Page 100 of Chasing Stardust

“Honey, you sound upset. What’s going on?”

I let out a long breath. Rehashing the past twenty-four hours is the absolute last thing I want to do. “I just need to get to Hicksville and pick up your car if it’s ready.”

“I spoke with the mechanic just the other day. She’s better than ever and ready to go, but—”

“Good.” I don’t give her a chance to ask anything else. Now that the floodgates are open, I can barely hold back the tears as it is. “I should be there in an hour or so. I don’t suppose you could wire me some money? I still don’t have my cards, and I’m kinda tapped out.”

“Of course! How much do you need?”

“As much as you can send? I can’t use Apple Pay until I get a new debit card, and not everywhere takes Venmo. I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I get home.”

“Don’t worry about the money, sweetheart. I have plenty.”

“Thank you.” I swallow the growing lump in my throat.

“Zoey—”

“I have to go. I’ll check in again later.” I disconnect the call before the last thread holding me together completely unravels.

28

Soul Love

I never thought I’d be this happy to hear Bowie blasting from the crappy old speakers again. Somehow the mechanic managed to pry an entire armadillo out of the grill without dislodging the tape stuck in the 8-track. But since the stupid thing finally skipped to the next track, I’m willing to let that slide.

I couldn’t care less that “Criminal World” has played on a loop for going on four hours straight. Or that the odds of getting the backs of my legs unstuck from the vinyl seats without losing a layer of skin are pretty slim. In fact, I solemnly swear I’ll never complain about the broken gas gauge, the Whac-A-Mole windshield wipers, or the overwhelming stench of old tacos and unfiltered Camels again. At this moment, the Betty is my very best friend in the whole wide world, because absolutely nothing about the ancient Cutlass reminds me of Dash.

Best of all, the grumble of the Betty’s geriatric engine drowns out the voices in my head for the better part of the drive to St. Louis.

After an unexpected detour and a few wrong turns, I finally catch a glimpse of the sleek, futuristic Gateway Arch towering over the city—on the other side of the Mississippi.

Uttering a string of obscenities that would make my sister proud, I backtrack to the highway in search of the closest bridge. As I cross the river into Missouri, sunlight glints off the curved steel monument, reflecting in the water below and taking my breath away.

I follow the signs to the Gateway Arch National Park and find an empty spot in the lot adjacent to the Old Cathedral, just a short walk to the monument and the riverbank beyond. According to Siri, the original concert venue is long gone, but surely Mom visited St. Louis’s most famous landmark when she was here.

Determined to put the whole Dash debacle behind me, I step out of the car and straight into another scorching-hot summer day. Sweat trickles down my back as I take in my surroundings and get my bearings straight. The weight of Mom’s ashes in my bag provides a much-needed reminder of why I set out on this journey to begin with.

What now, Mom? Where do I go first?

As I reach for her diary for guidance, I catch a glimpse of the historic church in front of me. A glint of gold draws my gaze up the polished stone facade—from the four heavy columns marking the entrance to the clock on the stone bell tower and then all the way to the shiny gold ball and cross at the very top of the towering steeple.

Other than going to Sunday school as a child, I’ve never been a regular churchgoer, but something about the centuries-old basilica calls to me. Maybe if I hadn’t stopped going to church . . . if I’d prayed harder when Mom was sick . . . I shake off the thought before I tumble down a rabbit hole I’m not prepared to explore.

Would it be wrong of me to go inside . . . to say a prayer for her now, even though I’m not Catholic? After her funeral, I was in such a hurry to flee Reverend Tom’s attempts to console me, I didn’t pause long enough to consider the emotional ramifications. I glance down at my wrinkled shirt and tattered shorts. I look exactly like someone who slept on a Greyhound bus last night. But no one knows me here. Maybe I can slip in and out without being noticed.

The moment I enter through the heavy double doors, a sense of peace washes over me. Every detail, from the delicate moldings on the curved ceiling above and the sunlight streaming through the vivid stained glass windows, to the tall, graceful columns and stone floors, radiates serenity.

Without drawing attention to myself, I slide into a polished wooden pew near the back and offer up a silent prayer for my mom’s soul—and another for my own. Then I pull out her diary and flip to the entry for St. Louis.

Instead of a worn Polaroid of Mom, posed in front of some landmark or another, a folded paper flutters from between the pages and lands squarely in my lap. The edges are yellowed and crisp, and I carefully unfold it, hoping it doesn’t fall apart in my hands.

After scanning the fifty-something-year-old newspaper clipping announcing David Bowie’s October 1972 concert in St. Louis, I carefully fold it again and set aside the memento to read Mom’s account from that day.

July 14

We made it to Kiel Auditorium about two months too late—technically six months if we’d hoped to see the 1930s Art Deco building in all its glory. And more than five decades since Ziggy Stardust played his final set on center stage. Mom cried as we pulled up to the vacant lot. There wasn’t a single brick, stone, or fluted column marking the spot. We sat alongside the curb for a solid fifteen minutes while she mourned a loss I couldn’t begin to understand. Then she dried her tears and drove away without a word. We wandered around the city for almost an hour, as if she expected to find the old building hiding around the next corner . . . down the next block. When she didn’t find whatever it was she was looking for, we left the city without a backward glance. And we never spoke of St. Louis again.

Why did they leave? She could’ve at least gotten a picture under the arch. And why would she want her ashes spread in St. Louis if she never even got out of the car?