A white pickup truck appears in the rearview mirror. It’s barreling out of the fog like it’s trying to run us down. Within seconds it’s rumbling in the lane next to us.
The windows are down on both sides. Three bear-sized men sit shoulder to shoulder across the bench seat, each wearing a trucker’s hat and a cut-off flannel or a muscle T. The one on the passenger side catches me looking. He pumps his fist and whoops, “Fuck yeah!” He’s in bad need of a shave. Flecks of tobacco spot his teeth and lips.
Monica stirs from her slouch against the passenger door. She hooks her black hair with her finger and slides it behind her ear. She gets the move from her mother, who I’ve watched do the same with her hair for the past twenty years. The same black hair. Hopefully the dull thump of rain on the roof and windshield and the ticking of the wipers muffle the chaos in the passing lane and she’ll stay asleep.
The white pickup edges ahead of us and starts to pull away. A wet dog cowers in the bed behind the cab. It looks at me, pleading with its eyes before the truck disappears into the mist and rain ahead. Its red brake lights quickly fade out of sight.
Monica is awake now. “What was that noise?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Rednecks, from the looks of them.”
“Don’t judge,” she says. “Where the fuck are we?”
“I’ve heard enough of that word,” I remind her. I give her a stern look but she’s looking out the window. “A sign a few miles back said Richmond 65. So about an hour from the state line.”
Her hair is matted to her pale forehead. She scratches her forearms through the purple long-sleeve shirt she had on when I picked her up.
I tell her there’s more napkins in the glovebox.
She grabs some and wipes sweat from her face and forehead. She drops them at her feet, where the floor is growing crowded with wet paper each time she wakes up. There’s a thick, dirty smell coming from her that fills the car.
It’s three hours from Richmond to Hephzibah House. I’m not stopping. Not even for traffic. If I get pulled over, any God-loving police officer will see the good in what I’m doing, especially if he’s a father. I can’t even think about the ways Cody defiled her. Cody and whoever else.
Monica squirms behind her seatbelt and leans her head against the window. She points her knees away from me and leans into the space between the seat and the door. I had forgotten how she can shrink herself. How she’d burrow in her mother’s arms to nurse or nap. She’s not sleeping, though. She’s staring vaguely at the rain and blur of wet green trees and fields out the window.
“This is all part of His plan,” I tell her. I tap the wooden cross hanging from the rearview mirror. “All this rain washing away everything and bringing new life. We’re crossing a border. It’s all very symbolic.” I reach for her forearm and caress her beneath the soft purple shirt.
She swats my hand away.
“All part of His plan.”
“Did you ever think me leaving was part of whatever plan?” she asks.
The way her voice hangs at the end of the question, she wants to say more. I won’t engage. I won’t give her that.
“As if there’s one fucking plan for everything. You don’t think about a person making her own plan. Or about infinite plans playing out all at the same time. And you fucking lied to me to get me in the car. Nice plan.”
She’s further gone than we thought. She’s right about the lie. “I confessed that to you,” I tell her. “And I’ve forgiven myself. It was necessary. There’s a bigger scene playing out here than me lying to you.”
“Was Paula part of His plan? Or were you following your dick’s plan? Either way, one of you is a massive asshole.”
“Your mother and I talked about Paula. And I’ve forgiven myself.” Girls get wild notions at her age when they are confused. You expect you’re going to deal with it. But if you keep your faith you can see your way through.
I want to talk sense to her, but when I look over she’s closed her eyes.
She wanted to be found, whether she knows it or not. She couldn’t have thought we wouldn’t find her when she went through Western Union. Hephzibah House is still a long ways away. So there’s plenty of time to talk about that. The pastor promised we’d have improved relationships with her. Good character. A work ethic. Being a Godly wife and mother would follow. His program guarantees it.
But one step at a time.
Red brake lights materialize from the mist ahead of us. I turn up the wipers to deal with the spray coming off whatever is up there. We slowly close in on the vehicle until I can make out a white tailgate. I tap the brakes, hoping we’ll fade away without anybody noticing us. I reach for Monica’s forearm again and place my hand on it as gently as possible.
The gas gauge reads half full. I’m trying not to think about it. I’m scared to stop for fear Monica will run off. Probably find any group of ruffians in a white pickup truck. Codys, all of them. She’s like a magnet for trash.
Please, God. Just reverse her polarity.
