Free Finn by Matthew Olshan Page B

said “California,” as if crossing the country was the easiest thing in the world. In my frazzled mind, California seemed as good as any place. I had a hundred dollars in my pocket. We had a full tank of gas. I asked Silvia if she knew how to get there. She said something about God pointing the way. At the time, even that kind of thinking didn’t annoy me too much.
    I dozed with my head rattling against the window, but it was the worst kind of sleep, where something really hurts and you wake up every two minutes because of the pain. I had seen a teething baby cry in its sleep. I suppose that’s what I was like. When the pain in my wrist wasn’t jarring me, it was Silvia, gently shaking my thigh and saying, “It’s just a nightmare. There’s no need to cry, Chica.”
    Then I must have finally fallen into a deeper sleep, because I opened my eyes to the morning sun in the side view mirror. Silvia’s window was half open, which made it very loud inside the car, but I didn’t mind. The wind chafed my face, but I loved all that air anyway. I asked if we were in California yet. I meant it as a joke, because California is days and days away by car, but Silvia apologized for the trip taking so long. She said she thought we might be getting close.
    At that point, I started to pay attention to the road. There was something familiar about it, but then there’s always something familiar about highways. They’re all pretty much the same, at least the big ones, except for the signs. We were in a stretch where the signs weren’t particularly helpful, but occasionally we spotted one that told us we were going west. I figured we couldn’t be doing all that badly. California was nothing if not west.
    But then, after about twenty minutes, the sign changed and told us we were going south, which was strange because we hadn’t taken any exits. The traffic started to get heavy, which was also suspicious. After crawling along for ages, we came to another sign. This one said we were going east. Then I recognized one of the exits from when my grandparents used to take me over to see one of their friends who lived on the other side of town. “We’re on the Beltway!” I shouted.
    The needle on the gas gauge said, “Empty.” Silvia had been circling the city all night. I tried to explain what had happened, but Silvia refused to understand. In her mind, we were halfway to California. “I didn’t make a turn,” she said, shaking her head confidently, “never once.” She at least agreed that we needed gas, so we pulled off at the next exit.
    I was sure Silvia was hungry, even if she was too sheepish to admit it just then, so I suggested that we stop at a Taco Palace. I felt guilty about getting so mad at her. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t know how to navigate. The roads are more complicated in America than in Mexico. That’s why we use maps here.
    Silvia pooh-poohed the Taco Palace. She said that the food there wasn’t what Mexicans really ate, but what Americans thought Mexicans ate, which, in her mind, painted an ugly picture of Americans. I didn’t want to get into a fight with her, although I liked the food at Taco Palace. I thought it was pretty ungrateful of her to reject it as not Mexican enough.
    We finally stopped at a hamburger place, but Silvia didn’t approve of that, either. When it came to ordering, she just got some orange juice and toast. She threw most of it out. I told her she had to eat, for the baby, but she claimed she wasn’t very hungry and that she’d eat tons when we got to California. She said that Roberto was a great cook. As for me, I wished that it was lunchtime, because what I really wanted was a hamburger, or maybe even two, but it was still early in the morning, and all they were serving was breakfast. It’s funny how you can be hungry for the wrong meal. My appetite clock had gotten pretty messed up at my mother’s house.
    After breakfast, we gassed up the car. Silvia spent a lot of