Page 17 of Chasing Stardust

“I don’t wanna break up, I just want—”

The asshole in the car behind me lays on his horn.

“I gotta go.” I swipe at the traitorous tear rolling down my cheek. “I’ll call you when I get to Memphis.”

“Zo, wait!”

I hang up and toss my phone into my tote where I won’t hear it if he calls back, then crank up “Rebel Rebel” again.

A few hours, one pit stop, and several 8-track changes later, I reach the Cleveland city limits. With my legs sticking to the cracked vinyl seat and my pulse jumping, I exit the interstate at East Ninth. My sweaty palms make gripping the steering wheel almost impossible as I navigate the dense traffic. Even the voice on my GPS sounds nervous as she guides me past the baseball stadium and through the city toward the Music Hall at the Public Auditorium.

I loop the square several times before finally landing a parking spot a few blocks away. Then, using the faded Polaroid I lifted from Mom’s diary as a guide, I set off on foot.

Jeanie wasn’t kidding about the heat. At barely ten thirty, it’s already close to eighty degrees. An unappetizing combination of sizzling hot dogs and sulfur from the nearby steelyard wafts through the air. And for a Wednesday morning, the park is packed with an odd assortment of people. Between the babies, the old people, and the underlying stench, it’s as if I’ve wandered into a diaper ad.

A pair of businessmen in starched suits eye the silver urn poking out of my tote but don’t say anything. Then a group of shirtless guys pauses their game of Frisbee to stare at me as I wander toward the fountain in the picture, but I don’t let their unspoken questions distract me from my mission. I keep moving, eyes locked on the statue in the distance. Perched on top of his orb in the center of the fountain, the tarnished bronze man appears to be climbing out of a sea of fire, reaching toward the sky like a shimmering green merman.

By the time I reach the Fountain of Eternal Life, my nerves are live wires, sparking and snapping with electricity. Everything looks exactly as it does in the photo, giving me the weirdest sense of déjà vu. I can almost see Mom sitting on the polished granite rim of the shallow pool with the imposing statue looming behind her, her blond hair whipping in the breeze.

With Mom’s smile sparkling in my mind’s eye, I pull out her diary and flip to the page titled “Cleveland.”

June 1992

It rained all week, the heavy kind that drenches you to the bone the second you step outside. Grammy Jane said the powers that be knew something was up. Three days later, the sun came out. Not even an hour after that, Mom pulled into the driveway in her god-awful yellow Cutlass after almost six months of zero contact, saying it was time I knew the truth. Maybe I should’ve told her to turn back around. But for some reason, the mischief in her eyes sucked me in. Now here I am, in Cleveland, right outside the first place Bowie played in the US, and I swear I have more in common with the damned marble guy in the fountain.

This is it. The thought hits me like a lightning bolt. This is where I need to spread Mom’s ashes.

After setting my bag in front of the fountain, I pull out my phone to take the pictures I promised Jeanie. But before I can snap even one, a guy whistles at me.

“Hey, girlie! You can’t get a good shot that close up.” The guy jogs toward me. He doesn’t look much older than me, but he’s dressed like someone’s grandpa, wearing faded navy Dockers with splotchy bleach stains from the pockets to the knees, and a blue-checked, short-sleeved button-down shirt. Sweat beads on his forehead as he reaches a hand toward my phone. “Here, let me.”

Instinct tells me I should back away, but his wide smile and perfect white teeth draw me in.

I hand him my phone. “You press the circle—”

He laughs and backs up a few feet. “I know how to operate an iPhone. Smile pretty, now.”

With a cautious glance over my shoulder, I climb onto the rim of the fountain and position myself exactly where my mom stood thirty years ago. A slight gust blows my hair from my face, and my stomach flutters as if sensing her with me.

Are you here, Mom?

The man snaps a few shots, then hands me my phone.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“You are most welcome. It was my pleasure.” He overexaggerates his diction, speaking with an accent I can’t place—a weird cross between British and French—but his English is perfect.

I expect him to jog back in the direction he came, but he sticks around and watches the clouds slide by as I shove my phone into my back pocket.

“What brings you to the city today?” He tears his face from the sky and eyes the silver urn jutting out of my bag.

“Uh . . .” For reasons I can’t quite comprehend, I tell the truth. “I’m here to spread my mom’s ashes.”

“Ah.” He nods, dropping his dark eyes to his beat-up leather shoes. “Sad day, then.”

“Yes. Very.”

He peers around me, as if expecting an army to descend at any moment. “Where is your family?”