Page 18 of Chasing Stardust

I twist a strand of hair around my finger, then let it drop. “They, uh, couldn’t be here.”

“Then I’ll stay with you. So you won’t be alone.” He sits on the edge of the fountain beside me, folding his hands in his lap.

“You don’t have to do that.” Damian’s disappointed face flickers in the back of my mind. I can imagine what he’d say about me hanging out in the park with a total stranger.

The man flashes a friendly smile. “I know.”

Shoving Damian out of my thoughts, I smile back and pull Mom’s urn from my bag. After twisting off the lid, I sink my fingers into the coarse sand. With a shudder, I quickly pull them back out again. “I’ve never done this before.”

He winks. “Neither have I.”

“I’m Zoey, by the way.” I shift the urn to my other arm and hold out my clean hand.

“Nice to meet you, Zoey.” He shakes my hand. “My friends call me Junior.”

“Nice to meet you, Junior.” Something about Junior’s open smile puts me at ease. I plunge a hand into the urn again and tighten my grip on a fistful of sand, slowly drawing it from the jar. “Should I say something? A prayer maybe?”

Junior gently squeezes my shoulder. “God knows your heart.”

I nod and face the fountain, closing my eyes as I raise my hand, ready to release Mom into the air. “I love you, Mom.”

One at a time, I open my fingers . . . just as the wind shifts. The light gust blows the ash back into my face, and I gasp, inhaling the tiny particulates.

Air whistles in and out of my lungs as I struggle to breathe. “Are you kidding me right now? What in the actual hell, Mom?”

My nose and throat burn, and every time I think I have a handle on the coughing fit, I inhale and it starts all over again. Oh my God! I totally snorted my mom, and she smells kinda like Sour Diesel.

I wipe my tongue on the bottom of my shirt, but even that’s covered in a layer of ash. Why is it so . . . salty? The briny taste sets off my gag reflex, and my breakfast climbs up my throat. “Holy shit, I think I swallowed . . . oh God. I need water.”

Panicking, I scramble over the edge of the fountain like a rabid squirrel and stick my face in the pool. After thoroughly rinsing my mouth without swallowing, I plop down on the rim to catch my breath.

“I really hope I don’t die from E. coli. I blame my mother for this. She’s the one who wanted her ashes spread.”

Beside me, Junior’s laughter slowly dies down as he wipes a layer of gray dust from his face. “Your mother, she has a good sense of humor, no?”

“No.” I toss an icy glare skyward. Water drips down my nose and chin, soaking the front of my thin white T-shirt until it’s practically see-through. “She has a shitty sense of humor.”

A stern woman marches toward us, wagging her finger at me. “Can’t you read? No swimming in the fountain!”

“I wasn’t swimming, I was spreading my mom’s ashes and the wind—”

The woman’s eyes go straight to Mom’s urn.

“Human ashes? In the park? You can’t do that!” Her voice inches its way up the scale until dogs from miles around can hear her. “I’m calling security.”

“Uh.” A fleeting desire to pitch a fistful of ashes into the lady’s face grips me, but I shake it off. “That’s my cue. I need to go.” Without another word, I screw the top onto the urn and shove it into my bag. Slinging my tote over my shoulder, I make a break for it. “Thanks for your help, Junior.”

With one last wave, I leave my new friend to face the music and sprint all the way back to the car. With Cleveland safely in my rearview, I set off for Memphis, hoping I don’t end up eating Mom’s ashes at the next stop.

5

Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide

Just over nine hours and three and a half stops for gas later—depleting nearly all the cash Jeanie slipped me in the driveway—major regret seeps in. Abandoning Mom’s piece-of-shit Explorer for G-Lo’s ancient Cutlass sounded like a solid plan at the time, but it probably wasn’t one of my best decisions. Being trapped in a rolling steel box without working AC on one of the hottest days of the year was not on my road trip bingo card.

After driving close to twenty miles under a clear blue sky, with a minivan of kids making faces at me while I slapped the hell out of the dash to keep the wipers going so the blower would work, I discovered that the air conditioner is actually broken. When G-Lo said the wipers had to be on for the blower to work, she failed to mention that the blower only serves up hot air. A layer of sweat formed over every inch of me, making my damp clothes cling to my skin and plastering my hair to my neck.

The temperature finally dipped below ninety after the sun went down, but somewhere west of Nashville, the sky opened up and pummeled the Betty with fat raindrops, forcing me to play Whac-A-Mole on the dashboard again to keep the wipers on.