The Truth of Letting Go Page 9

  “Oh good, you’re awake,” I say, probably a little too cheerfully but I’m too panicked to moderate my tone right now. “We’re about to get dinner. Got any suggestions?”

  She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even blink. I lean over and pull back the tiny curtain that covers the small window at the back of the RV. Sunlight pours into the small bedroom. “Cece?” I say, sitting next to her. “I’m starving. What do we want to eat?”

  Her eyes slowly travel toward me, but there’s no recognition in her gaze. “Burgers?” It feels like there’s cotton balls in my mouth but I’m doing my best to stay calm. “Pizza? Mexican? I could go for anything.”

  She looks away. The only movement is the steady rise and fall of her chest. I haven’t seen her like this in so long. We were preteens the last time she was stuck in bed and I sat next to her, bouncing up and down and poking her in the arm in an attempt to liven her up. It didn’t work back then and it’s not working now. Has she really been going through days like this while I’ve been living under the same roof? Have I been that oblivious to my cousin’s condition?

  I remember our family therapist describing the lows of manic depression. She said it’s not like how normal people consider themselves depressed and sad. True depression removes all feelings and leaves someone with only numbness. I lean over and take Cece’s hand, pulling it into my lap. She doesn’t resist, but she doesn’t look at me either.

  “Hey, are you okay? You want to talk about anything?”

  Part of me knows she won’t answer, but I keep trying. As much as I dislike hyperactive Cece, this is worse. So much worse. “Cece, I know I haven’t been there for you much lately,” I say, squeezing her hand in mine. “But I’m here now. Whatever you need, I’m here, okay?”

  That stomach tightening scent of Ezra’s shampoo fills the air and I see him approach, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. I lean forward and brush the hair out of Cece’s eyes. Her gaze is unfocused, unblinking, as she stares at the wall. “You want to go back and break into that car dealership?” I wiggle my eyebrows. “We’ll wear ski masks and they’ll never catch us.”

  No response.

  I glance back at Ezra. His eyes, formerly cute and carefree about this trip, have been transformed as he watches the scene in front of him. Now when I look at him, all I see is fear. For once since he came back into our lives, we’re on the same page.

  My parents will be home in four days. In the twice daily phone calls with my mom, I have assured her that we are home safe, bored, and doing nothing out of the ordinary. In reality, I’m camped out in a state park with my depressed cousin and a guy we haven’t talked to in years. If the odds of winning the lottery were as slim as the odds of Cece keeping this trip a secret, no one would ever buy a ticket again.

  These are the things that worry me as I lie on my back, staring at the yellowing plastic ceiling of the Winnebago. It’s seven in the morning, Ezra is sleeping in the fold out bed across the aisle from me. He’s on his back, both hands tucked under his pillow. I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, hear the soft sound of his breathing.

  In the back, Cece doesn’t make a peep. I had to pee twice last night—anxiety peeing, my mother would call it—but Cece never got up once. I don’t know how long this depression will last. I struggle with deciding if we should go back to the dealership today or if I should quietly wake up Ezra and ask him to drive us home as fast as this old thing will go.

  I’m so deep in inner contemplation that I barely notice when Ezra rolls onto his side. “What are you thinking about?”

  I look over at him. His sleepy eyes are framed by thick dark eyebrows and a well-defined jaw. I exhale slowly. “You don’t want to know.”

  He props his head up on his hand. “Try me.”

  “Well…” I shift to my side so I can see him better. “I’m thinking about how insane this is. That there’s no possible way I’ll get of out this without getting in a ridiculous amount of trouble.” His perfectly shaped lips twist into a grin, like he enjoys seeing me confess all my fears. I take a ragged breath and lay it all out. “And I’m worried about Cece. I thought this trip would help her put Thomas to rest in her mind, but now I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

  Ezra sits up and stretches his arms out. It makes the hem of his white undershirt lift up, revealing a line of skin and the elastic band of his boxers just before they disappear into his jeans. Ezra Flores is impossibly handsome.

