My Memoir – Where the Dark Things Grow
**The following is part of my memoir. Please read this page for more information, as well as an easy-access list of each chapter.
Note: The images used in this chapter are stock photos—not real images from the time of the story.
“For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways;
they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.”
Psalm 91:11–12
Two years after the high-speed car chase, in 1991, Jessica and a friend were drunk one night and decided they wanted to go to California. Somehow, they found their way to a truck stop in Galloway late at night and met an older male truck driver willing to give two young teenage girls a ride all the way to Los Angeles.
“Sure, I’ll give you a ride,” he said, adjusting the waist of his jeans underneath a bulging beer belly. His CB handle was “Southern Comfort,” he told them. “Right after my stop in Mississippi, I’ll be headin’ out West.”
Without a thought, Jessica and her friend climbed into the semi-truck, and Jessica was, once again, on her way to the ever-elusive state of California.
Or so she thought.
They traveled as far as Mississippi with this man, and although he did nothing to make Jessica believe he meant them any harm, she grew increasingly wary of him and sobered up so fast that she took note of it. She had been drunk many times, and never had she felt every bit of the drunkenness leave her body in what felt like seconds.
With her senses clear, she became even more aware of her predicament.
Suddenly, she heard: Jessie, you need to get off this truck. But act casually.
Even when she did talk to herself on occasion, as we all do, she’d never referred to herself by name, and only her family ever called her “Jessie”. Briefly, she thought about how strange that was, too, but couldn’t think about it long because she needed to get her and her friend away from this man. Her friend had passed out by this time, so she wasn’t going to be of any help.
“Hey, um, I need to use the restroom, and I’m starving,” she told the man casually, trying not to let him onto her suspicions. “Can we stop at a gas station?”
The driver grunted his annoyance under his breath, took the next exit a few minutes later, and they pulled into the brightly lit parking lot of another truck stop.
“Stay here, and I’ll go inside and get you something to eat,” he said.
Jessica was glad that she didn’t really need to use the restroom as she’d claimed, because it was apparent he didn’t want her to leave the truck.
The man probably thought that in her friend’s condition, neither of them would leave, so he took his keys and headed inside the convenience store.
“Get up.” Jessica shook her friend, and she woke up, dazed from the alcohol. “We’re getting off this truck—now.”
Jessica managed to help her friend climb down from the truck, and just as they were heading toward the front of the store, where there were more people, Southern Comfort exited the store and came toward them with a bag of chips.
“Hey, where are ya goin’? I got you some food!” He raised the bag.
“Thanks, but we’ll find another ride,” Jessica told him.
Southern Comfort’s demeanor shifted to indignance; he said a few curses, looked around at the people, and then walked back to his truck and left.
Relief washed over Jessica like a crashing wave.
It would seem I dodged some kind of bullet, but then it became clear to me just a few minutes later that I absolutely had.
My friend and I walked through the giant parking lot beneath the bright lights. Another man walked up; he was of average height, skinny, and wore glasses.
“What are you two doing out here?” he asked. “Where are you going?”
For a split second, I was leery of this man, and with good reason. But then immediately I heard that voice inside my head again, and this time instinctively knew that it wasn’t my own. “You can trust him,” the voice said. Even after the close call with the first truck driver, and knowing we had made a huge mistake and were in a dangerous situation, I knew with my whole heart that I would be safe—and that I could trust that voice.
“We’d like to go back home to Arkansas,” I told the man.
“Come on, and I’ll take you.” He waved at us to follow.
You’d think I was crazy to get into another truck with a stranger rather than calling someone to come and pick us up, but that’s exactly what I did. And not once during the many hours-long drive, at night, alone in a semi-truck with this stranger, did I feel I was in any danger.
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