV shows, and reruns. Nothing holds my interest, until I turned to the local news, which holds me captive for the next couple hours. I can’t change the channel no matter how much the negative stories add to my fear.