Читать книгу Truths I Learned From Sam 2-Book Bundle - Kristin Butcher - Страница 5

Outside the bus window, trees and rocks blur by while farther below the Fraser River rolls westward, back to Vancouver. It’s a blur too. I wish I had the power to smudge my thoughts like the landscape. Then it wouldn’t bother me that at this very minute Mom and Reed are somewhere in the clouds on a plane headed for Europe. I wouldn’t wonder about the long-lost uncle waiting for me at the end of the bus ride either. I close my eyes in an effort to turn off my brain, but it doesn’t help. My thoughts keep right on coming.

I think the bus is about half full. It’s hard to tell. I was one of the first passengers to board, and I went straight to the back. Along the route some people have gotten off and others have gotten on, though I don’t know how many. I can’t see over the top of the seats. But in Cache Creek, a third of the town gets on, and suddenly, the empty seat separating me from the rest of the bus-riding universe is gone.

Call me a snob, but I think of buses as the transportation alternative for people who have no alternative. Otherwise, they would drive or fly or take a train. Unless, of course, the place they’re going isn’t serviced by planes or trains, and their novice driving status forbids them from taking their mother’s BMW into the middle of nowhere. Needless to say, I’m not thrilled when a rather ample middle-aged woman invades my space. I barely get my jacket and magazine out of the way before her generous rump lands in the seat beside me.

There’s an armrest between us, but her thigh oozes underneath into my territory. I try to make myself smaller without being obvious. I cross one leg over the other and lean into the window. The woman’s thigh takes over that space too, and now I can’t uncross my legs without sitting on her.

As she organizes her belongings, the mixed scent of perspiration and lavender perfume wafts in my direction, and a vision of wilted flowers pops into my head. I start breathing through my mouth.

“Do you have a cold, dearie?” the woman says.

I’m not expecting her to speak to me, so as much as is possible in my cramped quarters, I jump. “What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”

“Do you have a cold?” the woman repeats.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Asthma? You’re breathing very queer.”

“It must be the air conditioning,” I mumble and turn back to the window. Though I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts, I don’t want to spend the rest of the bus ride exchanging small talk with a total stranger either.

No worries on that front. Without another glance in my direction, the woman digs a candy bar and a novel out of her massive purse and settles into another world for the duration of the trip.

Wonderful. I am trapped. If the woman doesn’t get off the bus before me, I have to endure sweat-scented air and eight square inches of seat until Webb’s River — wherever and whenever that is. Perhaps I should move now — give up my window real estate and try to find an aisle seat next to some skinny guy plugged into an MP3 player. I steal a quick glance at the woman. She is a human mountain. I couldn’t get past her if I tried. And for that reason, I suddenly have to pee.

“Oh, crap!” I mutter under my breath.

Apparently, not quite far enough under my breath, though, because the woman looks up from her book and says, “Did you say something, dearie?”

“Just talking to myself,” I tell her, turning back once more to the window.

To keep my mind off my bathroom needs, I start counting the vehicles swishing by on their way to the coast. Take me with you! I silently plead to number twenty-one, a low, sleek convertible with a tanned male driver. I’ll pay for the gas, I barter with number one hundred and sixty-three, a shiny black SUV. Like sheep to an insomniac, my vehicle tally climbs, but despite my attempts at mental telepathy, no one flags down the bus to rescue me. Somewhere north of a thousand, I lose track and drift off.

I sleep right through Kamloops and Little Fort. It isn’t until we pull into 100 Mile House that I regain consciousness — mentally, that is. My body is still asleep. No, make that dead. In fact, rigor mortis has set in. I ache all over from being cramped in the fetal position for hours. I peek over my shoulder at the seat beside me. It’s empty. My heart starts dancing its own little jig right there in my chest. The woman is gone.

Then I spy her across the aisle. Obviously, some passengers have left, and she has claimed their seats. She is still reading, but the candy bar has been replaced with licorice whips.

Gingerly, I shift position, manually uncross my legs, and stretch. It hurts but also feels wonderful. Sweet pain. And then my bladder wakes up. I poke my head above the seat and look toward the front of the bus. Passengers are still loading and unloading. I should visit the washroom before I get penned in by a new seatmate. I stick my magazine on one seat and my jacket on the other and shuffle into the aisle.

Marking my territory with my belongings does the trick, because when I return and the bus starts moving again, both seats are still empty. I flip up the armrest and stretch out.

“Next stop, Webb’s River,” the driver announces over the public address system. “Estimated arrival time is six twenty.”

I glance at my watch. That’s just half an hour! A measly thirty minutes between me and my summer with Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam. Ha-ha. Very funny. But now that I’ve thought it, I can’t get the picture of an old guy wearing stars and stripes and a top hat out of my head. I wish Mom had given me a photograph. I don’t even know who to look for when I get off the bus.

My brain starts going crazy again. What if my uncle isn’t there to pick me up? What if he doesn’t like me? What if I don’t like him?

I look at my watch. Twenty-two minutes to go. I stand up, open the overhead bin, and haul down my backpack. I have a suitcase stored in the cargo compartment under the bus, but my really important stuff is in the backpack. I rummage through it to make sure I wasn’t robbed while I was asleep. Not that I think I was. I just need to be busy.

I find my brush and free my hair from its ponytail. With each stroke, the bristles massage my scalp. I love that feeling. I brush harder. My hair slides through my fingers, and I can smell the conditioner from my morning shower.

I check the time again. Hair-brushing has eaten up five more minutes. I tie my hair back, stuff the brush into the backpack, and pull out my lip balm. It’s colourless but glossy, and it smells like strawberries.

Now there’s nothing to do but wait. I zip up my backpack and look out the window. The scenery flies by, but I don’t see it. Apparently, I lack the ability to use my eyes and think at the same time, and at the moment, thinking is my top priority. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. My mother wouldn’t send me to stay with my uncle unless he was a good guy. The truth is she really wanted this to happen. There was an excited sparkle in her eyes when she laid out the plan, like she was proud of both me and her brother, and she couldn’t wait for us to meet. She said we were going to love each other.

“Webb’s River,” the driver calls out.

I suck in my breath. Then I hoist the backpack onto my lap and hug it to my chest.

“Well, Mom,” I say quietly, “I sure hope you’re right.”