Fiction - "Rock Hill"

“I hope you know which way to go,” she sneered as her high heels clinked against my backseat floorboard. I assured her I did. The number of instructions and specifics my eyes had studied the night before would never let me consider a different path through the winding streets of the screaming city. Park in the back lot parallel to the stage door. Don’t keep the lights on for too long. Go out a different way than you came in. Drive quickly, but don’t stick out too much. I was accustomed to clients with specific requests, but this laundry list of details and demands was unprecedented. It felt borderline Presidential. 

“How was the show?” I inquired with a bit too much interest judging by the blonde’s lack of response. Thick false lashes peered up at me through the rearview mirror, stating their empty answer. I didn’t view my question as too intrusive, but we seemed to disagree on that end. I pressed the gas pedal.

“Can’t you turn that music down?” she barked from her leather seat.

I quickly apologized and turned it off, mentally slapping myself for forgetting that important note. No music playing in the car.

I had always liked to drive. Ever since I was a little boy I was eager to get behind the wheel of anything. Golf carts, go-karts, or even a motorcycle when I could get away with it: they all piqued my interest. Maybe it was the feeling of not being in control and the adrenaline high, but I was undeniably hooked on the feeling of an open road and a steering wheel in hand. 

When I got let go, I drove. When Sarah and I fought, I drove. When mom got sick, I drove. Sarah would laugh saying she didn’t know what that car had that she didn’t, and the truth was, I didn’t know either. 

We’d be finishing up dinner with the girls one night, Sarah in that red apron and I tapping my fork on the side of my plate to fill the silence when she’d decide to bring up that same topic all over again. “How do you think we’ll ever make all of these ends meet with you slacking off like this?” she’d yell. I’d try to yell back but quickly give up as I realized I had nothing really to say. I was slacking, and I really didn’t know what to do about it. I grabbed my keys.

I decided to keep my own dialogue going without my passenger’s input. “Well, my daughters are huge fans of yours,” I informed the backseat. “Massive. I mean if you had heard them scream when I told them who I’d be driving today—”

 “Can we not do this right now?” Her voice came out weak, and her hesitation showed me that she too thought it would sound stronger. 

I complied with a nod and stared forward at the shifting lanes ahead. 

“I just thought you should know that they’re huge fans,” I stated, unsure why I was still talking. 

Her lack of response told me to be quiet. 

The drive ahead was long, almost six hours, and I wondered if her fight for silence would be won. I was accustomed to clients who preferred to drive with minimal conversation, but this felt eerily different. Flashing lights, bustling patrons, blurring billboards and yellow taxis painted a chaotic world outside. Yet, inside the four doors of my car, it all seemed still. It wasn’t that her silence offended me. No, this was something different. Something about her demeanor in the backseat saddened me beyond belief. Not her sass or lack of social graces, but the weight she held in her eyes. A weight that her too-small frame couldn’t manage to hold up, and somehow, my car offered her a brief respite.

I really hadn’t planned on working this job at all. More of a numbers guy myself, my career saw more cubicles and computers than freeways. Yet, after budget cuts and some undefined “restructuring” I was left with nothing. I had 20 years in the industry, and suddenly I was back to the start job searching amongst a sea of eager college graduates who seemed to always beat me out. I picked up odd jobs, as many as I could manage, to keep the girls oblivious to my failure. When Gary mentioned private driving one afternoon on our back porch, I laughed at first. But when I realized the extra money I could pick up driving through the night in-between my other jobs, it became more enticing. 

This particular client was pretty high profile for me. I had driven a few noteworthy politicians and even a pretty well-known chef one time, but none with the tabloid coverage that came with this particular client. America’s sweetheart star turned sour. Childhood Disney star takes a downward spiral. I had skimmed the headlines last night while confirming my route. 

“Did you see that sign back there?” To my absolute shock, the voice behind me broke the almost two hours of silence. I stuttered a response to the young woman, trying to hide my excitement that she was choosing to engage.

“Yes ma’am, what about it?” I asked her, smiling back.

“I know that town,” she stated flatly. “Where are we again?” 

 “Eh, I’d say we’ve still got a good four hours ahead of us,” I tell her. “We’ve just passed through Rock Hill.” 

I looked behind me to see the girl graze her hand across the cold window and then drop to her lap. She drew circles in the condensation coating the window. 

“What did you say your girls’ names were?” she asked.

“I actually didn’t,” I replied. “But their names are Harper and Lily.”

“Those are really pretty names,” she said, almost with a smile. “I always liked the name Lily.”

“What does your girl like to do?” she inquired from the back.

“Oh man, let me tell you,” I said. “Right now Harper’s in a big arts and craft phase. I mean you should see the pile of glitter and paper and glue she leaves on the kitchen table each night. That girl is our own little Picasso, and we couldn’t love it more.”

That earned a small smile from her.

“And Lily,” I continued. “Lily’s my singer. That girl will sing along to anything she hears. Even if she doesn’t know it, she’ll mumble along to the radio until she gets it, and then there’s no stopping that sweet voice from singing her heart out.”

“They both sound wonderful,” she answered sweetly. 

After a few minutes, she stared at me through the rearview mirror.

“Did we make it through Rock Hill?”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied. “Pretty small town right? You can drive straight through it in less than ten minutes.”

Her face went white. Staring through the rearview mirror I watched her overlined eyes well with tears as her lashes fought to push them back. Suddenly feeling out of place in my own car, I dropped my gaze from the mirror. It felt intrusive to see the moment behind me.

The woman I had heard sing with such bravado on stage was gone, and in its place sat a young girl quietly wiping away tears.

The fatherly instinct in me wanted to ask her what troubled her and attempt some type of comfort, but I hesitated, not knowing my place. 

Eventually, I quietly asked, “Ma’am, would you like me to turn back? We have time.” 

She stared blankly into the mirror back at me, and her eyes told me all I needed to know. I pressed the gas pedal down.

I thank her and press on towards the destination. The miles pass us by, filling the comfortable silence. She doesn’t ask me anything further, and I leave her tears with her in the backseat alongside her high heels.