You coming? Pick me up at 8. Bring fruit. Mama said no flowers. She says hospital flowers look like funeral flowers.
Saturday 8 a.m. Nicole pulled up in her silver Lexus RX. Audrey got in. Black fitted tea jeans sneakers. Nicole in a red summer dress, sunglasses pushed up on her head.
They argued about the playlist before they even left the driveway. If you play that podcast again, I’m jumping out of the car. It’s educational. It’s three hours of a man whispering about mushrooms. Nicole turned up the radio.
Audrey rolled down the window. Georgia heat poured in thick and sweet, smelling like cut grass and hot pavement. 2 hours on I75 South. Then a right turn onto a two-lane road through a town called Greyfield. Population 4,000.
One traffic light, one diner, one gas station. Nicole glanced at the fuel gauge. I need to stop. Make it quick. Mom is expecting us by noon.
Nicole pulled into the gas station. A quiet pump, a quiet lot, a pickup truck parked in the corner, an old man inside the convenience store staring at a lottery ticket, and across the road, a police cruiser. Three officers inside watching. Nicole pulled up to pump number two and killed the engine. The gas station was the kind of place that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the ’90s. cracked concrete, a faded sign that read Greyfield Gas and Go in letters that used to be red.
Audrey stepped out and stretched. The heat hit her like a wall. How does anyone live out here? People live everywhere, Audrey. Not by choice.
Nicole swiped her card at the pump. Audrey walked toward the convenience store. The door chime was broken. Made a sound like a dying bird. Inside, an old man stood at the counter scratching a lottery ticket with a quarter.
He looked up when Audrey walked in, looked her up and down, then went back to scratching. The woman behind the register didn’t say hello. Audrey grabbed two bottles of water and a bag of grapes. She put them on the counter. The woman rang them up without a word.
No eye contact, no have a nice day, just the total on the screen. Audrey paid, walked out. She was used to it. Small towns in Georgia had a way of saying everything without opening their mouths. The silence was louder than any slur.
Back at the pump, Nicole was leaning against the car phone to her ear. Yes, mama. We’re close. Maybe 40 minutes. No, I didn’t bring flowers.
Yes, I brought fruit. Audrey picked grapes. I know you wanted strawberries. Take it up with her. Audrey could hear Eleanor’s voice through the speaker.
Thin, but still bossy. still. Eleanor, tell her I said the grapes were the only ones that looked fresh. Audrey called out. Nicole tilted the phone. She says, “I heard her.