Page 89 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

I hang up and throw my phone on the sofa bed then put my suitcase beside it.

“What is it? What happened to Lily?” Lauren is standing beside me.

I pull out the first clothing I come to, rip off my pajamas, and start putting on the jeans and T-shirt. “Short version—she and Clay had a fight and then she went off with some boy to a cabin on a river somewhere near Richmond. He...” I stuff my pajamas into the bag. Then I race-walk to the bathroom, scoop up my toiletries, and cram them in on top of my pajamas. “I’m sorry but I don’t have time for this. Is there a car rental place anywhere around here?” I zip up my bag.

“Yeah,” Lauren says. “There’s an Avis at 76th and Broadway. Not far. Are you seriously considering driving all the way to Richmond in this weather?”

“Of course. I have to. I can’t just sit here. I’m... I’ve got to go.”

We look at each other. She takes my phone and her thumbs fly. Then she hands it back. “Here’s the Avis website. Go ahead and call and make sure they have a car. I just need a couple minutes to get dressed.” She turns and sprints to her room. “There’s no way in hell you’re going alone.”

Thirty-eight

The only car available to drive is a tiny Ford Focus that is as basic as a car can get. Lauren looks dubious but we don’t have time to wait for a bigger, better car or satellite radio or automatic seats. My daughter is with a boy we don’t know in a place we haven’t yet discovered and I’m not about to waste a second getting on the road.

I scrawl my signature across the paperwork and we throw our things in the backseat. Lauren gets behind the wheel to get us out of the city. I stare straight out the windshield, twisting my hands in my lap as she follows the GPS prompts onto the Henry Hudson Parkway, through the Lincoln Tunnel, onto 495 to New Jersey. I assumed the weather would keep people off the road—the puddles are already deep enough to swim in—but New Yorkers don’t seem to be fazed in the least by what Mother Nature has decided to unleash on them.

It takes a little more than an hour to work our way onto I-95 south. We intend to stay on it until we have a specific location to aim for.

“You okay?” Lauren asks once we’ve merged all the way onto I-95. I almost can’t hear her over the slap of the windshield wipers and the drumming of rain on the roof. It’s like being in a tin can that someone is holding under the kitchen faucet.

“Not really.”

I reach forward and hit redial for Lily’s phone for the thousandth time. It goes directly to voice mail. Which means it’s either off or not receiving a signal. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know.” Lauren reaches to turn on the radio. Her foot presses down on the gas pedal. “But we’re going to find her. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Thunder booms. Lightning flashes, and I can’t remember what counting between them is supposed to tell you. The car shimmies so badly it feels as if we might go airborne any minute.

I stare straight ahead, straining to see through the curtain of rain that has cut us off from everything and the windshield wipers that seem to be all slap and no wipe.

“Too bad this car didn’t come with one of those inflatable potties,” Lauren says as I strain to see through the deluge. “But then I guess we’re lucky it came with tires.”

Tense as I am, I snort. For the first time since Clay’s phone call, I take a full breath.

“Do you remember that Girl Scout camping trip when we tried to make it the whole weekend without having to use those latrines?” she asks, reaching into our past for another shot of humor.

I tear my eyes from the almost-impenetrable darkness beyond the windshield to look at Lauren. Her hands are clenched tightly on the wheel. Her chin is thrust forward in the angle of determination I’ve trusted since kindergarten. “I will never forget that camping trip,” I say as drolly as I can manage. “The latrine you talked me out of would have been a better choice than the poison ivy patch I used instead.”

“Amen, sister.” Lauren laughs and I join her. For at least a few seconds we’re both somewhere else.

Two and a half hours into the drive, we finally pull into a rest stop just outside of Delaware City. We get soaked during our race to the bathroom and the switching of seats.

I try to adjust my seat but it has only two positions: grossly uncomfortable and torture chamber.

The wind and rain intensify the farther south we get. I squint to try to see through the rain then squint to read the screen of my phone that Lauren has placed in a holder that’s attached to an air vent. According to Waze, we’ve picked up and lost the same two minutes for the last hour and there’s not much information coming from drivers ahead of us. In fact, the rain is so heavy we don’t know if therearedrivers ahead of us. Or behind us. Or even beside us.

We debate whether you’re supposed to put on your hazards in order to be seen through the downpour—I am for, Lauren is against—and whether we’ll need to stop for gas—we agree that if there’s anything worse than driving in this storm it would be running out of gas and getting stranded in it.

My heartbeat drums in my ears. My brain fills with horrifying images: Lily huddled in a dark cabin without a roof. Or pinned beneath a fallen tree. Or standing on the roof of a car to evade floodwaters that threaten to wash her away.

The fear of not getting to Lily in time is constant and excruciating, even though I don’t know whatin timemeans. For all I know terrible things have already happened. And I wasn’t there to stop them or protect her.

A couple of hours later we pull off into a service plaza and do our impersonation of a pit crew at Daytona (if in fact race car drivers take potty breaks). I top off the tank while Lauren grabs some bottled waters. I’m still behind the wheel when we pull back out. We’re both already exhausted from straining to see through the blinding rain and keeping the car in its lane despite the gusting wind. And from holding back the panic.

When my phone rings Lauren reaches for it and puts it on speakerphone. “It’s Clay.”

There are no greetings or small talk. I envy the fact thathe’s had specific tasks to occupy him while I’ve had nothing to do but keep the tin car from shimmying off the road or into some unseen vehicle while imagining Lily in heart-stopping scenarios that we always arrive just minutes too late to prevent. Worry gnaws at me. If it were possible to have an imagination surgically removed, I’d have mine plucked out this minute.

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