Free Long Way Gone by Charles Martin Page B

first day she slept deeply. Didn’t even roll over. On the second day, I checked her for fever, pushed the hair out of her face, then sat next to her on the bed and drank in the smell of her. I stayed there an hour. Maybe two. I thought a lot about what she knew, what she didn’t know, and what, if anything, would be gained by telling her the truth.
    On day three I lifted her head, fed her some chicken broth, and made her eat some peanut butter toast. When she finished, she laid her head back down, closed her eyes, and slid her hand out from beneath the sheets. Reaching for me. I laid mine in hers and she drifted off. Her hands were rough, and if they told a story, it was not one of tenderness known.
    When she woke on the fourth morning, I heard her talking on my landline. I couldn’t make out the words, but she sounded apologetic, like the other person was not happy. She hung up and made a second call. Sounded like she was trying to get some information. When she appeared a few moments later, I’d come to little resolution. The truth of our lives would only open Pandora’s box, and I wondered if that wouldn’t hurt more. She’d already suffered a lot.
    When she walked out she was wearing the fog of deep sleep and one of my Melanzana fleece pullovers. She poured herself some coffee and found me on the porch with Jimmy on my lap. I don’t know how long she’d been standing there when I saw her leaning against the door-frame.
    The clouds hung in the valleys below us. A hundred miles west, dark clouds threatened the year’s first snow. When she spoke, her voice was soft but not necessarily peaceful. Worry had returned, as had that self-protective shell. Her tone was apologetic.
    “Hey, I . . . I just talked with the folks in Biloxi. They’re losing patience. I was supposed to be there two days ago. They said there’s some video on the Internet. Me in a bar. Getting lots of views, and people are calling about me. Shows are starting to sell tickets. It might be a chance.”
    While she talked, I studied her. She’d removed the Aircast. The hand was still a little puffy, but the bruise was turning a darker shade of purple. The circles beneath her eyes, meanwhile, had faded, and a glimmer of light had returned.
    “I’m really sorry . . . I checked the bus schedule. Could I trouble you for a ride to the bus station?”
    My heart registered a feeling that it had not felt in a long time. The closest word I can use to describe it was hurt . I set Jimmy down and slid on my boots. “Sure.”
    She was staring at Jimmy, and the space between her eyes had narrowed. When she touched the bullet hole with the tip of her pinkie, I could all but see the question perched on the tip of her tongue. She must have thought better of it, though, because all she said was, “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
    When she returned from the shower, wet hair and smelling of soap, I slid the Jeep keys into my pocket. “Ready?”
    She owned the clothes on her back and a backpack with a lot of room in it. “Yeah.”
    The thought of her arriving in Mississippi with nothing to play was bugging me. “Have you got three minutes for me to show you something?”
    There was a pleading in her face, but I didn’t know what to make of it. “Sure.”
    Just off my kitchen stood a heavy wooden door with three locks. I unlocked all three, clicked on the light, and slid the door open. “You and I met when I couldn’t take my hands off your guitar.” I laughed. “Not much has changed.”
    She stepped into the room, and, as it had at the hospital, her jaw went one way while her eyebrows went another. She began counting, her finger bobbing up and down as she pointed along the racks. When she finished she said, “You own sixty-four guitars?”
    The number surprised me. Sounded high. “Don’t know.”
    She walked into the room and turned around, talking to herself. “You own so many you’ve lost count.”
    I’d paneled the room in western red cedar