Page 13 of Every Beautiful Mile

“It’s a steal, Nel! The guy who owned it used it for his work truck. The engine runs like a top. The inside just needs to be fixed up.”

He had said it with so much displaced pride.

I remember seeing the inside for the first time and thinking we had been swindled. It was barebones with raw plywood. The only thing salvageable was the bathroom with running water and a toilet—not that I was using the same grimy toilet the previous owner had. It looked like a kill room from a murder movie, and smelled like mothballs, salami, and mildew. It freaked me out to the point I never went back into it after he brought it home that first day.

Now, it sits like a dinosaur—big, bulky, and outdated. The whole exterior is a 70s shade of cream with thick orange-brown stripes wrapping around it. A truck cab sticks out from under a windowed storage space that connects to the rest of the living area.

Unlike modern campers I see on the road with sharp edges and clean lines, this one is rounded, with tinted windows floating around its body like a lava lamp. Walking closer, I can see through the windshield that the two bucket seats are covered with brown beaded seat covers.

Of course.

I’m not sure if they came that way or Travis put them there, but neither would surprise me.

I set my coffee on the hood while I walk around to face the entry door. It takes three pulls, each tug harder than the last, until the door finally swings open, and my breath gushes out of me.

What the hell?

I shake my head, not quite believing what I see as I step inside.

It’s still unfinished, but it looks nothing like the kill room on wheels I had seen the last time I was in here. The floor is now covered in some kind of planks, hiding the exposed plywood that was there before. The small kitchen space now has blue cabinets with a butcher block countertop and a small sink. There aren’t any appliances, but empty spaces have been allowed for them. Across the aisle is a dinette without any cushions that backs up to the wall of the bathroom. I open the door with one eye closed, but once again, I’m surprised. The shower and small vanity are the same, but there’s a new toilet.

I laugh.

Travis knew I’d never touch that other one.

I step out of the small bathroom and turn toward the back. Two twin-sized platforms have been built with small doors to storage spaces beneath. I sit on one of them, easily imagining mattresses there for Marin and Finn.

I bring a hand to my mouth in disbelief as I look around again. From this angle, I can see into the cab of the truck, above which is a loft-style bed, maybe queen-sized, with a ladder resting on top of the mattress.

Our bed.

It still needs work, but I can see it. I can see us on stupid trips buying stupid t-shirts. I can picture Travis driving, me in the passenger seat, playing old music while the kids play cards at the table. I can picture the fridge filled with road trip foods and margarita ingredients. I see us dancing under an awning with cheesy novelty lights twinkling around us in the middle of some wooded campground while it rains.

It's yet another plan for a future life that doesn’t exist. Plans shattered and scattered with the debris of an airplane across the waters that surround us.

My chest aches with the pain of all the Travis-sized memories that will be missing from my life for as long as I live, and he does not.

The space is instantly too small—my lungs can’t get enough air. I pull at the neckline of my shirt, but it doesn’t help. The walls are closing in. I feel it with every strangled breath I try to take.

I need to go, clear my head, and figure out how to get rid of this thing.

I push myself off the platform and rush by the bathroom, then the dinette, where a faded US map falls as I walk by.

I pick it up—a small piece of notebook paper slips out onto the table.

Forced Fun Road Trip is scribbled across the top, and I recognize Travis’ handwriting immediately.

A pit forms where my stomach used to be as I rub the paper between my fingers.

It’s a list.

I take a seat in the cushionless booth and unfold the map that takes up the whole table. Highlighted lines cover roads from the Keys to Oregon to New York and back again. Towns and cities circled across the country.

I move my finger along the roads like a car traveling the country at warped speed. He was planning a trip.

“Well, Nel. Think of all the adventures we could go on in this thing. We can see the desert, the Pacific Ocean, and the tops of mountains,” he had said, leaning against the hood the day he brought it home.

I rolled my eyes.

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