Page 19 of The Roads We Follow

Of all the conflicting feelings I’ve had in the months following my mother’s death, this is by far the most conflicting one of them all. Because even though Russell Farrow was the only lead I had to go on due to the overwhelming circumstantial evidence, if he’s not my biological father, then Raegan Farrow is not my biological half sister.

And I’m one hundred percent certain I’ve never felt more relieved about anything in my entire life.

6

Raegan

Something happened in that driveway with Micah, and then again in Mama’s den. Something I’ve struggled dozens of times over to describe in my fiction. Something not nearly as cliché as a spark but not nearly as dramatic as a divine revelation either. I suppose, at the very least, it was a connection, one unlike any I’ve experienced before.

I run our conversation over in my head again, trying to sort it out as Micah loads our remaining totes onto the bus as if his sole reason for being on this trip is to live up to the job title he’s accepted. Yet I know it’s more complicated than that. He told me so himself. And perhaps it’s that—the depth of what he shared with me—that’s the most disorienting part of it all.

Still is.

From my place on the bus sofa, I watch Micah from the corner of my eye as he situates himself in the driver’s seat and speaks logistics with my mama for what is obviously not the first time. How manyphone calls had the two of them shared? And why hadn’t Mama told me she’d been in contact with Lynn’s family members since her death? The questions are like an irritant in my eye. Small in size, but noticeable enough that all I want to do is flush it out.

Mama has been different since she came home from saying her final good-bye to Lynn in April, and strangely, I was the only one who seemed to notice her frequent musings about a past she’d rarely spoken of before. How I’d hear her in the den playing old songs I’d never heard her sing. How I’d walk in on private conversations with Jana—likely scheming about this very road trip. I’d mentioned it to Adele once, telling her how I’d stumbled upon her digging through old boxes of photo albums and journals at midnight more than once. And how she started sharing bits and pieces of her history with me that I’d never heard before. For most of my childhood, Luella Farrow had fought to prove her place in country music, but suddenly, in the quiet of the night, it was as if she was trying to prove she’d once been a regular girl who’d lived in a regular world with regular friends.

The dichotomy has been disorienting to say the least.

Adele dismissed my concerns, saying it was normal for people Mama’s age to have bouts of nostalgia and that it would pass. Besides, she had the festival coming up, and Mama loves nothing more than being on stage playing for tens of thousands. I tried to seek Hattie’s opinion on the matter as well, but she was too distraught over Peter filing for temporary custody for the summer to focus on anything else. So I stopped bringing it up. Instead, I stuffed it all down inside—all the strange things I saw and overheard as Mama’s roommate. Only, now I’m starting to wonder if I’d missed something. Perhaps there was someone else Mama had been talking to these last few months.

I watch her place a hand on Micah’s shoulder, and the realization hits me anew: this man is Lynn Davenport’s son. I allow the fact to roll around in my brain a half dozen times until I accept it as truth. Lynn Hershel-Davenport’s past connection to Mama has never been a secret. Her name even appears on the official Luella Farrow biopage as a former band member, though from all Mama’s stories, especially the ones as of late, I know they were much more than that—best friends who parted badly because one of them couldn’t handle the mounting pressures of fame. Right up until this moment, I believed the only thing I would ever share in common with the woman in my mama’s vintage photographs is my given middle name.

And yet ... here is her son.

It’s a chore to tear my eyes away from his profile as he taps in whatever address Mama has given him into his map app, but Hattie’s concerning sighs and manic scrolling of her photo album on her phone switches me into a different mode. I knew this moment of panic would come for her, I just hadn’t expected it before we pulled out of the driveway.

I touch her leg in an effort to distract her. “Hey, I meant to tell you I repacked everything from the brown bag into a blue duffle.”Minus one pair of panties, I think.

She barely reacts. Not a good sign.

“Hattie?” I try again, switching my tactic. “What time is it in Greece right now?”

Maybe if I can get her talking about Annabelle and Aiden, it’ll help her internal spiral.

“Nearly four,” she answers robotically, looking at a picture of Annabelle pulling a wagon full of apples at an orchard last fall. It’s an adorable photo, one that could easily belong on the front of a blank stationery card for people who despise corny, canned messages. Like me.

“And what time did you agree on for your video call tonight?” It’s a stipulation of the summer custody agreement. At least three video chats a week and a phone call on the off days.

“Eight their time.”

“Oh, well that’s not too long to go, then,” I say, using my most cheery voice. “I’m sure they’re going to be thrilled to see you—and maybe you’ll have something fun to show them from on the road, too.” Although, I haven’t a clue where our first stop will be. Everytime I’ve inquired about the driving itinerary, Mama just says she’ll let us know.

Hattie shrugs as her tears well inside her perfectly lined eyes. The reaction is enough for me to push aside her uncharacteristic forwardness with Micah earlier. I can’t say I don’t know what’s gotten into her ... I do know. She’s hurting. Tenderly, I place an arm around my fragile sister, the way she used to do with me when I was younger and knew I could talk to her about anything. I do my best to blink away the series of haunting images that invade my memory every time I see Hattie cry. Even though Micah and Mama are still engaged in conversation and Adele hasn’t bothered to come out of the back room since she boarded, I keep my voice soft.

“I have no doubt Annabelle and Aiden miss you just as much as you’re missing them right now. I also have no doubt that being on the road will speed up the time and give you some great content to share with them.”

“I sure hope so,” she says, perking up a bit. “It just feels wrong leaving on a trip without them.”

Having no kids of my own yet, I have no firsthand experience with that feeling, but I do cherish my role of being an auntie. I adore both my nieces and my nephew, even though Adele’s daughter, Cheyenne, is now taller, smarter, and probably all around adultier than I am. She’s currently in her third year at the University of San Francisco as a business major, music minor. I miss her terribly.

I lean toward the sink counter, rip off a paper towel from the bolted-down holder, and hand it to Hattie. She blots at her eyes and sniffs.

“In good news, your makeup is on point today,” I attest confidently, wishing I’d taken an extra twenty minutes to shower and freshen up in the house. My gaze finds the bathroom door on the opposite wall of the bus. It’s going to be a learning curve figuring out how to get clean and ready in a two-by-two rectangle.

Hattie smiles up at me. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” I tap her knee, and she sets her phone down on thecushion beside her. I hope the relief I feel is not as obvious as it seems.

---