I awoke with a start, panic filling my body.
The bus turned a corner, jolting me forward in the seat a little. I sat back, trying to relax my body as I realized that nothing major - nothing bad - had happened. Looking out the window, I tried to establish where we were. I was thankful no-one had chosen to sit by me for the five hour journey. I had been freaking out for the two days, an emotional wreck.
The bus groaned to a stop, the doors opening. The driver said something about a fifteen minute coffee break. I seized the opportunity to get off, racing towards the exit. It felt like the bus was about to collapse on me.
We were at a small gas station, with only a couple of pumps. I went inside the tiny blue building, grabbing a bottle of water and a muesli bar. There was a bench on the opposite side of the building, and I sat down, stretching my aching legs out before me. My view consisted of green fields and cows. Lots of cows. Sighing, I closed my eyes. My left leg ached painfully under my black jeans, and I tried the breathing exercises I was supposed to do every time it hurt.
Feeling a little better, I opened my eyes and unwrapped the bar. In the corner of my eye I could see the grey metal heap that was the Greyhound bus. The sun glared off the sides, causing me to squint. It didn’t look very safe. In fact, it looked as if the whole thing could fall apart at any moment.
Thoughts raced through my mind. So many things could go wrong with a bus that was as old as my Grandma. The brakes could fail, and we’d end up in a scene from Speed. Other cars could ram into us, pushing the bus off the road. I remembered something I had read on Google the other week. Statistically, 23% of all motor-related incidents occur on Saturdays between the hours of noon and three o’clock in the afternoon. I looked at my watch. It was only one-thirty pm.
I turned away, the sick feeling returning in my stomach. I hadn’t wanted to take this route in the first place. Though it had been my idea to go live with my father, it had been my mother’s idea for me to take the Greyhound cross-country from California. What had ever possessed her to place her physically and emotionally traumatized daughter on a bus for two days, I was still trying to figure out. According to her, flying me across to New Hampshire would be too expensive, even if it meant less physical pain for me. I had a feeling she still hadn’t gotten over the hospital bills.
I pushed those thoughts away. The reason I was going to live with Dad in New Hampshire was so I wouldn’t have to think about the last five months.
The bus driver called all passengers for New Hanover back to the bus. I sighed, standing up reluctantly. My leg was still aching, but at least I could stretch it out on the adjacent seat to me. It was barely full, everyone scattered on various seats. Two children sat on the first two seats, both engrossed in the little portable DVD players that sat on their laps. A man slept with a newspaper spread across his legs. A little old lady with curly gray hair looked up from her knitting as I walked past, giving me a small toothy grin. Sitting back in my original seat, I prayed that we'd soon reach New Hanover and this journey would be over.
