Page 16 of The Roads We Follow

Her eyebrows bunch puzzlingly as she looks from me to the picture frames and back again. “Wait, how did you know these photos were taken thirty years ago?”

For a second, my mind goes blank. Did I seriously just give myself away on my first question?Real smooth, Davenport.But then I remember the time stamp on the bottom right of the picture of my mom and Luella standing in front of Old Goldie in Amarillo. I know that one well; one just like it was in the oak chest Mom stored in her music office at home. I could only find three pictures of this time period in total. One of my mother and Luella in front of the white chapel at Camp Selkirk at roughly eighteen, this one, and another with Luella and Russell at a courthouse on what appeared to be their wedding day. My mom was the only other person present in the photo outside of the judge.

Thankfully, enough of the time stamp peeks out from the frame to save my hypocritical hide. If honesty happens to be among the qualitiessheadmires most, then I hope my lies of omission won’t completely annihilate my chances of getting to know her better on the road.

“The date on this one here—” I tap on the glass of the photoclosest to me and point to the month and year. “I did the math. Thirty years ago this summer.” Consequently, also nine months to my birth date.

“Wow.” She stares at me, blinks. “You have freakishly good eyesight.”

“I wear contacts.”

“Still. That’s ... weirdly observant. You’re not really an undercover FBI agent posing as a driver, are you?”

Though I can tell she means this to come off as a joke, the truth hits a little too close to home for me to laugh it off. Not FBI, just a guy who spent his entire life believing the best man he’s ever known is his father when in reality his father is actually someone’s best-kept secret. Or in this case, possibly two someones’.

I’ll never forget the look on Luella’s face after she left Mom’s bedside—the resolve in her eyes, the fresh tears on her cheeks. Whatever happened behind that closed door had to be more than two friends finding peace after thirty years of fractured friendship and silence. It had to be something significant. Perhaps something that, if outed, would devastate a newly grieving husband and son after all this time. Something that would be big enough to end a childhood friendship and convicting enough to seek amends on a deathbed.

I blink the introspection away as Cinderella points to the furthest frame in the wall timeline, the one hanging above the dining table. “That one there is Luella with Adele and Hattie. I think they must have been around seven and ten—and that’s Frank Davenport with them. He was the bus driver. At that point, he’d been driving them all around for several tours, maybe three or four?” Her finger swings to my mother standing on the opposite side of the frame. She’s leaning against a tree in a long denim skirt and orange striped shirt, and she looks frail—even more so than on the day she died. The bottom of her Taylor guitar rests on the toe of her suede-fringed boot. I’ve played that guitar dozens of times, but I’ve never seen this picture of her before. My gaze automatically dips to her flat midsection, asif I might be able to discern a secret baby inside her womb. But not even the best contact lenses in the world could detect such a thing. “That’s Lynn Hershel, who eventually became Lynn Davenport. She and ... she and Luella were childhood best friends. They started a band together and toured for quite a while after getting signed in Nashville, decades before Luella went out on her own.” She pauses, and I involuntarily hold my breath as she speaks again. “Lynn passed away recently.”

When her eyes draw back to mine, I know this is the moment I should tell her that the Lynn she speaks of is actually my mother, but I care too much about the quiet thoughts lurking behind her eyes to interrupt whatever connections her synapses are making. Interruption is a therapist’s worst enemy; permission their greatest advocate. Not that I could call myself much of a therapist these days. A license is only a piece of paper.

I hold her gaze for three, two, one...

“Sorry, I just...” She shakes her head.

“Did you know her?” I ask softly, ninety-nine percent sure I know the answer, but life has been too full of surprises lately not to ask.

“No, but...” She pauses. “This might sound super weird.”

“Believe me, I’m well-acquainted with weird.”

She sighs. “Drivers probably have more weird conversations than hair stylists.”

I remain strategically quiet.

“I haven’t said this out loud to anyone, but since you’re going on this trip, too...” She bites her plump bottom lip, and I have to fight to concentrate on her next words. “I feel like this road trip is connected to her somehow—to her death.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Closure, maybe? I don’t know, it’s just a theory right now. But I do know grief does strange things to people.”

I wasn’t prepared for her answer, but unlike the tenderhearted beauty before me, I’ve learned how to train my emotions before they have a chance to register on my face.“Theories can often be right.”

“I guess we’ll see.” She points to several other photos, mentioning band members standing in front of memorable venues and national landmarks, but the one face I’m looking for above all the rest appears to be absent from every single photo. I nod along and ask appropriate questions to encourage conversation, but I’m distracted in my search all the while.

Finally, I ask.

“Did Luella’s husband ever tour with her and their children?” I’ve done an exhaustive search on Russell Farrow online, but what’s on the internet is as generic as a Wikipedia page. Birth and death dates, survivors, career focus, and notable contributions to the music industry, net worth, etc. Nothing personal. Nothing that would reveal he was a cheater who had a secret son by his wife’s best friend.

“He did, but he was out of the country during this particular tour.”

Her answer comes so easily and yet it doesn’t compute, which is why my reply is unfiltered. “Out of the country—why? Where? For how long?” I run the math equation in my head again. For me to have a March birthday and be born full-term at eight pounds, six ounces, I had to have been conceived between late June and early July. Russell Farrow would have had to at least be in the same country to have an affair with my mother.

By the questioning expression on her face, it’s clear I’ve tripped too far over the suspicion line. Just when I’m searching for a way to patch my blunder, the bus door opens to reveal a tall, too-thin woman with bright red lips and animal-print sandals. She climbs the stairs and meets us in the main living quarters on the bus.

“Ah, there you are, Sunny Bear. I’ve been looking all over for you.” The woman’s gaze swings from Cinderella to me. “Hello, I’m Hattie. Andyoumust be our driver.”

By the way she says it, I’m a hundred percent certain her definition of driver is not the same as mine. My hypothesis is confirmed when she extends her right hand toward me, grasps mine firmly, and then covers our hold with her left hand. Unlike Cinderella, there’s an indent where a wedding ring used to be on herleft index finger. If she wants me to notice, she’s succeeded. Only, the fact that this woman is quite possibly my half sister is enough to make me retract my hand as if she’s been holding it to an open flame.

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