Page 22 of Every Beautiful Mile

Wrapping my fingers into a tight fist around the ring, it feels like holding my own heart in my hand.

“Travis, I’m talking to you. I know you aren’t here, I know that, but along with everything else you were, my best friend was a big one. And, you know, your job as my best friend is to listen, so here we are. Me lying in the cramped bed of a camper you bought while I talk to you when you aren’t actually here. So that’s how I’m doing…” I laugh under my breath, closing my eyes to let the next words come out in an unfiltered stream of consciousness. “We are going on the trip you planned. Or kind of planned. And I let the kids pick some of the stops, and we decorated the camper to match the 70s time period. Can you believe you can still buy shag carpet? Leave it to Marin to be able to find it.”

I smile but my throat burns, cracking my voice.

“Dammit, Travis, I still miss you so much it physically hurts. I miss you so much, over a year went by, and I couldn’t tell you much of anything that happened until we started working on the camper. I might as well have been on that plane with you because I’m a ghost in my skin. Like a Travis-sized piece of me is missing. And since you were bigger than me, I guess that means I’ve just been missing.”

I swipe at my eyes as I stare at the too-low ceiling above my face.

The words I want to say next feel like they might split me in two, but I know I have to say them, anyway. I have to move forward and telling him is the only way I know how to start.

“I don’t want the kids to remember me this way. I want to be normal. Happy. I want to go to farmers markets and scream over the seasonal fruit or the smell of herbs. I want to laugh when I make a cocktail. I want the kids to want to be around me. I know the only way I’ll be able to do that is if I stop letting your absence consume every second of every day.

“Finn told me I miss you out loud and look for you everywhere, and God, if that kid doesn’t see me better than I see myself sometimes.

“I’m going to put your ring on this necklace so I can stop looking for you everywhere we go. I’m going to have fun with them and buy stupid t-shirts and make memories that are only ours, even though they are because of you. I love you, Travis Crawford. Thank you for loving us so much it hurts.”

Before I change my mind, I slip the ring on the chain and fasten it around my neck.

As the kids laugh outside, I cry every tear my body can make until I finally fall asleep.

Nine

Somewhere around Tallahassee, Marin can’t handle the fact that 1978 Avions are not Bluetooth enabled and insists on us stopping at an antique store. Fifteen minutes later, she proudly walks out with a box of cassette tapes. The collection includes Mariah Carey, Tom Petty, Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and my personal favorite, Hootie and the Blowfish.

When we finally get to our campground outside of Fairhope, Alabama, I am convinced by the shack-like structure and hand-painted sign that says Office, we are going to get murdered.

“Is this place safe?” Marin hisses as her face pales with the distant sound of a revving chainsaw.

Yes might be a lie so I don’t respond.

The rickety screen door has holes and hangs loosely on the hinges, squeaking loudly when we open it, slowly stepping inside.

There isn’t much in the space—a few shelves of fishing tackle and a cooler of drinks line one wall, nets and buckets on the other. There’s a dim lamp in the corner behind a counter with a register. An old man with a wiry beard sits propped up on a stool, wearing faded overalls, eyes closed. A golden retriever is sprawled across the floor, sleeping, legs moving with little whimpers as he dreams.

Marin grips my arm tighter. “Oh my God, Mom! He’s dead!” she croaks.

I freeze, Finn laughs, and the dead man startles to life. Hand to my chest, my heart beats like a jackhammer.

“God, sorry, we thought you were dead!” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “Sorry. We have a reservation for tonight.”

He eyeballs me, then the kids, as if assessing if we are who we claim to be.

He nods slowly as he says, “I see. Wha’ brings ya down to de bay?”

His voice surprises me—instead of the southern accent I expect, he sounds almost Cajun. Shuffling through papers, he doesn’t take his eyes off us.

“Y’all here to fish?”

He looks amused as he says it—like he doesn’t believe it’s a possibility. I bristle at the implication even though I don’t even like fishing.

Finn clears his throat. “Actually, yes. I’ve been looking at the weather—you think there’s a chance of a jubilee in the next couple of days? I know it’s early in the summer, but temps are unusually high for this time of year from what I’ve read. Wind doesn’t seem to be blowing.”

My eyes widen as I look at Finn. A jubilee?

A surprised look that mirrors my own covers the old man’s face.

“Y’all know’ bout our jubilee, den. I call it de rush, myself. Eitha’ way. Smart boy ya got here.” He looks at me briefly. “I usually start checkin’ for de signs abou’ June one, but we only a few days early. Guess we could check tonight if you gonna get up and help.”

---