Headlights
C.J. Leede
For Nick,
Our lights are on for you, always
Over this odd world, this half the world that’s dark now, I have to hunt a thing that lives on tears.
—Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs
You shine on, boy.
—Stephen King, The Shining
COLORADO
Somewhere far off there is a motel and a gas station. Farther still, restaurants and houses.
At intervals, headlights cut through the night. Emphasize how black and looming, how impenetrable the road, and the dark.
An occasional car with the occasional passenger, two headlight beams stretching before them. The night swallowing the light.
And beneath it all, silent and waiting, For a traveler to know when it is too late, when the last breath escapes his body, and his blood slows to a crawl and then stop, There are heartbeats in the dark.
I
ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH
1
Then
“Is it the Bad Decision?”
I hear Mom’s question, but it takes me a second to tear my eyes away from the screen.
She stands in the dressing area. The too-bright mirror bulb lighting her from the back. She’s brushing her hair. The mirror behind her is clean the way she likes it, and the door to the bathroom is open with the light on and the shower curtain pulled back. It’s the only part of our room that isn’t orange and yellow—white shower, white curtain, white toilet and floor. Mom says the curtain is off-white. I can’t tell the difference.
I don’t want to leave, but she says it’s almost time. I nod my head to answer her question.
“Are we going now?” I ask. We haven’t packed yet, but she has her makeup on.
“Don’t you worry, we’ll have dinner first, then I’ll get us ready.”
I’m cross-legged on the orange and yellow carpet, two feet from the television screen, wearing my socks and long johns. My favorite movie is on, Take Me Home, the John Denver story. My mom loves it too. Right now, John Denver—not real John Denver but the actor named Chad Lowe who plays him—goes off with the girl at the party on tour. That’s the Bad Decision.
“Why is it bad again?” I ask, even though I know why.
She smiles, says for the hundredth time, “A Bad Decision is one that you regret making, and one that takes you away from what really makes you happy. A Bad Decision is when you betray yourself for what you think will make you happy even if you know deep down it won’t.”
Happy.
We’ve lived at the Happy Inn for the last six months. We had to try a couple rooms before we found one that didn’t give me a Bad Feeling, that didn’t have shadows in it. She said that was okay, that my Bad Feelings are important to listen to. She says some people have special antennas that pick up special signals, and she knew since I was little that I’m one of them.
At first the clowns on the sign and in the office scared me, and I didn’t like the bright yellow and orange carpet and blankets in our room, but I like the sunrise paintings, and I like the VHS player my mom bought us so I can watch my favorite movies. I like the way she hums and sings along to all the songs in Take Me Home while I watch, and the way she ruffles my hair when she walks by to show me she loves me more than anything.
I like that he hasn’t come.
“What kind of pizza are we getting?” I ask.
“Whatever you want, my Danny boy.”
Danny isn’t my real name. My mom wanted to name me that, but my dad said my name was going to be Calvin, just like his. When he comes around, we have to call me Calvin, but he hasn’t come in a long time. Here in the motel, I’m Danny. It’s our secret. A shining name for my shining boy, Mom says. It’s from that book she’s always carrying around, that dirty crinkled old paperback she’s had as long as I can remember, that comes to every new place we live. But she says I’m not allowed to read it, not until I’m older.
I check the clock. It’s Friday, which is pizza day, but we can’t order until five. That’s the rule. It’s only 4:56, but it’s been dark outside for a while already. The news says it’ll be a cold winter. Mom keeps talking about it too. She turns back to the mirror and fixes her lipstick. She touches one of the glass root beer bottles on the counter, the ones we always have on special occasions. Mom seems nervous. My heart beats faster. Bad Feeling in my stomach.
I want her to talk. Tell me it’s okay.
“Mom, what kind of pizza are you—”
“Shh,” she says, smoothing down her hair. “You’ll miss your favorite part.”
I turn back to the TV. John goes back to Annie and says sorry by playing “Annie’s Song,” which he just wrote for her. My mom and Annie don’t look alike, Annie has brown hair and pale skin, and my mom’s hair is bleached like Dolly’s, and her skin is tan. But they remind me of each other just the same. Safe and warm and smiling. My hair is darker than my mom’s, but it’s not as dark as Dad’s, and I hope it stays that way.
I watch the clock. I’m not afraid. I’m not. Wherever we go next, we’ll be together. But …
“Mom, I have a Bad Feeling.”
She turns, looks at me, and for a second listens to me. Then a funny look comes over her face, and I don’t know what it means.