  He’s also someone else’s boyfriend.

  I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him right now, but I also shouldn’t be in the middle of nowhere Texas with my cousin, so maybe my brain is allowed to have one break from rational thoughts. Just this once.

  “First thing’s first,” Ezra says. “I’m starving. We need to get breakfast.”

  I look back at the ceiling. “That doesn’t solve the big problem here.”

  “It’s step one,” he says, grinning at me as he steps into the narrow space between our fold out beds. I’m still laying on my side, and my entire body tenses as he leans over, the smell of his deodorant oddly intoxicating. He whispers, “You figure out what’s for breakfast and I’ll handle step two.”

  He’s down the hall before I can catch my breath. Rational thoughts need to come back, stat. I sit up and refold the quilt I’d used as a blanket last night, tucking it back into place after I turn my bed back into a bench seat.

  Ezra tells Cece good morning. Then he closes the curtain behind him and his voice lowers too much for me to eavesdrop over the rumble of the air conditioning.

  I fold up his blanket for him and push back his bed so that the RV is in dining table mode again. After a few minutes have passed, I get sick of nervously looking back there, wondering what they’re up to, so I dig into my backpack and find a makeup remover wipe. Grateful that I packed toiletries, I clean off my face and then apply some mascara and fluff up my limp hair in the reflection of the tiny mirror screwed into the wall.

  I’m still wearing my jeans and T-shirt from yesterday, but there’s really no place to change clothes in privacy in this part of the RV. I swipe on another layer of deodorant and steal some of Ezra’s mouth wash from the pantry.

  After about ten minutes of slowly going insane on my part, the curtain opens again. Cece emerges, her freckled cheeks creased from her pillow. “Morning,” she says, her voice slightly more monotone than usual.

  But she’s awake. And she’s up.

  She goes straight to the mini fridge and takes a bottle of water, then downs the pill in her hand. I breathe a little easier knowing her medication will get to work soon.

  “Good morning,” I say, doing my best to sound like I’m not freaking out over her triumphant return to the world of being awake and talking.

  Ezra scoots past us and goes outside. Through the window, I watch him unhook the tubing from the side of the RV, his movement swift like he’s done this a million times. I think living in an RV park would probably suit him well. He’s quiet, he works hard, and he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.

  Cece sits on the other side of the kitchen seating area. Her eyes are still droopy from sleep, but she blinks a few times and then gets to work French braiding her hair.

  With Ezra back in the driver’s seat, we all agree on McDonald’s for breakfast. We go inside since the Winnebago won’t fit through the drive thru. When Cece goes to the restroom, I seize the opportunity to finally get some answers.

  “What did you do?” I ask Ezra, my eyes wide.

  He frowns while he takes a bite of his sausage biscuit. “Huh?”

  “With Cece,” I say. “How did you get her out of bed?”

  His eyes meet mine for one whole second and then he turns back to his food. “I talked to her like a person. And not like a medical patient.”

  “And that worked?” I ask, incredulous.

  He nods and takes another bite. “It did.”

  “Maybe you can use those skills after she’s disappoi
nted with the results of today’s mission,” I say.

  “And what if there’s no disappointment?” There’s a little challenge in his tone.

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously, Ezra. She’s going to be crushed.”

  He shrugs and crumbles up a paper food wrapper. “Or maybe she won’t be.”

  My stomach clenches into a knot the moment Big Al’s Used Cars appears in our line of sight. Cece has been acting strangely normal for the whole fifteen-minute drive over here. She changed into a pair of jeans because her skirt was too wrinkled and then she sat back in her place at the table, her notebook open. I sit up front with Ezra and I try not to look at her too much, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s going to crash hard when she doesn’t find her brother today.

  We park in the back of the lot. A tall man wearing khakis and a white button up shirt approaches us, his Classic Car Salesman Smile totally on point.

  “Hi there,” he says, shaking Ezra’s hand. His eyes sparkle as they look at the Winnebago. “You want to trade in this bad boy?”

