0: The Fool

TW: Suicide mention/death

Roxy had always been a fan of long drives. Something about the endless nature of the highway soothed her; it felt like a space outside of everything else, outside of time. It was almost like she didn’t really have to be there, not fully. She could set her body to autopilot and leave it behind while her mind wandered. But today, Roxy doesn’t want her mind to wander, not too far at least, so she has the radio on and turned up loud. It isn’t as good as using her phone, but she can’t afford a newer car with Bluetooth, and phones don’t have aux ports anymore, so it’s either listen to a random 80s station while her phone charges or let her phone die and take the GPS with it. She had considered the latter for longer than she’d like to admit, but podcasts aren’t worth being stranded on the highway.

She drums her fingers against the steering wheel to Prince’s voice coming through her speakers. She’s never known the words to this song, but she’s heard enough to know how it goes, enough to babble along happily and incoherently to the lyrics. Seemingly in protest, the car dings as the check engine light comes on. Roxy groans and rolls her eyes. It’s been doing this for about a month, but her car still seems to be running fine, so she hasn’t bothered wasting the money to take it to a shop. Though, her mother would be disappointed by this, which is why she hasn’t told her.

She had the opportunity before she left. Roxy had had a conversation with her mother about this tendency of hers to put things off. She’d said, “You can’t keep avoiding these things, Roxy. You can’t just run from your problems. It wasn’t your fault that—”

The blaring horn of a semitruck shocks Roxy back into the present. She slows down a bit, lets it pass her. She’s always hated driving next to them, those big, hulking things. The anxiety of it tingles through the tips of her fingers down to her tightly curled toes.

She turns up the radio, tries to focus on the music instead. It was Billy Joel now: “Movin’ Out”. It makes her chuckle; that’s what she’s doing. She got a new job in a new state and is ready to start a new life. It’s all horribly exciting and terrifying at the same time, like jumping into a cold pool on a hot day. She craves that shock to her system.

The music fades away into a man’s voice. Roxy glances at the charge on her phone, missing the ability to listen to music with no interruptions.

“That was ‘Movin’ Out’ by Billy Joel,” the radio host says. “Next up, we have a listener request with a special message. This song is a shoutout to Roxanne!”

Roxy chuckles and turns the audio up slightly.

“Roxanne, someone wanted to tell you that you can’t run away from your problems.”

She stops breathing.

“One way or another, they’re gonna catch up to you. This is ‘One Way or Another’ by Blondie here on W106.7!”

Roxy changes the station. Her breath comes back, but too quick, too short. She tries to calm herself with deep breaths, but they come out shaky and shallow. She gives her head a quick shake. “Relax, relax, relax,” she says to herself. “It’s not for you.” It couldn’t be. She crossed state lines over an hour ago; no one here knows her and no one from home would know that radio station.

She thinks about her mom again and the conversation they had before she left.

“It’s not your fault Ora died,” her mom had said. Roxy agreed, at least out loud she did. Ora did that to herself, she had her own issues that she didn’t want to bother anyone else with. There was nothing Roxy could do. Everyone agreed it was all so sudden; it’s all anyone would say at the funeral.

“Ugh!” Roxy groans. She turns up the radio in an effort to drown out her thoughts with whatever assortment of pop songs this station plays. She isn’t running; it was just a good opportunity and she had to go for it. Her mother’s voice rings in her ears: “There are plenty of opportunities nearby; didn’t you get an offer recently?”

Roxy shakes her head, acting out the conversation as it replays in her mind. No, this one is better. If she missed it, she’d regret it.

Staticky screeching sounds from the radio bring Roxy back to the present with a jolt. It’s the transition noise from music to the radio host. A raspy voiced woman starts speaking. “Alright! You’re listening to Request Radio Hour! Next up, we’ve got a song that goes out to Roxanne!”

Roxy quickly changes the station.

“Roxy!” A different voice, a different station. She changes it again.

“Someone wanted to let you know that you can’t keep running—”

Click. New station

“From your mistakes—”

Click.

“Sooner or later—”

Click.

“They’ll catch up—”

Click.

“To you—”

Click.

“You—”

Click.

“Can’t—”

Click.

“Hide—”

Click.

“From—”

Click.

“The—”

Click.

“Truth—”

Click.

“Roxanne—”

She turns the radio off. Her grip on the wheel is tight, her breath shallow. “It was just a coincidence,” she says to herself. “It was just a coincidence. It was just a coincidence. It was just a coincidence.” She tries to take deep breaths, tries to ground herself, focus on the road ahead. She needlessly adjusts her mirrors, giving her jittery hands something to do.

