The drive through Utah—during which I’d learned that John Cabot had possibly discovered Canada and Roger learned who Stephen Sondheim was—was absolutely breathtaking. The scenery was even more stunning than it had been on Highway 50, mostly because there was now something to look at. And what there was to look at took my breath away. It was strangely otherworldish—these huge red plateaus and fantastic little drift-wood trees that I couldn’t stop taking pictures of, much to Roger’s delight, since he thought that taking pictures of trees was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard of. As it had been the day before, it was as though someone had opened up the landscape and you could just see forever, underneath a sky that, I swear, was bigger and bluer than it had been in Nevada.
Now that we were back on the interstate, we were seeing road signs again, and most of them were new to me. In addition to the inexplicable OPEN RANGE CAUTION, there were animal signs I’d never seen before—an antelope, a cow, and a cow with horns. There were deer signs too, but I’d seen those for the first time near Yosemite. But it worried me that, without warning, a cow with horns might be running across the interstate. And that this had happened frequently enough that they’d had to erect a sign to warn people about it.
As we crossed into Colorado, slowly but surely the landscape changed again. The open flatness we’d had in Nevada and Utah became more mountainous, and suddenly the pine trees were back. The grades of the incline were now posted on signs on the side of the road, and the road was getting more winding and much steeper as we crossed actual mountains. We’d climb and climb, and then go downhill sharply. The Liberty was fine with this, but it seemed that the steep grades were an issue for the truckers—especially the downhill grades. There were signs that I couldn’t believe were real, that seemed to offer truckers stream-of-consciousness support for these roads. STEEP GRADE AHEAD, TRUCKERS! USE CAUTION! and TRUCKERS! IT’S NOT OVER YET! MORE 6% GRADE AND WINDING ROADS! The one that I stared at the longest, however: IF BRAKES FAIL, DO NOT EXIT. STAY ON INTERSTATE. I mean, what? That seemed like terrible advice to me, and whenever we were behind a truck, I found myself watching its brake lights, making sure they were flashing red.
Roger had been getting quieter the closer we got to Colorado Springs. At both diners, he’d left during the meal to make phone calls, calls he made clear he didn’t want to talk about when he returned to the table and immediately changed the subject. I’d almost asked, the first time, if he’d been calling Hadley, but then realized that would involve admitting I’d heard his conversation at Yosemite.
I’d used one of his absences to send a message to my mother’s cell. Charlie had figured out how to do this years ago, but I’d never done it until now. It meant that a voice mail showed up on her phone without it ringing. Charlie was sure that Mom had never figured out her cell had this feature, as she always just assumed that she had missed the call. I didn’t think I was up for having a conversation with her that would either involve a lot of uncomfortable truth telling, or would be a parade of lies. I knew that I would probably have to tell her the truth soon—we were supposed to be in Indiana at the moment, and we were pretty far from Indiana. But I tried to tell myself that maybe we could make up the time by driving all night, or something. I also wasn’t exactly excited about the prospect of being in Connecticut in a day or two—I didn’t want to have to start that life yet. I also hadn’t seen my mother in a month, and the thought of seeing her again made me nervous, for reasons I didn’t want to explore.
I took a sip of my cream soda and checked my watch, now adjusted to mountain time. It was getting close to seven, and it felt like we’d been in the car for a very long time. “Well?” I asked, propping my feet on the dashboard and looking over at Roger.
“Sorry,” he said. He picked up his phone, looked at it, then set it back down in his cup holder. “Um. Is he alive?”
“No,” I said, glancing over at him again. “And you asked that already.”
“Sorry,” he said, giving me a quick smile, then turning back to the road, which was getting windy again. “I think I’m just a little … distracted. Want to just put on some music?”
“Sure,” I murmured, trying not to feel hurt. It was just a stupid game, anyway. I turned up Roger’s mix, and we drove the next six songs without speaking.
I started seeing Colorado Springs on the signs that told you how far you were from various destinations. And when we were about sixty miles outside it, it was like we joined the world again. We must have been through the mountains, because the landscape was more open, and there were suddenly three lanes of traffic we could drive in, then four. The sense of remoteness fell away, and there were Targets and Wal-Marts and Starbucks and fast-food restaurants on the side of the road again. All those things I’d missed on Highway 50 that now seemed too big and brightly colored. I found myself missing the little mini-marts.
We stopped for gas when we were about twenty miles outside of town. While Roger filled up, his cell rang—I was squeegeeing the windshield, which had turned into a dead bug graveyard, and I could see it, lighting up and dancing around as it vibrated in the cup holder. I opened the passenger door and grabbed it, seeing the display read BRON CALLING. I had no idea what this meant, but I handed the phone to Roger, who suddenly looked very nervous. I put the squeegee back, even though the window was only half-cleaned, and got back in the car so I could avoid hearing Roger’s conversation. But I couldn’t help slouching down a little in my seat to see him in the side mirror. I could only see him in profile, but he didn’t look too happy. Even though he was smiling, it seemed a little forced. It struck me, a moment after I thought this, that I could now tell the difference with him.
Roger got back in the car and slammed his door a little harder than necessary. He didn’t put the keys in the ignition, just played with them, resting on his knee. He looked tired, and some of the energy that was always humming around him seemed to have faded a little. “You okay?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said to the keys, still not looking at me. “So I have good news. I got a place for us to crash. It’s one of the houses off campus. It’s the International House during the year, but right now, it’s just for people who are taking summer courses.”
“Great,” I said. I looked at him more closely. He did not look happy. “That’s a good thing, right?”