It took us
the whole winter to plan the trip because Molly kept changing her mind so many
times. She wasn’t sure how far north she wanted to go.
In the end, her
dad helped to settle things for us. Tucson to Phoenix, then down Route 93, as
far up north as Molly wanted, before we turned and drove home again.
He also gave us
a bunch of his friends’ addresses on Route 93 whom we could count on for a hot
meal and bed. Back in the day he’d made a lot of pals on the route and he’d
kept in touch with every single one in true trucker style.
Mr. Beak,
Molly’s Dad, warned us not to drive the nights. I figured he was worried Molly
wouldn’t be able to take the strain of it, so we had to plan our trip
meticulously to get to ‘safe-havens’ for the night.
Route 93 was
Molly’s idea. She had read this December 1992 National Geographic magazine at
her grandfather’s place in Montana, where the writer Michael Parfit had covered
life on the highway. He had written so melodiously about it, it obviously got
to Mols’ imagination.
She couldn’t believe
that something as mundane as Route 93 in Phoenix, close to home in Tucson,
could be made to sound so magical. She said she wanted to go.
She pestered
Mr. Beak to take her. But the old man couldn’t face another drive down the
route and her brothers weren’t willing to leave their families behind and hang
out with her on the highway for weeks.
So I offered
to go.
That spring Molly
and I got our driving licenses. It’s an understatement to say that we were
excited. We were finally free. We could go places. Or so we thought.
We also had
to prepare mentally to take the trip because Mr. Beak had warned us about the ‘el
silencio’ of Route 93.
I laughed
when I heard the phrase.
He gave me
strange look. You’ll know when you get there, he seemed to say.
“What do you
mean?” I asked jokingly.
It was going
to be just us on the highway. No parents. No friends. Just us and the road. We
had to get used to the long hours of driving in silence and seeing absolutely
nobody for miles.
“You’ll hate
it,” he muttered.
My dad
allowed us to borrow his old truck and Molly and I were thrilled that we would
be driving the same way both our dads had done before us. We were the next
generation of truckers, carting things up north and then back home to Texas
again.
We were packed
and ready by Sunday, May the 1st,2022.
I drove up
the front drive of Molly’s house.
Her entire
family was there to see her off. I shook hands with her older brothers and
their wives. Her mother kissed me on the cheek, and Mr. Beak slapped my back. I
was among good, old friends.
Molly took
one look at me and grinned a half-smile.
Then she got
in the front passenger side, kicked off her shoes, and put her feet up on the
dashboard. Nobody told her she could do that. She just did. And I think she
believed it would be all right with me.
Her dad took
my hand. “Mark, I’m indebted,” he said, “If, at any time, you want to call the
whole thing off, you ring me. We’ll drive over and meet you wherever.”
I smiled a
reassuring smile that I hoped would convey to him that there would be no need
for that at all.
“All right, sir,”
I said, “We’ll be going now.”
The sun
streamed in from the passenger side and Molly’s brown hair glistened blonde.
“Bye, Mom!”
she cried with faint excitement, “Bye, Dad!”
“Bye, Mr.
Beak,” I said, trying to make my voice sound more jovial, “Goodbye Paul! Bye
Ryan! Goodbye ma’am.”
As her family
slowly faded out of view, I turned my eyes from the rearview mirror to the windscreen.
The sun beat down on us, and I felt a nervous thrill flow through my body like
electricity.
“Mols,” I
asked, “want some music on?”
She shook her
head and then put on her earphones.
We started
the journey in absolute silence.
I could
almost hear Mr. Beak telling me that it would take us 4 hours to get from
Tucson to Phoenix. And, already, el silencio had descended.
*
Molly’s mom
had given me strict warning not to let her remain quiet for long, so I made up
my mind to get her to talk every fifteen minutes. We had only just begun. There
was still a long way to go. Our first stop would be Phoenix.
I put my
hands on the steering wheel with the lightness of a butterfly. The engine
throbbed beneath my feet, and hummed a merry tune. I glanced across at Molly.
A wave of
sadness washed over me. The poor…
I distracted
myself quickly and focused on driving. But my thoughts kept running back to her
with the surety of summer waves slapping an ocean shore. I could tell that
Molly’s mind was roaring, roaring with doubts, questions, pain, and sheer
disbelief. All she wanted was to be alone on the road, by herself, trying, like
a cat to unravel the massive tangle of thoughts that were slowly taking her
down.
Her mother
was worried.
“No good
comes from thinking,” she would say, “You have to get her to talk.”
But I didn’t
want Molly to talk, if Molly didn’t want to talk. I wanted her to heal, on the
inside, before she could tell the rest of us what had happened to her.
I stole
another sideways glance at Molly. Her blue eyes were glistening, and I could
tell it had begun. She was rummaging, sorting, picking, investigating…all on
the verge of tears…
“Mols,” I
said, “Excited about Nevada?”
She didn’t
respond. I don’t think she even heard me.
“What about
the Grand Canyon?”
There was a
deathly pale look on her face, but she kept her face firmly fixed on the view
outside.
“And
Montana?”
I wondered if
anything I was saying was even entering her head.
In
frustration I decided to talk out aloud.
“Sometimes
life just happens Mols. Bad things happen, I don’t think we ever get answers.
There isn’t cause and effect and consequence and…and…legitimacy…sometimes there
are random things that happen. And it may have just happened to you. Now, now…”
I was afraid
that my pep talk was going too far, that Mols might lash out, that the sky
would open and it would pour down rain on us… I was afraid…
“Besides,
you’re safe now…. Can’t you let things go?”
