A Song for the Road by Kathleen Basi (classic literature books txt) 📕

was starting to worry by the time it finally settled. The girl pulled an enormous water bottle from her backpack and took a swig of water from it. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m Dicey, by the way.”

“Miriam. Miriam Tedesco.”

“Nice to meet you. And … thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome.” She bit her lip as Dicey coughed again—a hard, forceful cough—but only one.

The engine revved as they started gaining elevation. The silence stretched on for a bit. “So,” Miriam ventured, “how far along are you?”

“Thirty-two weeks.”

Miriam frowned and sized her up again. “Really? Wow. You’re so tiny! I was a whale at thirty-two weeks. Then again”—she sighed—“I was carrying twins.”

Dicey shuddered. “I can’t imagine. My hips hurt all the time.”

“Ligaments loosening up, getting ready for labor.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Miriam would have liked to inquire further, but they’d only just met. How would Teo have done it? She racked her brain, but before she came up with anything, Dicey spoke again.

“I’m sorry you lost your kids.” Dicey traced the outline of the air-conditioning vent. “But your road trip sounds cool.” She cocked her head as if thinking. “How many stops have you done?”

“Just the one.” Miriam shrugged. “It was kind of a bust. I missed the tours. I just went out and sang to the telescope.”

“You sang to the telescope, and you call it a bust? Did you get a video? Oh, wait, I guess you couldn’t.”

“Right. No phones allowed.”

“Too bad. That would’ve been awesome!”

Once again, Miriam was reminded of Talia. She smiled. “I’m glad you approve.”

Dicey coughed again. “So, Tedesco,” she said. “What is that, Italian?”

“Argentine-Italian. I’m impressed. Most people don’t guess Italian.”

“I like names,” said Dicey. “Interesting names especially. Figuring out what they mean, where they come from. Names should mean something.”

“Interesting hobby.”

“Probably comes from having a name as boring as Smith.”

“Smith has a meaning.”

“Yeah, yeah, blacksmith, I know. But you have a pretty badass name.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Oh, come on. A church choir director oughtta know who Miriam was. Baby in the river, fooling a princess into letting his own mom raise him, singing by the Red Sea?”

Miriam laughed, and for one blessed moment the tightness in her chest eased. “All right, all right. Yes, I know who Miriam was. Did you know Miriam is the Hebrew form of ‘Mary’? Even the Mary might have gone by Miriam.”

A glance showed Dicey scowling, but it was a half-hearted one. “You’re stealing my thunder.”

Miriam laughed again. “So what about Dicey? That’s the most not-boring name I think I’ve ever heard.”

“It was a nickname for Laodicea Langston. She was from South Carolina, and she spied for the Patriots during the Revolution.”

“No kidding? So is your name Laodicea?”

“No, just Dicey.” Dicey expelled a breath, leaning back against her headrest. Apparently it didn’t bother her the way it bothered Miriam. “So sleepy. It wasn’t a very good night.”

Miriam had intended to ask about baby names, but now she detoured. “I can imagine. I don’t understand how you didn’t get hypothermia.”

“Found a bunch of dry leaves to burrow down under. Blanket on top. But it was still cold.”

The warmth of the rising sun dropped in a line across Miriam’s forearm. The quiet seemed companionable. Dicey stuffed her backpack between her shoulder and her head and rested against the window. A mile unfolded. Two. Then, into the silence, she said, “You’re still a mom, you know.”

Miriam looked over. “What?”

The girl’s eyes remained closed; her words were soft, but they carried in the quiet. “You said you used to be a mother. But you’ll always be a mom. Even after you’re dead.”

Miriam’s breath caught. Her vision blurred. She ran a finger over the puffy skin below her left eye. It came away wet. Just one tear—but a tear. How long had it been since she’d cried?

She looked over at the girl in the passenger seat, but Dicey’s chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Miriam faced forward again.

The miles unfolded in silence.

 9

WHEN HER PHONE FINALLY dinged, Miriam almost ran off the road. It hadn’t made a sound in eighteen hours; she’d readjusted to life off the grid.

The sound effects tripped over each other in their haste to alert her to everything she’d missed: ding-ding-bloopety-bloopety-ding-ding.

Dicey’s phone buzzed too; she jerked upright with an audible gasp, blinking at the rock-and-tree-covered slope outside her window. “Crap, that scared me.”

The sound effects continued. Miriam pulled onto the shoulder across from a wide field tucked into the valley. She turned the engine off and rolled down the windows. The mountain breeze carried the cool scent of pine and the same quiet that had unnerved her at the telescope yesterday. But at least this time she had something to occupy her.

“All right,” she said, “time to play catch-up.”

“Uh-huh.” Dicey unzipped her backpack and pulled out a can of Pringles and a bottle of water and started crunching as she navigated her phone. Miriam swallowed a bit of envy. If she ate that much fat and salt, she’d gain a pound a day.

Miriam turned her attention to her own device. Nine texts, six missed calls, and a handful of voicemails.

“Why haven’t you called me? I specifically said call me every day!” Becky sighed. “Call me when you get this.”

Delete. Next message.

“Miriam! Where! Are! You! You’re scaring me!”

“Seriously, Becky,” she muttered. “Chill.”

“Mira, it’s Mom. What’s this about a road trip? I thought you were going to get serious about finishing Blaise’s sonata. Please call me. I haven’t talked to you in weeks, and I can’t help thinking you’re avoiding—”

Miriam felt slightly guilty deleting this voicemail. She’d e-mailed Mom instead of calling to tell her about the trip because, she’d told herself, it was too late at night. And because she knew Mom would bring up Blaise’s sonata. Mom’s enthusiasm on that subject seemed singularly unfair when her parents had worked so hard to discourage Miriam’s own musical ambition.

But none of that was the real reason.

The last voicemail was from her brother. “Mira, it’s Brad.” He sounded tired. Probably Mom or Jo had awakened him while he was