I looked again at the girl standing by my window. “Mommy, there’s a man sleeping in there,” I heard her say.
Without sitting up, I raised my hand and waved.
“He just waved at me,” she said, her voice filled with horrified delight.
“Get away from there, April,” her mother said. “Come on, this is just a quick potty break.”
“But shouldn’t I wave back?” the girl asked.
“No. Don’t wave at strangers. It’s a bad thing to do.”
I heard Lexy move in the backseat. “Don’t wave at strangers,” she said sleepily. “I love how parents make up the rules as they go along.”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s going to grow up with some sort of strange waving complex.” I watched as the girl and her mother walked across the parking lot toward the concrete octagon containing the rest rooms. Without turning back toward me, the girl stretched her hand out behind her and gave a small, secret wave, then skipped on ahead toward the building.
I laughed. “I take it back,” I said. “She knows what’s going on.”
I looked at the clock. It was nine A.M. “How long have we been here?” I asked.
She pulled herself into a sitting position and stretched her arms. “Since about seven,” she said. “I needed a break.”
“Any idea where we are?” I asked.
“Somewhere near Savannah, I think. Come on, let’s stretch our legs and then go get some breakfast.”
We went to freshen up in the rest stop bathrooms. I splashed some water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I was unshaven and my skin was creased from the fabric of the car seat, but I saw something in my face that I hadn’t seen in a long time. I looked relaxed, and happy. At peace. There was a small, easy smile on my lips. I felt exuberant, I felt the day stretched before me, filled with promise. I couldn’t wait to spend it with Lexy. I straightened my clothes and walked out into the sunshine to take my place among the husbands and boyfriends waiting for their women to come out of the bathroom.
Breakfast, which we ate at a roadside coffee shop, presented some problems. As we slid into the booth, Lexy said, “I think we’re going to need to establish some ground rules here. About eating.”
It took me a minute, but I finally got it. “Oh,” I said. “You mean, so we don’t accidentally end our date somewhere on I-95.”
“Right,” she said. “I’d hate to see it end here at the Waffle House.”
I scanned the menu. “Well,” I said, “there aren’t exactly any appetizers, but there’s a whole list of side dishes.”
“That’s good,” she said. “It’s kind of a paradox, isn’t it? What is a side dish if it’s not served on the side of anything? Does it become something else?”
“It’s a regular Zen koan,” I said. “I think I need some coffee before I can tackle that one.”
We had a crazy meal, grapefruit sections and sausages, bananas sliced in cream and pieces of rye toast. On our way out, we bought a map; we were about two hundred eighty miles from Orlando. I was amazed to see how far we had already come.
All through that day with Lexy, that sleepy, sunny day, I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The miracle of it is still so fresh in my mind, the strangeness she brought into my life almost from the moment we met. I felt as if, after a lifetime of listening, of parsing sentences and analyzing word choices without ever opening my mouth, I was having a conversation for the first time. When the day grew hotter and Lexy closed her eyes and slept in the light of the sun coming through the windshield, my mind was quick with questions I wanted to ask and stories I wanted to tell, and when we switched places and I slept for a while, I awoke with new words on my lips. By the time we reached Orlando, she knew most of what I had to say. She knew that I had grown up in New Hampshire, where my father worked in a slaughterhouse and came home smelling of blood. She knew that I spent a summer working in a mattress factory, where I once saw a man jump down the elevator shaft looking for a lost pencil, catch an elevator on his back, and live. I told her the name of the first girl I ever kissed. I told her things I hadn’t thought about in years.
Somehow, the subject of dreams came up. Lexy told me that she had kept a book of her dreams by her bed since she was a child and that she wrote each new one down as soon as she awoke. She sometimes thought, she said, that to read this book was to know everything about her, all of her fears and strange wishes, all of the places she could not go when she was awake. One night, when she was no more than four or five, she told me, she met a king who yelled at her for hiding behind his throne. Another night, when she was twelve, she found herself naked at one of her mother’s dinner parties. She told me her dreams, the most vivid ones, the ones that still came back on occasion and made her catch her breath, in a list, offering me her life in small pieces. She crawled through a basement on her hands and knees. She saw a horse cut apart until it was no more than a pile of bloody pieces, but still it lived and breathed and looked at her with one wide eye. She gave birth to a baby, but there had been no father. She fell from a great height. Her name changed from day to day. She planted a garden in her bed and awoke to find lush roses and daisies and ivy tendrils wrapped snug around her body. She wandered through a mansion, and her mouth was filled with broken glass. She swam underwater all the way to England without having to take a breath. Her arms grew long and her legs grew short. She visited an ice cream shop and ordered a flavor called Fury. The ice cream was greenish-red, cold and strong and meaty; even now, she could remember its taste. She told me how, once, her teeth had fallen out one by one, and how, another time, she had had the strength to lift a man over her head. She got married in a cathedral whose walls collapsed before she could meet her groom. Wild dogs chased her through a field. A horrible rash covered her from head to toe. She walked barefoot through the streets and grass sprang up before her. She was being chased but could not move. A swarm of butterflies landed all over her body.
The day was warm, and we drove with the windows open. Breeze on my arms as I drove. Savor it now, the day, the breeze. Run the memory of it over your tongue. Speak it aloud; there’s no one listening. Say “sun” and “hot” and “day.” Close your eyes and remember the moment, the warm pink life of it. Lexy’s body in the seat next to mine. Her voice filling the car. Let it wash over you. It ends soon enough.
EIGHT
I have heard that sometimes when a person has an operation to transplant someone else’s heart or liver or kidney into his body, his tastes in foods change, or his favorite colors, as if the organ has brought with it some memory of its life before, as if it holds within it a whole past that must find a place within its new host. This is the way I carry Lexy inside me. Since the moment she took up residency within me, she has lent her own color to the way I see and hear and taste, so that by now I can barely distinguish between the world as it seemed before and the way it seems now. I cannot say what air tasted like before I knew her or how the city smelled as I walked its streets at night. I have only one tongue in my head and one pair of eyes, and I stopped being able to trust them a long time ago. There’s nothing new I can say about Disney World, nothing you haven’t already heard or seen for yourself. All I can tell you is that I was there with Lexy.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Magic Kingdom about four-thirty that afternoon. I had suggested we find a hotel before making our way to the park—this was a popular vacation week, and I was a little worried about finding a place that had vacancies—but Lexy insisted.