When in Rome(2)

Some people turn to family for questions like that, some turn to friends, and some turn to Magic 8 Balls. But I turn to the one person who never lets me down: Audrey Hepburn. Tonight, I closed my eyes and skipped my finger over my collection of Audrey DVD cases (yes, I still own a DVD player) while playing a game of eenie-meenie-miney-mo until I landed on Roman Holiday. It felt cataclysmic. In the movie, Audrey plays the part of Princess Ann, who was feeling much like I have been—alone and overwhelmed—and she escapes into the night to explore Rome. (Well, more like meanders into the night since she’s loopy on a sleeping sedative, but that’s neither here nor there.)

And suddenly, that was it. The answer I’d been looking for. I needed to get away from that house, from Susan, from my responsibilities, from absolutely everything, and escape to Rome. Except, Italy is way too far to travel when I head out on tour in three weeks, so I settled for the nearest Rome that Google Maps could give me. Rome, Kentucky. Exactly two hours away from my house with a lovely little bed-and-breakfast in the heart of its town according to Google. Perfect place to get my shit together and overcome a breakdown.

So I went to my three-car garage, passed the other two expensive vehicles I own, and pulled the tarp off the sweet, old car I’ve kept tucked away for the past ten years. I started her up, and I drove off in search of Rome.

And now I’m on a creepy back road and I think some of the emotional numbness is wearing off because I’m beginning to see how ridiculous this idea is. Somewhere in heaven Audrey is looking down with her halo and shaking her head at me. I glance at my phone’s glowing screen. The words no service are pasted where the signal bars usually live, and I swear those words are somehow blinking at me. Taunting me. You made a bad choice. Now you get to be the next story on Dateline.

I swallow and tell myself that I will be totally fine. No problem. Everything is good. “Dry your tears and kick this gloomy attitude in the pants, Amelia!” I say out loud to myself because who else does a girl talk to when she’s alone in the car in the middle of a mental breakdown?

I only need my car to keep moving for another ten minutes until I emerge out of this scary-as-shit back road and arrive at the little town B and B. Then, I will happily allow my car the dignified death she deserves—where there are streetlights, and hopefully not Hillbilly-Joe-Serial-Killer waiting to dump my body in a ditch somewhere.

But, oh, would you look at that? My car has taken on a new sputtering sound and is jolting…literally jolting like this is the early 2000s and I installed hydraulics. All I need are purple lights under my car and I’m set to time travel!

“No no no,” I plead with my car. “Don’t do this to me now!”

But she does.

My car comes to a stuttering, highly undignified halt on the side of the pitch-black road. I frantically try to start the engine again, but it’s not having it. A series of clicking noises is all it makes. My hands are still tightly clamped on the steering wheel and I stare out into the unmoving night as realization settles over me. I tried to make it on my own without Susan’s help for one adventure and I failed on the first night, two hours in. If that isn’t the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is. Sure, I can sing on a stage in front of thousands, but I can’t do something as simple as drive myself one state over.

Since there is nothing I can do but sit in my car and wait until morning when the sun is up and I can clearly see if anyone is holding a bloody chainsaw in my direction or not, I lay my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I let defeat take me. Tomorrow morning, I’ll find a way to call Susan. I’ll have her send a car and I’ll force myself out of this melancholy mood.

Knock knock knock.

I scream and jump in my seat, bumping the top of my head on the ceiling. I look out the window, and oh shit, there’s someone standing outside my car! This is it. This is the moment I will get murdered, and after the true story of my death airs on E Hollywood News, all I will be remembered for is my grisly cornfield demise.

“Everything all right? Do you need help?” comes the muffled voice of the man outside my car. He beams a flashlight through my window, temporarily blinding me.

I hold my hands up to shield my eyes from the light, and also obstruct his view so he doesn’t recognize me. “No, thank you!” I yell through my closed window, my heart beating wildly against my ribs. “I’m fine! I-I don’t need any help!” Definitely not from a strange man in the middle of the night.

“You sure?” he says, finally realizing he was piercing my eyes with his flashlight and turning it away from my face. He has a nice-sounding voice, I’ll give him that. Sort of rumbly and tender at the same time.

“I’m sure!” I say in a cheery tone, because everything around me might be falling apart but at least I still know how to muster up pleasantness. “Got everything under control!” I make the okay sign with my hand for added measure.

“Looks like your car broke down.”

I can’t admit to that! I would basically be telling him that I’m a sitting duck. My phone’s out of service, too! Would you like for me to step out so you can abduct me or would it be more fun for you to break the window yourself? Choose your own adventure!

“Nope. Just…taking a break for a minute.” I smile tensely, keeping most of my face turned away, hoping he won’t realize a performing artist worth millions is sitting in this beat-up Corolla.