Page 22 of The Roads We Follow

The sudden onset of empathy weaves like a ribbon through my rib cage the way it had before at the thought of losing a parent so suddenly.

“How long was your mother sick?” I ask, though I’m fully aware of how inappropriate this question is given the amount of time we’ve known each other.

“Six weeks from diagnosis to hospice.”

I swallow and run my fingers along the rough seam on my jump seat. “That’s so quick.”

“Sometimes I hate myself for being glad it went as quickly as it did in the end.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead but speaks in a measured tone. “What kind of son prays for God to take theirmother home to heaven over waiting on a miracle?” He expels a slow breath. “But seeing someone you love in that much pain is ... it’s unbearable.”

“A merciful son,” I say in response to his question. “I, on the other hand, begged God to save my dad after his heart attack. I was too selfish to pray for what would be best for him because a life without my dad felt like the most unimaginable thing in the world. Still does some days.”

“That’s not selfish,” he says.

“And praying for your mama’s freedom is nothing short of loving.”

We glance at each other then, realizing just how bizarre it is to be having such a raw conversation with a near stranger. Yet, perhaps Micah is more legend than stranger. I’ve known his name my whole life, like a comic-book character born in a parallel universe to my own. He was the baby born to a woman who broke my mama’s heart and nearly her passion for music all at the same time. After the Lynn & Luella’s tour of ’94, Mama didn’t sing publicly again for close to three years. I was a toddler the first time she took the stage as a reinvented solo act—one who started from the ground up in nearly every way.

“What was he like?” Micah asks. “Your dad.”

“The perfect balance to my mother.” I laugh to myself. “Dad was levelheaded and logical, a goal-setter by nature. He was hardworking, innovative, and wise. No matter how many birthdays he had, retirement was always at least five years away....” I pause there for just a minute. “He loved his family, and he never stopped cheering Mama on.”

“He sounds like he was a great man.”

“The best,” I agree.

Micah’s lips part, and he looks as if he wants to say something more on the subject but then seems to reconsider. “You speak like a writer.”

A quick rush of air escapes me. “What?”

“It’s not just the words you use, but how you string them together.”

My heart begins to race, and I’m utterly speechless at—

“Also, your sister may have mentioned you enjoy writing.” He carries on as if this is a natural conversation. Hardly.

“There’s no way she just came out and told you that.”

“Why not? Is it a secret?” Sudden interest laces his tone as he glances in his mirrors and changes lanes. The sun is high in the sky now, radiating off the paved highway and causing those mirage-like squiggles to appear in the distance. I squint my eyes, wishing for sunglasses.

“No, it’s just not something I discuss with people much, so I know Hattie wouldn’t volunteer that information at random.”

“You might be surprised at the information people volunteer when the right questions are asked.”

I’m still struck by the implication that he asked Hattie a question about me when he hits me with: “So what kind of writer are you, Raegan? Fiction, nonfiction? Sports columns? How-to guides? Advertising? Obituaries?”

“Obituaries?” I blurt with a laugh, realizing how much better I feel sitting in this jump seat over the sofa in the back. “Do I really seem like the kind of person who writes obituaries?”

“What? Not cut out for the rigiddeadlines?”

I roll my eyes. “Are you positive you’re not a dad of four? Because you sure tell jokes like you are.”

“Positive.”

I take a minute to secure the words in my brain before I expound. “I write fiction. Mostly contemporary.”

“About what?” he prompts.

“Anything that interests me. But most recently, about family.” These words do come naturally. “I write about the struggling individuals who make up a family—the nuances of their roles, limitations, expectations, and pressures—and how the community around them either helps or hinders what they want most.”

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