When Ursula was about to destroy Ariel, Prince Eric didn’t make a peace offering. He didn’t divvy up sides of the ocean, settle for living amicably with a sea witch. He drove a ship’s mast straight into her gut and killed her. I’m my own Prince Eric. I saved myself.
A week has passed since my mother was arrested again. It still tickles me pink to say that, although maybe I’m sunburned. Every day here has been blue skies and seventy degrees.
I wait in line at the bakery to pay for my sweet bread. The shop’s walls are covered with colorful murals of local historical landmarks. The customers chat and gesticulate, ignoring me. I keep returning to this shop, mostly because the cashier here is nice to me. When it’s my turn, I hand him my money. He smiles, and for a second, I feel less alone.
I leave the bakery and stop to gawk again at the beautiful brick church across the street. For the third morning in a row, I admire its bell tower, topped with a wrought iron crown hoisted by angels. I soon become aware of how exposed I am, standing here slack-jawed. I keep moving, taking a bite of the sweet bread while I walk the bustling streets.
A few minutes later, I reach the side street where I parked my car, a beat-up white sedan by a well-known automaker I’d like to keep anonymous. Google says it’s the most popular car on the roads here. I blend right in. I could be anyone. I don’t want to be found.
And boy, are the cops searching for me. I bet Vinny King from Chit Chat would get down on his knees to interview me now.
I unlock my car door and climb into the driver’s seat, smoothing the bangs of my wig in the visor mirror. Short jet-black hair wasn’t my first choice, but the color disguises me well. I bring another piece of sweet bread to my mouth. A rank smell invades my nostrils: body odor. I sniff my armpits—I stink. I’ll need to shower soon or at least take a dip in the ocean. It’s a few streets away.
I’ve traveled farther in the past seven days than in my entire life put together. This is all part of the new me. I wanted a fresh start, which meant I needed a clean break.
* * *
• • •
On that Monday morning last week, I got ready for work, like any other day. My mother dropped me off at Gadget World around eight fifty, like any other day. But unlike every other day, I turned around and walked back home instead of going into work. I hid in the unlocked abandoned house across the street for a few hours, until Mom left to take Luke to the park. Once she was gone, I was a busy little bee.
I had to clean out my closet, add ipecac syrup to the milk, then bury my phone and the small brown bottle in the diaper bag. After dropping a letter in the mail, I was on my merry way.
I had planned to mail the letter to the cops in Fairfield, but I realized putting Mom’s destiny in Mary Stone’s hands would really piss her off.
Bonus point.
Fourteen hours later, I made a pit stop at a PO box in Denver to pick up my new identity documents, courtesy of my former boyfriend. I wasn’t worried about him turning on me when my name hit the papers; forging passports gets you up to ten years behind bars.
Then I headed south.
* * *
• • •
I walk around to the backseat of the car and fold my blanket (an old beach towel) and pillow (my purple hoodie). The floor is littered with fast-food wrappers and dirty underwear. Maybe I’ll wash my clothes while I shower.
I start the car, not sure where to go. I don’t know my way around this city. I’m not used to cobblestone roads, to telephone wires everywhere, to being surrounded by mountains. I’ve never seen so many palm trees—I had never seen a palm tree in real life before this week! I want to go everywhere, but I’m scared of taking a wrong turn. I have to keep reminding myself there are no wrong turns, that I don’t have a destination in mind.
I’ve been thinking about getting a job cleaning rooms or working the reception desk at a resort here. I could speak English with the guests—it’d be nice to have a conversation, even with a stranger. I haven’t spoken to anyone in seven days. I don’t want to leave this place, but I have a constant nagging feeling that I should go.
Is it easier to stay lost in a big city or a small town? The biggest big city is eleven hours east. The presence of millions and millions of people on the streets would keep my face from standing out. Then again, there are probably way more cops around. If I pick a small, dusty town instead, I bet I won’t see many police officers. But I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, not making eye contact with any passersby. Any of them could be hunting me.
I’d thought once I’d pulled this off, I’d be scot-free. I didn’t realize the strategizing would have to continue for who knows how long. Backing the car out of the parking spot, I decide to head for the highway. I can always come back. For now I don’t stay anywhere long.
* * *
• • •
It seems like all anyone cares about is the baby. Luke is fine. He’s been reunited with Dad and Kim. I made sure to only put a few drops of ipecac in each bottle. The effects won’t be any longer lasting than a bad stomach bug. I wouldn’t kill my own brother. I’m not crazy.
Taking him wasn’t even that hard. I pored over Sophie’s social media accounts come September. Then one day, boom, there he was, out in the world. All the Gillespies shared photos of him in the hospital; he was healthy, Mom was healthy, blah blah blah. I waited a few weeks, then drove to Indiana on my day off and parked the van at the bus station. After walking a mile or so to the Gillespies’ house, I waited for Dad to take the kids to school and himself to work, and then I listened.
So much can be achieved by listening.
I watched Kim head upstairs with Luke, then snuck into the house through the back door and hid in the tiny seasonal closet Dad said no one ever goes in. Once I heard the shower running, I slipped into the guest room—what should’ve been my room. It had been turned back into a nursery. Those stupid ducklings still lined the walls, like they had when I visited. And there he was, one month old, sound asleep in his crib. I picked him up carefully so as not to disturb any sweet dreams he might be having of puppies or fire trucks. He nestled his little body into mine, and every fiber of my being ached with love. “I’m your big sister,” I whispered. “I promise to keep you safe.”
Sure, I could have framed my mother with a baby from any maternity ward or park. But this baby killed two birds with one stone. Both of my parents deserved to pay for their cruelty.
I didn’t have it easy during those months. After I brought Luke home, I nearly drove myself crazy with fear that I’d slipped up and the Gillespies would catch me. True, two years had passed since Dad had thrown me out of his life, and I’d given him no reason to suspect I harbored ill will toward his family. Never once did I contact any of them, and I did nothing but stammer pathetic apologies that day on the soccer field. Still, I worried I’d left a shoe print in the house or some other piece of evidence that could be traced to me.