  Cece steps in front of him before he can answer. “Good morning. We need to speak to the manager about a very important matter. Is Big Al here?”

  His smile fades a little at the realization that he’s not making a sale today. “Yes ma’am, you’ll find him in the office,” he says, pointing toward the white and red building.

  Big Al didn’t get his nickname ironically. The office is an open room that smells like stale coffee and cigar smoke. A few worn leather chairs form a seating area in front of an old box TV. At the very back, an insanely large man sits in an oversized office chair, his double chin pressing against his chest while he looks at a cell phone.

  “Mornin, folks,” he says in a booming voice. “I’ll be right with ya as soon as I figure out this damn phone.” Frowning, he drops it to his desk. “Never mind. I ain’t never gonna figure it out,” he says with a chuckle. “Damn modern technology.”

  Cece looks at me, the crinkle in her eyes telling me this will be a piece of cake.

  “Good morning, sir,” she says. She smiles warmly at him as she ramps up the charm. “I was hoping you could help me with something very important.” She puts her hand to her heart. “It’s just so very important to me.”

  Al leans back in his seat, lacing his fingers together on top of his protruding gut. “Maybe I can help.” He motions to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please have a seat.”

  My heart is pounding as I sit with Ezra on one side and Cece on the other. I gnaw on my lip as I wonder what she’s got planned here. If we weren’t a million miles from home, I might even be intrigued to see her try to pull off something like this. Instead, I feel like I might pass out.

  Cece is positively glowing. It’s like she’s an entirely different person as she leans forward and looks into Big Al’s glassy eyes. “Well, sir, here’s the thing. My Uncle Kyle is dying from terminal prostate cancer.”

  “Oh sweetheart, that’s just awful,” Al says. There’s a crease in his forehead. He’s probably thinking Cece wants a donation or a cheap car.

  Ezra sneaks a curious glance at me, and I make the slightest shrug. We don’t have an Uncle Kyle. Cece continues, “And we’ve been helping him check off things from his bucket list. We only have one item left. He wants a red 2001 model Jeep Wrangler.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any of those on the lot,” Al says. His light brown moustache dips into a frown.

  Cece only smiles bigger. “But I think you could help. You see, he doesn’t want just any Jeep. He really wants the same Jeep he had when he first got married to his high school sweetheart. We were trying to track it down for him and I realized it was sold a few years ago from here. You might remember it—it had a gray panel at the front?”

  He rubs his chin while he thinks. “That does sound familiar, but it was years ago. I’m not sure how I could help.”

  Cece tilts her head, the charm just oozing off her innocent features. “I was hoping you’d have a record of who bought it. I’d like to call him and offer him several thousand more than the Jeep is worth.”

  Cece is a genius.

  Big Al bursts into a wide grin that shows his yellowed teeth. “Now that is a damn nice thing for you to do. Let me see if I can help.”

  Cece glances over at us, a look of pure satisfaction painted on her face. Big Al scoots his chair back to a filing cabinet against the wall. He opens the bottom drawer and starts shifting through the files.

  “It was a 2001 model?”

  “Yes,” Cece says. “You still keep paper files?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been doing it this way since the eighties,” he says with a chuckle as he studies the old files. “I keep a paper ledger to record the customer’s monthly payments. Make ‘em sign each month that way they can’t come back and say they paid when they really didn’t.”

  “Smart,” Cece says. “So much more convenient than using a computer.” She emphasizes the last word, shooting us a coy grin over her shoulder. “Computers and their passwords—so annoying.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Al says with a chuckle.

  Ezra runs his hand down his mouth, hiding his smile. “Ops,” he says quietly.

  Cece just rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to Al. I realize I’ve been gripping the seat of my chair so tightly my knuckles hurt. I leg go and take a deep breath.

  “Ah, here it is,” Al says. “Thin file.” He pulls out a folder. There’s a printed out photo of the Jeep stapled to the outside. He tilts it toward Cece. “This the one?”

