I Was Here(101)

             “My mom loved this song,” he says.

             I nod.

             “Listen, Cody.” It sounds exactly like the Garcias and their And, Cody’s.

             Before I can answer, my phone rings. I reach for it and it falls onto the floor. I swerve.

             “Watch it!” Ben shouts.

             “Answer it!” I shout back.

             He scrambles for the phone. “Hello,” he says. He turns to me. “It’s your mom.”

             “Tricia,” I say, taking the phone.

             “You shouldn’t drive and talk at the same time,” Ben scolds.

             I roll my eyes at him, but I pull on to the shoulder.

             “Where are you now?” Tricia doesn’t ask me who answered or why I’m not in Tacoma like I said I would be. It’s never been her way to worry about the details.

             “I don’t know. About twenty miles outside of Laughlin. On Highway 95.”

             “Have you passed Las Vegas yet?”

             “No. It’s not for another forty miles or so.”

             I hear her sigh with relief. “Good. There’s a one-thirty nonstop flight on Southwest from Vegas to Spokane. Think you can make it?”

             “I think so.”

             I hear Tricia say something and in the background, lots of voices. “Okay, we’ll book you on that. If you miss it, there’s another after, but it connects through Portland, so you’d have to change planes.” I listen to her talk, like she’s some kind of travel agent, like we do this all the time, when in fact I’ve never been on an airplane before.

             “Call me once you’re on the plane so I’ll know when to pick you up. They don’t let you go to the gate anymore, apparently, so I’ll meet you down at baggage claim.”

             “Okay,” I say. Like any of this makes sense to me.

             “I’ll text you the flight information,” she says, and I’m at once grateful to Raymond for introducing her to this technology. “And I’ll see you this afternoon. I’ll get you home.”

             “Thank you,” I say.

             “What are moms for?”

             I hang up and look at Ben, who’s looking at me, confused, though I can tell he heard both sides of the conversation.

             “What’s going on?”

             “I’m gonna get out in Vegas, fly the rest of the way home.”

             “Why?”

             “It’ll be easier, faster for you; you won’t have to go out of your way.” The route from here to Seattle passes right through my part of eastern Washington, and now he’ll have to drive those thousand miles alone. But I am making it easier for him. That part is true.

             We spend the next hour in silence. We get to the Las Vegas airport around noon. I pull in to the loading zone, where the cars are parked two abreast. Behind us, there’s beeping, mad rushing, like cowboys, moving the cattle along. I grab my things and Ben gets out of the passenger side, watching me.

             I turn to him. He’s standing there, leaning up against the car. I know I have to say something. To thank him. To release him. Maybe releasing him is the way to thank him. But before I say anything, he asks, “What are you doing, Cody?”