“You’re still ignoring me.” A voice from behind her. She adjusts her rearview mirror but sees nothing in the back seat. She fixes it back, her hands shaking almost uncontrollably.

Her view of the road ahead begins to fuzz, her eyes struggling to focus as her breathing shallows. She feels faint, nauseous. Maybe it’d be best if I pulled over, she thinks. Maybe I just need some air.

Roxy presses the buttons to roll down the windows slightly, just a crack. The driver’s side window blows sticky summer air into her face, but she convinces herself it’s helping. The passenger side window opens—

Ora is sitting in the passenger seat.

For a moment, Roxy just stares, stunned. Then she screams. Her hands involuntarily fly up to her face, causing the car to swerve.

She grabs the wheel, too quickly; the car swerves harder in the opposite direction off of the road and past the shoulder. She slams on the breaks, skidding to a stop on the dew damp grass just a few feet from the encroaching forest.

Roxy unbuckles in a hurry before opening the door and scurrying out. She crawls backwards away from the open door, but inside, she sees no one, just an empty car. All is quiet except for the rhythmic ding of the open-door warning.

There’s a tightness in her chest, and she feels her stomach start to heave. The last time she saw Ora’s face, she was pale, laying with her eyes closed in her casket. People always say the dead look peaceful, but no matter how long Roxy stared into Ora’s blank face, all she could see was an emptiness.

At the wake, people kept talking about how beautiful she looked, how young she was, how sudden and unexpected her death was. They said all this while eating cookies and pies while Roxy was so certain she’d throw up any food she swallowed. She’d had to excuse herself outside. She’d instinctively fidgeted with her phone, but it felt heavy in her hands. She couldn’t bring herself to look at it.

Roxy stands up and wipes the grass and mud off the back of her pants. From a distance, she stares into her car, searches for the familiar face again.

“I’m fucking losing it,” she says under her breath. “I’m losing my mind; I’m going insane.” She crosses her arms, hugging herself as she walks around the car, checking every angle. It must be the fatigue, she assumes; she’s been driving since early in the morning. Maybe she should stop for a bit, get a coffee, maybe some protein.

Out of the corner of her eye, Roxy notices a pickup truck stopping on the shoulder of the highway. An older white man steps out. He’s wearing a blue plaid button up, light wash blue jeans, work boots, and a camo baseball cap covering most of (or what’s left of) his stark white hair.

Before he can say anything, Roxy shields her eyes with one hand and waves him away with the other. “I’m fine!” she shouts. “I don’t need any help.”

The man starts walking over anyway. Roxy takes a step back towards her car. Maybe he didn’t hear her. “I said I don’t need any help!”

As he gets closer, Roxy glances over to her car, to the cellphone attached to the dash. Quickly, she leans in and grabs it. By the time she turns around, the man is right behind her, looking over her shoulder.

He points behind her. “Yer check engine light is on,” he says, his voice a slow, southern drawl.

Roxy sighs, but it comes out shaky. “I know; I’m gonna deal with it.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Really, I’m fine. I just… needed to stretch my legs is all; been driving for a while.”

The man nods in a way that suggests he’s not really listening. He motions his head towards the back of her car. “Ya got a flat.”

“What?” Roxy turns toward where he motioned, and, sure enough, the back left tire is flat. “Shit,” she breathes.

He grunts, pulling up his pants by the belt. “I’ll go ‘head and change that fer ya.”

“No, no, no—” Roxy starts, but the man is already walking towards the back of her car.

“Pop open that trunk fer me, sweetheart.”

She scowls involuntarily. “I said I don’t need help.”

“Pop the trunk.” His voice is so stern, it reads like a threat.

Roxy freezes. She wonders if she has anything in her car that she could use as a weapon. Ora’s obsession with true crime podcasts led her to firmly believe that everyone should always have some kind of self-defense tool on them at all times. She bought Roxy a self-defense keychain for her birthday once, one of those ones that’s shaped like a cat where you put your fingers through the eye holes and use the ears like brass knuckles. She still has it on her keys, but they’re in the ignition.

Roxy reaches into her car and pulls the lever that pops the trunk.

“It’ll just take me a few minutes,” the man says, not missing a beat. He opens up the trunk and scoffs. “Got a lotta stuff in here. Can ya tell me where yer headin’?”

“Um…” Roxy fidgets with her phone in her hands. “Just visiting a friend.”

He raises an eyebrow. “All this just to visit a friend?”

“I’m staying a few nights.”

“Riiiight.” He nods slowly, his eyes trailing down to the luggage in her trunk before snapping back up to meet with hers. “Sure you ain’t runnin’ from somethin’? ‘Cause you got the look of someone not wantin’ to be found.”

