The Passenger by Jacqueline Druga (the giving tree read aloud TXT) 📗

of the Jonas he used to be would emerge and he’d go through a spell of staying out of trouble. He’d pay his fines, stay in line … only to fall again.

She joined support groups and the other women in those groups, the mothers, they understood, they were the same way. Overly worried, anxious.

It scarred Cate, made her grayer than she should have been.

It made her neurotic and despise those mother instincts because they were right most of the time. She always knew when a call would come about Jonas. Just like she did on this night.

Something was wrong.

It started with a twinge in her stomach early on.

She dismissed it at first, it was a weekend, she always worried about Jonas on the weekends.

Then she justified her worry was he was going out of town for a gig. He was fine, she was just overreacting again.

She searched her gut for an answer and every time she reasoned herself into a calm state, something would set her off.

The last time was a car insurance commercial.

She wasn’t good company for Grant and couldn’t focus enough on the movie. She told him they started watching it too late, she was tired and was going to bed.

Cate did go to bed. Just not to sleep.

With a heavy sigh, back propped against pillows in bed, she set down her book and reached for her phone on the nightstand.

Nothing.

She opened up her messages and he hadn’t even read her texts.

Her fingers hovered over the phone debating on sending one more text when the bedroom door opened.

Grant stepped in and paused. “I … thought you were going to sleep.”

“I said I was going to bed. How was the movie?”

“Good, you should have watched it.” He walked over to the bed, pulling down his side of the covers. “What are you doing?”

“Do you think Jonas is alright?”

“Yes.” Grant climbed into bed.

“But he hasn’t read my texts or replied.”

“He had a gig.”

“I know but …”

“Cate.”

“I was thinking of texting Jess to see if she heard from him.”

“Stop.”

“Grant, I’m worried,” Cate said.

“You’re always worried.”

“But I feel it. I do.” Cate ran her hand on her stomach. “I have this gnawing feeling. This horrible doomed feeling.”

“You really need to stop. It’s all the time. Cate, he’s fine. You need to learn how to let things go.”

“He’s our son.”

“He’s a grown man,” Grant said. “We may not like how he lives or what he does, but it’s not for us to say. You drive yourself crazy, not to mention me and Jess about this.”

“You know … you know I pray so much and so hard for him that I swear God is probably tired of hearing it.”

“That’s not how that works and you know it. Maybe you’re just not hearing the answer. Go to sleep. It’s late.”

Cate leaned back, staring at her phone. “I’m not going to be able to. I know I’ll be looking at this thing all night. Waiting for it to ring. I feel it, Grant. I just …”

“Okay, alright, stop.” Grant slipped from bed. “Give me the phone.”

“What? No.”

“Cate, I mean it, give me the phone. I’m going to take it downstairs, put it on the charger there and make you a cup of chamomile.”

“What if it rings and he needs us?”

“Then he’ll call my phone.” Grant held out his hand. “I can’t have you do this to yourself. Because, Cate, no matter what happens, you can’t control the outcome.”

“You’re right.” Cate placed the phone in his hand. And she knew he was right; she just didn’t say the words. She couldn’t control things, and some days she accepted it, but tonight was not one of those days.

She knew he was concerned, too. He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. His actions spoke louder than words when he took the phone, walked to the door and paused to look at it before stepping out.

THREE

Things turned fuzzy fast for Jonas. Not even a blast of early summer, cool air helped when he walked out the door. A weird pressure built on his forehead and it seemed like his surroundings moved every time he shifted his eyes.

His feet scuffed against the gravel of the parking lot as he made his way to his car. The back door was open from when he put his amp in there. He didn’t even remember leaving it open.

The way he felt, Jonas would have sworn he was drunk. But he was far too much of a professional drinker and knew he hadn’t consumed enough booze to get him to that state.

It had to be something medical.

He was coming down with something.

He put the guitar and gear bag into the back seat, closed the door, and keys in hand, dropped in with a sloppy slide into the driver’s seat.

He pulled the door shut and jumped from his skin when he saw the man in the passenger seat.

“You’re in the wrong car,” Jonas said.

“No. I’m not,” he replied.

The man looked tired, around the same age as Jonas, his hair shoulder length and dark. He wore a gray shirt, a uniform or something, and he was already buckled in.

“You’re not with that guy, are you? Like here to try to kill me or beat me up?” Jonas asked.

“What guy?”

“The guy I got kicked out for doing this.” Jonas pointed to his bruised cheek.

“Ah, no. I’m not with anyone from in there.”

“What do you want?” Jonas asked.

“A ride. I thought I’d take this ride with you.”

Jonas’ head swayed as he put the key in the ignition. “To the hotel?”

“To wherever.”

“What’s your name?”

“You can call me David,” he replied.

“I’m Jonas.”

It was surreal, almost dreamlike, a part of Jonas wanted to tell the guy, “Dude or David, if that’s your real name, get out of my car.” But he didn’t.

He wasn’t feeling well, he was off, and Jonas thought it best, stranger or not, to have someone in the car with him.

He started the ignition, buckled up and pulled from the parking lot.

The road seemed even