Rachel Creed passed the sign reading EXIT 8 KEEP RIGHT FOR
PORTLAND WESTBROOK, put on her blinker, and guided the Avis Chevette
toward the exit ramp. She could see a green Holiday Inn sign clearly against the
night sky. A bed, sleep. An end to this constant, racking, sourceless tension. Also
an end—for a little while, at least—to her grieving emptiness for the child who was
no longer there. This grief, she had discovered, was like a massive tooth
extraction. There was numbness at first, but even through the numbness you felt
pain curled up like a cat switching its tail, pain waiting to happen. And when the
Novocaine wore off, oh boy, you sure weren't disappointed.
He told her that he was sent to warn… but that he couldn't interfere. He told her
he was near Daddy because they were together when his soul was discorporated.
Jud knows, but he won't tell. Something is going on. Something. But what?
Suicide? Is it suicide? Not Louis: I can't believe that. But he was lying about
something. It was in his eyes… oh shit, it was all over his FACE, almost as if he
wanted me to see the lie… see it and put a stop to it… because part of him was
scared… so scared…
Scared? Louis is NEVER scared!
Suddenly she jerked the Chevette's steering wheel hard over to the left, and the
car responded with the abrupt suddenness that small cars have, the tires wailing.
For a moment she thought it was going to turn over. But it straightened and a
moment later she was moving north again, Exit 8 with its comforting Holiday Inn
sign slipping behind her. A new sign came in view, reflective paint twinkling eerily.
NEXT EXIT ROUTE 12 CUMBERLAND
CUMBERLAND CENTER JERUSALEM'S LOT
FALMOUTH FALMOUTH FORESIDE
Jerusalem's Lot, she thought randomly, what an odd name. Not a pleasant
name, for some reason. Come and sleep in Jerusalem.
But there would be no sleep for her tonight; Jud's advice notwithstanding, she
now meant to drive straight through. Jud knew what was wrong and had promised
her he would put a stop to it, but the man was eighty-some years old and had lost
his wife only three months before. She would not put her trust in Jud. She should
never have allowed Louis to bulldoze her out of the house the way he had, but she
had been weakened by Gage's death. Ellie with her Polaroid picture of Gage and
her pinched face—it had been the face of a child who has survived a tornado or a
sudden dive-bombing from a clear blue sky. There had been times in the dark
watches of the night when she had longed to hate Louis for the grief he had
fathered inside her, and for not giving her the comfort she needed (or allowing her
to give the comfort she needed to give), but she could not. She loved him too much
still, and his face had been so pale… so watchful…
The Chevette's speedometer needle hung poised just a bit to the right of sixty
miles an hour. A mile a minute. Two hours and a quarter to Ludlow, maybe.
Maybe she could still beat the sunrise.
She fumbled with the radio, turned it on, found a rock and roll station out of
Portland. She turned up the volume and sang along, trying to keep herself awake.
The station began to fade in and out half an hour later and she re-tuned to an
Augusta station, rolled the window down, and let the restless night air blow in on
her.
She wondered if this night would ever end.