For a moment, all the air leaves Roxy’s body. She feels empty and full and tense and like she’s melting all at the same time. She’s never fainted before, and she hopes to whatever god will listen that she’s not about to.

“I’m not running,” she says, her voice quieter than she expects. “I’m just visiting a friend. I promise.”

He sucks his teeth. “You got a car full of stuff fer just a few nights?” He chuckles. “Well yer friend might be in fer a bit of a surprise when you pull up, Roxanne!”

She stumble steps backwards. She’s going to throw up. She’s going to throw up, she’s sure of it. “What’s in my car is my business,” she manages.

“Just like it was yer business how Ora died?”

Roxy’s eyes widen. She backs up again, bumping into her car door before maneuvering around it, using it like a shield between her and the man. “Who the fuck are you?” Her voice is fragile. There is no power behind her confusion.

The man takes a step toward her. “You tell yerself there was nothin’ you could do, but is that really true, Roxanne? She was yer best friend; how could you not see the signs?” He steps forward again, keeps stepping. Roxy moves backwards, keeping pace with him. The man continues. “Did you just ignore them signs like ya do everythin’? Like ya ignored her phone call?”

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” She squeezes her eyes shut, bangs her hands against her head. The cold feeling of her phone screen against her skin is like electricity, like venom. She wants to throw it.

Suddenly, her hand is pulled away by the wrist. Her eyes shoot open, and she tries to pull her hand away instinctively, but the man’s grip is tight. He brings his face close to hers. “You gotta face the music, sweetheart. You gotta take a long, hard look at what you done.”

Roxy pulls her wrist towards her face and bites down on the man’s thumb, hard. He lets out a yelp and let’s her go, giving Roxy the opportunity to turn on her heels and run into the forest.

Voices trail behind her from multiple directions, loud, ethereal voices, like windchimes in a storm. She sprints as fast as she can, certain someone is right behind her, certain that, if she doesn’t run, she’ll die.

Soon, she tires out, her lungs and legs not used to this level of exercise. She quickly glances backwards before ducking behind a thick tree. Exhaustion takes her legs out from under her, and she sits down in the grass with her knees to her chest, her head down, and her hands covering the back of her neck.

She tries to listen for approaching footsteps, but the voices drown out everything. All Roxy can hear are the signs. The way Ora became so withdrawn, so tired, so unmotivated. The way she stopped doing things she used to love. The way she spent most of her free time laying in bed. The way she called Roxy late at night that one time, the call she didn’t pick up. But that was before the party Ora had thrown. She was laughing and smiling and socializing. Roxy thought everything was ok; she thought Ora was better. How was she supposed to know it was a going away party?

The voices close in around her, getting louder and louder, all converging into one, familiar voice. It’s Ora.

“You can’t hide,” she says.

Roxy hears the footsteps walk right in front of her before stopping. The voice goes quiet. There’s no sound except for birds and rustling leaves. Slowly, Roxy lifts her head, expecting to see her late friend, but instead she locks eyes with herself. Her reflection kneels down, coming face to face with her.

For a moment, they stare at each other and say nothing. Then Roxy clears her throat, her eyes darting down to the grass where her fingers dig into the dirt. “I was scared,” Roxy says. “I thought… I thought if I pretended everything was ok, then she’d feel better, like I wasn’t treating her different. I didn’t wanna pry, you know? I thought that it would make it worse if I started treating her like this fragile thing. I didn’t think any less of her, I wanted her to know that. I thought… if she needed me, she’d come to me. But I just made her feel like I didn’t want her to talk about it. I just pretended for so long; when she called me, I froze. I was too scared. It’s my fault. I wish I could tell her I’m sorry.”

Tears start welling up in Roxy’s eyes, so she closes them tight, sealing them in. She presses her palms against her eyelids, but her reflection pulls her hands away and holds them in hers. Then she gently pulls her into a hug.

For a moment, Roxy sits there, stunned, but then she hugs her back. She presses her face into her own shoulder and starts to sob. It’s the first time she’s cried about all this. She lets the tears come, lets the sobs heave from her chest.

After a minute or two, she stops and pulls away. She feels lighter. “Thank you,” she says as she wipes the wetness from her face. But when she looks up, she’s alone again. The forest is peaceful, full of life, yet quiet. Roxy wipes the back of her pants as she stands.

When she gets back to the side of the road, the man is no longer by her car, his truck is gone, but the back tire is no longer flat and the driver’s side door is still open. Cautiously, she gets back inside, closes the door, and buckles up. She turns the GPS back on on her phone and attaches it to the holder on her dashboard. She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. Then she pulls her car back onto the highway, ready to start again.