Page 93 of Every Beautiful Mile

I thank Tony for his time. He smiles at me proudly and reveals a large silver tooth in the front of his mouth, then drives away.

Finn pinches the chest of his shirt and lifts it to his nose to sniff.

“God, we smell like ashtrays,” he says, face twisting in disgust.

“Wow,” I mutter, turning to the kids. “Okay. I’m going to go in and talk to these people, see what our options are. You can stick around, or there’s a welcome center across the street.” I point to the building. “Maybe something like that will be a little more entertaining and less depressing than what I’m about to deal with.”

They turn toward the welcome center; I drag myself into the mechanic’s office.

A woman behind the counter with a beehive of yellow hair, loudly smacking a piece of gum, smiles at me when I walk in.

“My RV got towed in. The Avion.” I point to the mangled mess of metal through the window. “A moose decided to run into it this morning and meet an untimely death. Anyway, I’m wondering if anyone will have a chance to look at it or tell me what can be done?”

I bite my lip as she looks at me and then out the window to the disaster of an RV sitting outside. Her face puckers like she’s sucked on a lemon.

“We don’t have anybody that can work on it today, but I have someone that can at least take a look—Jimmy!” she shouts the name without turning away, making me jump. “What do you think of the camper in the parking lot?” She smiles, lowering her voice. “He’ll take a look, and I’ll let you know.”

Minutes later, in walks a guy with a shaved head and a blue mechanic’s uniform with a nametag that says Jimmy.

“You got the RV?” he says, walking up to me, wiping his hands with a rag.

“Guilty.” I laugh half-heartedly.

“Yeah, so that thing’s totaled.”

He says it matter-of-factly. Like I’m not almost two thousand miles from home and any other running vehicle I own. Like he isn’t completely destroying all of my plans.

“Totaled?”

I squint, trying to process his words.

“Yeah, there’s no fixing that thing. I mean, you can if you want to, but you’re talking about a whole rebuild and lots of money.” He rubs his fingers together and whistles. “Vintage ride like that, parts are hard to come by and pricey. My opinion, you’re better off buying a new one. You’d probably save money.”

Then he lifts two fingers in a salute, spins around, and gives the girl at the counter a slap on the ass before disappearing through a door into the garage.

When Marin and Finn come back from the visitor’s center, they find me lying on a bench outside.

Crying.

“Oh, my God, Mom? What’s wrong?” Marin looks me up and down as if she expects to find gunshot wounds.

“The Avion’s totaled,” I say flatly, staring at the sky as tears drip down and pool into my ears.

Finn sits by my feet on the bench.

“Mom, it’s okay,” he says gently. “We all kind of hated that thing, anyway.”

I laugh meekly through my tears.

“What do you want to do now?” Marin asks.

“Right. Now,” I say, forcing myself to sit up. “I seem to forget when there’s a disaster, you have to do something next.”

The irony of the situation is not lost on me. Me not being able to cope after losing my husband led to me sitting on a bench, not being able to cope with losing his stupid camper. God has the sick sense of humor of a sociopath sometimes.

“Let’s get an Airbnb.” I wipe the snot from my nose with my smoke-laden shirt. “Let me see if I can find one. I’m not leaving this place without eating some damn lobster.”

“That’s the spirit!” Marin says with too much enthusiasm.

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