But I brushed that worry out of my head and gunned the engine. Roadrunners shot out of the bushes at the barren roadside, their little legs kicking up dust onto the rippling asphalt. There wasn’t a car or a soul around for miles. It was just me and Jim Morrison and the extreme landscape. The endless sky, the searing heat, the relentless sun that made the highs pop and the lows sink. This was a high contrast land and I lived a high contrast life.
I followed Highway 62 while listening to my favorite Calexico songs and surf music until Joshua Tree National Park appeared on my left.
And that’s when I had to pull the car over to vomit.
Ugh. I sat back down on the passenger side, away from the road, and leaned forward on my knees, Jose making a clicking noise under the hood as the engine settled. I tried to breathe in deeply through my nose. My hands were shaking slightly, my heart running around in my chest as if it were looking for a way out. This was going to be a lot harder than I thought. A semi-truck roared past, making Jose tremble beneath me. Now we were both scared.
You can do this, Ellie, I told myself, even though my own name sounded weird in my head. No one will know you’re in town. You’re twenty-six, not nineteen. You don’t look the same. You don’t even walk the same. And like anyone from high school would still be living here. They all probably left just the same as you did.
I punched the glove compartment with the side of my fist and it flipped open. I grabbed the pill bottle of Kava and shook a few into my mouth. They were the size of horse pills but I managed to swallow them dry. If you do something enough, your body learns to adapt. I should know.
Another car roared past and we shook again. The Kava would kick in soon, and if it didn’t, I had a few bottles of Ativan in the trunk. I was trying to wean off of the stuff since my habit got a little out of control for a while, but I’d cut myself some slack this time. I just didn’t want to be totally out of it when I saw Uncle Jim.
The intense, oven-like heat was making my thighs stick to my jeans, which were in turn sticking to the seat. I peeled myself off of it and walked around to the driver’s side. I gripped the worn wheel until my knuckles turned white then sped off down the road. I hoped I’d left my fear on the roadside with the rest of my breakfast.
Uncle Jim owned a date farm on the outskirts of Palm Valley. My parents and I went to live with him after we fell into a bit of trouble. They thought a fresh start would be a good idea, though I thought it had more to do with Child Services poking their nose around and the fact that my dad lost his job at the casino. So we left Gulfport, Mississippi and came west. Uncle Jim is my mother’s brother and the only living relative I have that hasn’t disowned me. And at the time, he hadn’t disowned my parents either, which is why he let us stay with him.
They enrolled me in Palm Valley High School, the first real school I’d ever attended. I’m sure high school is a big shock to a lot of people, but to me it felt like I’d stuck my tongue in an electrical socket. And as if I wasn’t damaged enough at that point, a year later my parents sort of forgot about the whole “starting over” thing and pulled a fast one on a local. They took off like the fugitives they were and I stayed behind with Uncle Jim. To be honest, I would have given anything to go with my parents, but ever since the incident in Gulfport they didn’t want to take any more chances with me.
So I continued my stint at Palm Valley High School and as soon as I graduated, I got the fuck out of there. I only came back once, when I was nineteen, because my uncle had a heart attack. I was the only family member at his side and helped him with his farm for a few months until he was back on his feet.
Then I kissed him on his rough cheek and said goodbye.
Now, I was hoping he’d be willing to take me in again.
The foreboding guitar strings of Calexico’s “Gypsy’s Curse” started playing as I entered Palm Valley’s Main Street, which only added to the drama. I peered from storefront to storefront under my dark shades. The town still had the kitschy ‘50s and ‘60s vibe, but now it was retro chic. All the stores had fresh, bright coats of paint, creating a wall of aquamarine, saffron, mint, and cobalt. Palm trees lined the narrow street and the street signs hung above flower boxes spilling over with red flowers. It looked clean and wholesome and sweet enough to make my teeth hurt.
None of the stores looked familiar. None of the faces looked familiar. My heart rate slowed and feeling came back to my hands and feet. I’d been worrying for no reason at all. When I left Palm Valley, it was a bit down at its heels, especially when you compared it to nearby resorts like Palm Springs and Palm Desert. Now it looked like the town could give them a run for their money, or at least provide for people who wanted charming desert living without the golf courses and condo fees. It was different now. And so was I.