fence and lumbered over to help. Together, they wrestled Mr. Brown’s
weight and started toward the faded blue house where Edith would begin
the process of mourning, of adjusting to life without a husband and all
that entailed.
Sylvie imagined the hugeness of that responsibility, of discovering
the last cord tying you to sanity snapped like a string bean in the beat
of an instant. She swallowed bile in her throat, felt her palms slicken
with sweat. She saw Edith’s face, standing over her dead husband, blank
as paper, nonplussed almost, as if she expected nothing less from a life
that had kicked out hard once already and struck her Billy dumb. Sylvie
wondered what her own face looked like after her mother’s accident. She
wondered if her face, too, had blanched bleak and open like Edith’s, had
shown acceptance as cold and inevitable as the season’s first snow.
She pulled herself into the dark cab of her truck, let the door shut
with a satisfying snick. The worn vinyl material smelled like cigarettes
even though Sylvie didn’t smoke. Its familiarity comforted her. She
watched as the other woman emerged from the bathroom and waddled
to her own tractor-trailer on the far side of the lot. From the back, she
looked even more remarkably like Sylvie. The thought clenched another
fist in her belly. She turned the keys in the ignition and the engine
rumbled to life. The last dregs of Bob Dylan’s Girl from North Country
filtered from the cab’s speakers as she gunned the truck into gear and
began the last leg of her journey. She switched the music off.
Sylvie didn’t ride anymore, so when Daryl said he’d seen her
on top of the ridge, mounted to Star, he gave her a queer look. She, in
turn, felt a coldness filter from her shoulder blades to the tips of her
fingers, making everything numb. Their mother, bedridden in the next
room, called feebly when Sylvie dropped the dish she’d been drying and
it shattered on the ground. Daryl’s frown reflected from its broken bits,
accusing Sylvie of something she didn’t possess, something almost like
courage. She hadn’t ridden in years, not since what happened. The subtle
glint of approval in Daryl’s eyes forced her own downward. He helped her
clean up, his strong hands brushing at the sharp ceramic pieces as if they
were cotton balls. She nicked her thumb and let the blood ball up before
sucking it clean.
Their mother called again. Daryl and Sylvie exchanged pointed
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