  “Yes,” she says eagerly. “That’s it!”

  Al smiles and opens the folder. I lean forward even though I can’t see what’s inside from my place on the other side of his desk. For a second, the tension between the three of us is so tight you could walk across it. Cece holds very still, her mouth slightly open.

  “Bad news,” Al says after a moment. His brow furrows and he presses his lips together. “He paid in cash. If he’d made payments I’d have his phone number and address, but I don’t bother collecting that stuff when they pay in cash. I just sign over the title.”

  “The buyer was a man?” Cece says, her voice faltering.

  Al nods. “Yup. Hell, maybe you can look him up anyway, with a weird name like that. Doubt many people have this same name,” he says with a snort.

  I know we’re all thinking it. Thomas Novak isn’t a weird name. Still, I don’t know why I’m so tense as he grabs a sticky note and writes the name of the buyer on it. Seconds seem to take minutes as he drops the pen and his meaty fingers peel off the paper and hand it to Cece.

  Ezra presses against me as we all lean over to see who bought that Jeep all those years ago. I shouldn’t be disappointed when I see that it’s not Thomas. But I am.

  Cece’s breath hitches. “Thanks anyway.”

  Al nods. “Good luck, kids.”

  Ezra is the first to stand. “We need to go,” he says quickly, tugging on the back of our chairs to make us get up sooner. “Like, now.”

  Confused, we scramble out of there, following Ezra as he powerwalks back to the Winnebago. Once we’re there, he turns around, his hand running down his face. He takes a deep breath, his feet shifting on the white gravel parking lot. “Oh my god,” he says finally. When he looks up, his eyes are wild. He’s the picture perfect example of someone who’s seen a ghost.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Cece says. “Shouldn’t you both be gloating or something?” The sticky note is still on her index finger and she looks back at it, her lip curling in disgust. “You were right and I was wrong. I mean who the hell is Chell Wheatley? Sounds like an uppity loser.”

  “No,” Ezra says, pacing the small space in front of us. He runs his hand down his hair again, making it all wild and erratic. “No it’s not a person. It’s two people.”

  “What?” I press my hand to his chest to stop him. “Slow down.”

  “You know who this is?�
�� Cece says, holding up the sticky note.

  Ezra takes a sharp breath, his eyes darting from Cece to me. His chest flutters beneath my fingers. “It’s not a person. It’s two people.” He exhales, and a slight smile reaching his eyes before he looks back at the sticky note, his expression turning serious. “Chell and Wheatley. Two people. Two characters, really. From the Xbox game called Portal—they’re the two main characters.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cece says. “Are you saying the buyer used a fake name?”

  “I don’t know!” he says, his voice higher. He takes another breath, runs his hand through his hair again. Ezra Flores is freaking out.

  When he looks up, it’s with the expression of someone who’s has fallen too far down the rabbit hole. “Portal is the game Thomas and I played every day that summer before he died. If—if Thomas was alive—and he wanted a fake name…it makes sense that he’d pick a name like Chell Wheatley.”

  “Wait.” An unusually cool breeze sweeps my hair in front of my face and I shove it back, messily tucking it behind my ears. “What are you saying?”

  Ezra exhales slowly. “I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting this. This is—freaky.”

  “It’s not freaky,” Cece says, piping up from behind us. “This is exactly what we came here to find.” She wraps her finger around her thin silver necklace and sighs happily. “Thomas bought that Jeep. He’s alive.”

  The wind picks up and a shadow falls over her face. Then it falls over everything. We all look up as a massive storm cloud barrels across the sky, muting out all of the sunshine with it.

  “That looks pretty bad,” Ezra says, taking out his phone. He pulls up a weather app and turns the screen toward us. The radar shows a massive thunderstorm right on top of us. “Let’s get in the RV.”

  Right as we pull out of Big Al’s parking lot, the rain unleashes, pelting the Winnebago with an angry fury. Even with the wipers on full blast, we can’t see much out of the massive windows in front of us.