Nothing special—just a drink and smoke break. This remote Missouri petrol station off the highway. Work oil was on my shirt, and my only goal was to get back on the road before it rained.
She shouted then.
Nico, are you there?
I froze. No one except old folks calls me that. Years of “Nick” or “Rider” or “hey you”. I turned back and saw an elderly lady with a cane and a grandma-style cardigan. She seemed to be waiting beside a broken vending machine.
“Sorry, do I know you?” I requested.
She grinned and said, “I’ve been looking for you.”
I was so confused I didn’t question how she knew my name. She carefully approached and hooked her arm around mine like we’d done it a hundred times. I stayed put. Not sure why.
Out into the parking lot, we went. Asking again who she was.
She just remarked, “You look just like him.”
“Like who?” I requested.
Her response was delayed.
She said something that made me queasy—
“Like my true love, you resemble him. Nico Petez.”
I froze. My father was named that.
No one outside our Colorado family dubbed him “Nico Petez.” I was thirteen when Dad died. Motorcycle accident. Death that tears families apart. Years had passed since I heard his entire name.
“Excuse me,” I retreated, “how do you know my dad?”
I wondered whether she had dementia as her eyes welled up. Her voice remained steady.
They met in 1987. Right here in Missouri,” she said, as if yesterday. “He picked me up when my car broke down. Took me to a cafe in his leather jacket and promised the moon.”
Not knowing what to say. That sounded like my dad. Before getting married, he told crazy road trip tales. He never mentioned a Missouri lady.
“You dated my father?” I requested.
Sad grin. “Undated. One week. Beautiful, foolish week. California was his desire as he headed west. Trying to flee my father’s farm.”
No explanation was given.
What’s your name? Finally, I asked.
“Call me Miss Carol,” she said. “Everyone does.”
I blinked. Miss Carol. That name was familiar.
“Wait, Miss Carol? My grandmother mentioned you.”
It was her time to freeze. “Your Clara’s grandson?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Clara Petez. You knew her?
She glanced aside, ashamed. “I thought I was secret.”
We waited in the parking lot while a large truck arrived and clouds rolled in. I had no idea what I was doing with this stranger who was no longer a stranger.
She trembled and whispered, “I don’t have much time, Nico. Can you drive me to my sister’s? Twenty-minute drive.”
I should’ve declined. I had a shift the following morning with a broken taillight. Something in her gaze made me nod.
As we got into my pickup, I instinctively switched off the radio. Quiet felt heavy.
Carol looked out the window. “Your father promised to write. I awaited letters. But none came.”
Not knowing what to say. Dad didn’t write letters.
“He didn’t know,” I informed her. “About you. He married young. At 24, he had me.”
She nodded slowly. Figured. After seeing the printed announcement, I let it go. But I always wondered.”
I looked at her. “Why now? After all these years, why look?
She took something from her cardigan. Photograph. Discolored, tattered. Young her and my dad laughed in front of a cafe.
“I kept this all my life,” she said. “But I got sick recently. A doctor says it’s my heart. I wanted to see what he left.”
An opening occurred inside me. She shook her head as I returned the picture.
“It’s yours,” she said. Maybe he mentioned that week. He may not have. It mattered to me.”
At her sister’s modest blue home with wind chimes and peeling paint, we arrived. Waving, a lady emerged quickly.
“Carol! You should not have wandered!”
No response to her sister. She turned to me and said, “Thanks, Nico. You completed a circle for me.”
She left the vehicle with my assistance. Her sister stopped me before I left.
“She’s been saying your father’s name in her sleep,” she murmured. I believed it was old dreams. She never forgot him.”
I drove away, heart thudding. That would have ended it, but a week later I received a letter.
Miss Carol sent it.
Small, wobbly handwritten remark inside:
“Nico—
Although I never had a son with your father, you were always my closest. Thanks for calming me.
Miss Carol
Also beneath the note? A check. For $2,000.
I almost dropped it.
I delayed cashing it. I felt odd about it. My automobile eventually broke down that week. Shot transmission. I bought a good used one with the money. Whenever I turned the key, I thought about her.
A month passed. Driving past that gas station, I half-hoped to see her again.
One afternoon, a suit-clad guy knocked on my trailer door.
“You Nick Petez?”
“Yeah,” I answered nervously.
He gave me a folder. “I’m Miss Carol Harper’s executor.”
I froze. “Estate?”
“She died two weeks ago. Left will. You’re in.”
Not believing it, I glanced at the guy.
“She left you a storage unit,” he said. “Said you’d handle it.”
My pulse raced as I drove to the location. The key fit, and the unit creaked up. The contents included antique furniture, picture albums, rubber-banded messages, and a motorbike.
A 1968 Triumph Bonneville.
The sticker said, “He told me this was his dream bike.” Mint condition.
Unable to breathe. Dad spoke about that motorbike like a legend. Said he rode one like it as a kid. It was stolen, he thought.
A note was affixed to the handlebar.
“Nico—
Your father had this bike. It was left with me in 1987 with the promise to return. He never did. You own it now. Take it someplace lovely.
—Carol”
I wept against the wall.
She was unknown to me. Not really. She carried part of my dad’s soul for years. She returned it.
That bike was out two days later after I changed the oil and polished it to perfection. Traveling down Highway 54, I reached the river bluffs. I waited till the sun set behind the trees.
I rode again.
Now I bike regularly. Not for work. NOT for errands. For peace.
I think about Miss Carol every time I drive. Of my dad. Of the bizarre, crazy ways people touch one other’s lives and never let go.
Some things vanish. Some things return. Some things just need a chance to wait quietly.
Do you know somebody who appeared to know you before you knew yourself?
Share this touching tale. You never know who needs a sign.