Then I hated
myself for saying that out loud. I knew, I knew as Molly’s best friend, that
you can’t let things go. You can’t just brush elephants under carpets and
pretend that things are okay when they’re not. You can’t have a dead skunk in
the house, and pretend there’s no stench. You can’t…. But that’s what we all
wanted Molly to do. We wanted her to smile again, to laugh, to be our vivacious
Molly, and not this half-alive version of our golden girl. Wasn’t that pure
selfishness on our part? Weren’t we irresponsibly putting ourselves first?
“I’m sorry,”
I said, and at that point I was sure I was just talking to myself, “That came
out all wrong. You’ve got every right to be angry and upset, Molly. You’ve got
every right….I’m sorry…”
But I
couldn’t remain quiet. I couldn’t stay silent. I couldn’t shut up, I wanted to
say something to her, something that would soothe the storm-tossed one, and feel
like a ray of hope to her. I wanted to put all the broken pieces back together
again and have her say to me on highway 93, “I’m healed now. Let’s grab a
burger when we get to Phoenix.” I wanted to fix her from the inside, so she
would never have to go through what she was feeling right now.
Why did I
want all of that?
Because when
you love someone, you can’t see them in pain. But you know, instinctively know,
that unless they come to terms with their grief, you can’t either, and as long
as they are grieving you will be grieving too… it’s a back-and-forth thing.
“It’s selfish
of me, Molly,” I whispered, “I know you’re not the type to wallow. Nor are you
the type to pretend, but it’s killing me just as much as it’s killing you. So
at some point we have to talk about it because I’m dying as well! A part of me
is dying as well….”
And then I loathed
myself.
So, I shut
up.
I told myself
that Molly didn’t owe us answers.
She had to
find them by herself first. She had to do this alone.
I could only
watch from the sidelines, and be there for her when she wanted me to. I
couldn’t… I couldn’t… I couldn’t rush in there like a protective mama bear and
defend herself from all the hurt in the world. I couldn’t even though that’s
what I wanted to do.
So, we drove
in complete silence to Phoenix. I wiped my eyes. Molly didn’t budge from her
spot.
I knew better
than to poke a hornet’s nest. It was when we both settled down for lunch at a
Phoenix diner that Molly suddenly turned to me and whispered, “You don’t even
know the half of it, Mark.”
*
Back in
Tucson, I knew Molly’s mom would be worried.
So, I called
her from my cell.
“Hi Mrs.
Beak,” I said when she picked up.
“Hi Mark,”
she said and then, “How’s Molly? Is she cheerful?”
“She seems
all right, ma’am. Didn’t talk much, but there was no crying either, so that’s
some good news, isn’t it?”
“All right,
honey, you make sure she takes her pills on time, and if she says she can hear
anything, you report it to me.”
I agreed and
disconnected the line.
Molly’s
pills…and the voices…right, I could remember that.
I went back to
the diner and back to our place.
“Mols,” I
said, “Want to check out Phoenix or drive through?”
“Drive
through.”
“Okay.”
“Are you okay
Mark?” she asked, after removing the metal Coke straw from her mouth.
That’s when I
want to tell Molly the whole truth, that I’m not okay, that I can’t be until I
know she is, and that our lives will never be the same again. But I don’t have
the courage to have the “talk”.
I don’t…
“I’m okay,
your mom said to take the medicines timely…we’ll be staying with a Matt Rodgers
in Wikieup…that’s as far as I’m driving today.”
Molly nodded.
“Thanks,” she
said, “you’re a good friend.”
I felt
comforted when she said that, so I plucked up the courage to ask her, “Are you
hearing the voices again, Molly?”
She wouldn’t
answer.
“You need to
tell me if you are,” I said firmly.
Then Molly
gives me one of her sass-filled looks and laughed. It’s a full-throated laugh.
It’s almost frightening.
“They don’t
stop Mark,” she says.
And I know
how much pain that answer must bring her. Because I don’t know what it feels
like…I don’t want to know what it feels like…I don’t want Molly to live with
such an unexplainable disease for the rest of her life.
I asked
Molly’s psychologist the same questions that were pounding against my chest
now. Why were the voices diabolical? If psychosis was a problem with the nerve
transmission, why wasn’t Molly hearing sounds like “La-la-la” or “Badum badum
badum” or “poink” or I don’t know…! Why was she hearing actually meaningful
words, with an actual meaningful intention, with an actual meaningful agendum?
That certainly beggared belief.
The
psychologist did not have any answers. Yet he prescribed medication and said the
psyche was still unexplored, like an iceberg, keeping most of its secrets
hidden. I’m not very stupid nor am I very bright, but I do know what happens
when the hardware fails…the software won’t function…but it won’t or shouldn’t
function manipulatively, the way the voices in Molly’s head had functioned.
Their chief goal, and this Molly had told us then, was to get her to kill
herself.
*
We sat on a
rock and stared out into the red canyon. The summer sun was setting behind us
and we watched the shadows creep up.
“Mark,”
whispered Molly.
“What is it?”
“I’m not
afraid anymore.”
I turned to
look at her. The ice-cream dripped from the waffle cone. What isn’t she afraid
of?
“I’m not afraid.”
I didn’t
probe her any further. I believed it was important to let Molly talk of her own
accord, talk until she wanted answers from her interlocutor, until she asked
for them.
“I don’t care
if they keep messing with my head…I’m just going to let them. I can’t fight
this, Mark. I just can’t.”