“Follow the ghosts you mean.”
“Well, Edward led you back together once before, didn’t he?” She picked up her coat and left.
Mike sank back into the chair. The screensaver popped on: an image of him, Liz, and Eddie on his boat. The sky around them a bright blue, the bay twinkling, inviting. Her wind blown hair tangled around his fingers. Their smiles, the angle of the light bright enough to airbrush the lines and wrinkles out of their faces. They looked so normal. So normal, so happy. Could that ever be recaptured?
Chapter 27
The phone vibrated and scooted across the nightstand. It took a minute for Liz to remember where she was, and with the realization came the weight of dread on her chest, the incessant flutter in her stomach. Elisabeth, excited by her triumph over reason and sanity, only anticipated her wish to see Edward come true.
It was only 8:30, but seemed like midnight after the sleepless night before and all the events of the day. She slipped her arm away from Eddie, who’d fallen asleep in the crook, keeping her warm, grounded in some semblance of reality, while soothing his own baby sense of disruption, of danger.
‘Mailbox full.’ Predictable. Liz dialed in her code Three impassioned pleas by Marianne Hartley to contact her. Jay, furious, more concerned with his own issues–as usual. Mae. Mike–again.
Marti’s high-pitched voice, normally snarky and bullet proof, commanded attention. “Liz, I have to talk to you. They’re about to put out an all points bulletin.”
“Shit!” They just might find her, prevent her from boarding the flight.
She bundled the sleeping baby into his stroller and went down to the lobby.
A new shift of workers sat immersed in the same mindless computer screen oblivion.
“Do you have a pay phone?”
“You can use the desk phone.” The girl was too perky, too helpful.
If Howard Johnson’s Fenway popped up on caller ID . . . “No, I need a pay phone.”
“Let me think. John, do you know where there is a pay phone around here? Do they even have pay phones anymore?”
The kid answered without taking his eyes off the screen. “Yeah, there is one around the corner near Gate 6. I remember seeing it last summer.
“Okay, thanks.” It was so damn cold outside. And dark. And deserted. And dangerous. No choice.
She hurried to the room and draped the snowsuit over the still sleeping tyke. Then his wool blanket. She dug to the bottom of her bag for quarters, tucked them into her palm, then pulled a glove on.
It was only a short walk, but in the pitch dark every shadow seemed threatening. The phone stood under a streetlight, thank God. But Liz couldn’t remember Marti’s number. She took out cell, and the purse toppled off the tiny shelf, spewing loose change, tampons, tissue packets, Duplo blocks all over the sidewalk. Receipts scattered in the wind. She retrieved what she could and scrolled her numbers.
“Do you put the quarter in or dial first? God, this is downright antique. Like me.” Liz squinted to read the directions. Had she lost her glasses somewhere?
Her finger traced the faded card encased in cracked plastic. Local calls: Insert one quarter. A dial tone sang. The call went through. Liz caught her breath, tapped her foot to release some anxiety.
“Hello.” Marti sounded like a woman expecting to hear the body they found had been positively identified.
“It’s Liz. I got your message.”
Marti started to cry. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Marianne is frantic. Mike is desperate. Jay is hysterical. Bill Jeffers is trying to have you arrested for stalking. Mike . . . He . . . he asked if I thought you’d try to hurt yourself or the baby.”
Was that her stomach or Elisabeth heaving?
“Marti, listen. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Bill. My entire conversation with him is stored in my phone for proof. I have some really personal things I need to attend to and I have no intentions of doing any harm to myself, or Eddie. For God’s sake. Marti, what are they thinking? Jay, on the other hand, I’d like to hit with a big stick, but my baby?”
Marti exhaled her nervousness. “Why don’t you come here and stay with me until this is resolved? You know you can trust me.”
Could they be putting her up to this, trying to trap her? Hell, if the police were already looking for her, maybe they were even tracing this call. How long do you have to stay on the line for a trace? “No, Marti, it’s best you don’t have any further contact with me. If you don’t know you don’t have to lie. You should have the car keys in tomorrow’s mail.”
“Please insert twenty-five cents for the next three minutes. Favor de depositar venticinco centavos por los tres minutos siguientes.”
“Goodbye, Marti.” Liz struggled not to cry.
“Wait, Liz. Call Mike. Call Marianne Hartley.”
“Please deposit twenty-five cents now or your call will be disconnected. Favor de depositar venticinco centavos o su llamada sera automaticamente interrumpida.”
“I’m fine, Marti, really.” Boy, could she lie. Lots of practice.
“I don’t like the way you sound. Please come to my house . . .”
The phone went dead. A gust of wind swept the deserted streets and echoed through the alleyways surrounding Fenway Park. Ghosts of summers past: bats cracking, fans screaming, the organ playing a lilting yet melancholy dirge swirled around Ted Williams’ monument. Images of Jay waving a Red Sox pendant. Gerry buying her beer and hot dogs. Kissing like teenagers in the bleachers.
Liz shivered in the wind. They vanished, leaving her dark, desolate soul on a dangerous street, with her baby. Defenseless, irresponsible. A wanted woman. Had she really done something wrong?
