The past few hours, I’ve been so busy drowning in my own fear that I didn’t consider hers, not really. She never seemed scared the way I was. She made each decision without seeming to agonize over it, and she acted quickly, efficiently. But this close to her now, when I can feel each tremble in her body and how cold her hands are on my shoulders, I know her fear is every bit as consuming as mine. It might be even more so, because she’s not just thinking of herself; she’s thinking of me.
Always.
Every move. Every rule. Every over-the-top paranoid act. She’s been protecting me, preparing me.
For this.
My head is throbbing too much to nod, but I say the truth she needs to hear. “I understand.”
She squeezes my shoulders, and her chin quivers once before she forces down her emotion and stands. “The room is paid for, and you have enough food and water for at least a week, but this will all be over before then.” She keeps talking, repeating the rules she already told me, and I realize she doesn’t want to leave me any more than I want her to go.
“Okay,” I say, cutting her off. “I’ll stay here, no interaction of any kind with anyone. I won’t—I won’t mess up this time.” I stare hard at the disposable phone, not trusting myself to look at her. “As soon as you’re gone, I’ll call Regina to cover for me at work, and I’m supposed to meet Carmel tomorrow to study for our history test on Monday, but—”
“No, you can’t call anyone.” Her fingers dig into my shoulders. “Not anyone. They found us from a photo. A photo. Don’t think for a minute that they aren’t watching everyone we know.”
“But I’ll lose my job, and I promised Carmel we’d cover the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. She keeps forgetting who the Huguenots were, and…and…” I’m tripping over my words, trying to get them out fast enough for her to understand. I can’t just disappear. We’ve finally stayed put long enough that people will care if I’m suddenly gone one day. And what about Aiden? He’ll be waiting for me outside the library, where we always meet. If I don’t show up, he’ll think I’m giving him his answer, that I don’t care about him the way he cares about me.
I’ll crush him, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to do any of this.
I feel my chin tremble, and then Mom has her arms around me again.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want this for you, and I’m going to make it right. I promise I will.”
My throat goes tight. I ask the question that no one should ever have to ask her mom: “What if something happens to you?”
She’s silent for so long that I start hearing the pounding of my heartbeat.
She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “I don’t have a choice anymore.” She hugs me then, and the pressure makes me feel sick again, but I hug her back just as tightly.
“Just tell me—who’s after you?” I ask when she moves to the door.
She stops with her hand on the knob, and even though I can’t see her face, I know her eyes are squeezed shut when she answers. “Whatever happens, please remember I love you.”
Mom doesn’t call.
The first day, I tell myself there are a lot of things that might have delayed her. Maybe she had car trouble. Maybe she lost her phone or the battery died. Maybe whatever she’s doing is taking longer than she thought.
Maybe a million things that don’t mean anything is wrong.
But also, maybe she’s hurt.
Maybe they found her.
Maybe they killed her.
I don’t sleep.
* * *
The second day, I don’t do as good a job lying to myself. Mom should have called. Whatever else she’s hidden from me, her love isn’t one of them. She wouldn’t leave me like this, alone for days, unless she had no choice.
Because she was hurt.
Because they found her.
Because they killed her.
I chew all ten of my fingernails to the quick. I don’t stop even when they bleed.
I huddle on the corner of the bed and rock.
* * *
In the middle of the night, I take the cell phone apart. I haven’t slept in two days, and the idea of action, any action, is too hard to ignore. There must be a defect or something that won’t let her call get to me. It’s a delusion, but I cling to it fiercely until I’m surrounded by electronic wreckage and my cheeks are stained with tears.
* * *
It’s been three days since I’ve seen or spoken to another living soul.
Three days.
I spend most of the day reassembling the cell phone, because why did I think I could take it apart and put it back together again like that? When I’m left with a phone that looks more or less the way it started, I turn it on. The display lights up with a welcome chime, and I want to hurl it against the wall.
Instead, I break Mom’s first rule: I leave the motel room. I don’t go far, but every step makes me feel like I’m in the crosshairs of a dozen enemies. Still, exhaustion mutes my panic, and I have no other choice. I have to know.
There’s a decrepit-looking pay phone fifty feet away—less, even—but it takes an eternity to reach it. Then several more eternities as I feed it change and dial the number for my cell. And when it rings loud and clear across the parking lot, no connection problems whatsoever, my knees give out.
I’m kneeling on the asphalt with my arm hanging from the cord of the phone above me when I realize:
I’m alone.
* * *
The walls seem to flee from me the second I step back inside, withdrawing the semblance of safety I’d felt from them when I still believed Mom would return.
Something happened, full stop. I refuse to let my brain hurl itself farther than that one fact. Mom had to change her plans, which means I have to change mine.
The cell phone is in my hand again, and I’ve half dialed Regina’s number before the muscles in my forearm seize up, stopping me. We were both scheduled at the café that afternoon, and it’s just after three, which means she’ll have worked up the courage to squeak a single “hi” to Evan, the new busboy, before dashing off without giving him a chance to respond. I’d bet money on her being in the third bathroom stall from the right at that exact moment, systematically shredding a single square of toilet paper while wishing I was there to give her the report about which side of his mouth had smiled higher in response and whether he’d looked disappointed or relieved that she’d run off.