Not even the bums were out tonight; there was no garbage to pick through, on one to beg from. Liz, alone except for her ghost and her half-ghost child, retrieved her purse and pushed Eddie’s stroller back to the hotel, sobbing all the way.
The hotel door closed behind her, cutting off the bluster in mid gust. The warmth of the lobby offered a momentary welcome, quickly banished by Elisabeth’s chilly goading. I have to get away before they find me and take me back there.
She hurried to her room and tucked Eddie into the bed. He studied her, seeking reassurance, and she lay down next to him until he fell back to sleep.
Liz turned on her computer to search for earlier flights. No luck, they’d all left during evening hours. Wait; there was a flight from New York to London on the same carrier at 3 p.m. tomorrow. Amtrak to the City, then a Carey bus to the airport . . .
She went to live chat on Expedia.com.
“Plans changed and you’re in New York? Sure, you can change your flight. Shall I go ahead and switch it?”
“Yes. My son will be on my lap.”
“We have him listed as Edward Barrett Keeny. Age . . . oh, his first birthday is coming up.”
“It sure is.” She should only know the story behind the party plans.
“I’ll send your e-ticket now. Same email address?”
“Yes.” Shit, I’ve got to print it and delete it. I’m sure they’re checking my email.
“All done, Mrs. Keeny. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thanks.” She snatched Eddie out of the bed. Was she the worst mother in the world?
He protested as she put him in the stroller and ran to the lobby, pushing with one, holding the open laptop in the other. His howls echoed in the deserted halls like a surround sound horror movie and exploded into the glass and marble lobby. The two heads behind the desk jerked to attention at the siren song.
Liz tried to appear calm and forced herself to breathe normally. “I wonder if you could print an e ticket for me?”
The woman looked at her like an escaped convict in a prison uniform with handcuffs still attached. “S
ure. Email it to hjohnson.wyndymboston.org.”
Liz hit forward, typed, and pressed send. The woman clicked a few keys.
The printer buzzed and swooshed. “Two copies.” She handed them over.
Liz clicked delete and emptied the trash. “Do you have an Amtrak schedule?”
“Here.” The clerk pushed it across the high counter.
Where the hell were her glasses? “I need the first train of the morning to New York. Can you call me a taxi for 4 a.m.? “Sure. Do you need a wakeup call?”
“Yes, 3 a.m.” Liz looked at her watch. 10 p.m.
Neither she nor Eddie had eaten anything since early that afternoon. He was wide awake now, and grabbed the cup of milk from her hands when they got back to the room.
Trader Joe’s food normally tasted good, but the noodles were like shredded cardboard. Eddie gnawed on bread but refused all but a bite of chicken. He arched in her arms and thumped his head on her chest. She ran a bath and soaked while the baby washed away his irritability. They snuggled up in bed, both fully dressed. Ready to go.
Liz watched the minutes click off on the digital clock. Vintage 60s casement windows rattled. Every footstep in the hall shocked her heart into rapid time. Were they here for her? Would they knock or just barge in?
She gave up, got up, packed up. When the automated wake up call came, Eddie looked at her like a wizened old man: skeptical, disbelieving, as she bundled him, gave him another cup of milk, and started lugging the suitcase and the baby’s car seat into the hall. She finished whatever food she could-it would never survive the train trip and she’d run out of hands-salvaging only what would fit in the tiny cooler bag. It took a while for her to figure out a strategy for hauling everything, with the seat piled on top of the stroller, but they were standing in the lobby waiting well before the cab arrived.
If the desk staff thought Liz was nuts, they didn’t let on.
“Checking out?” The sleepy man peered over the counter.
“Yes, I have a train to catch. The cab is coming correct?”
“I’ll call the dispatcher and check.”
Liz fought the urge to pace. Elisabeth was pushing her past the exhaustion of a second sleepless night and on to their final destination–and Edward. No one was going to stop them. No one.
The cab slithered into the dark driveway. Its lights blazed a trail across the semicircle–a beacon leading to the next leg of the journey. Liz got Eddie into his seat first. The driver was in no hurry to lug the suitcases, so she dumped them into the trunk herself, tucking the stroller in last. At least I don’t need to give this guy a big tip. “Amtrak.”
By lunchtime they’d be in Grand Central and they’d get a jitney, along with all the other anonymous passengers, to Kennedy. Way before the required check-in time. We’ve got to get past security before anyone knows I’ve changed my itinerary.
Headlights from an oncoming car blinded Liz for a moment. “Bastard, for God’s sake. Turn off your brights!” The driver yelled out the window, but the car was long gone. He relaxed back into his sullen, overnight shift silence.
Liz sank back, her retinas still bleached. Elisabeth’s memory of fleeing London to sail to America played out.
Papa, in particular, did his best to stop me. Edward’s brother tirelessly, fearlessly loaded an old farm wagon with my things and both maids’ and drove off, leaving dear Papa to eat the dust. He sent a constable to retrieve me, but I had a marriage license and instructions from my husband. The squalid hotel in Liverpool, the stormy sail with the maids seasick for most of the trip. But finally I met Edward on the deck of the SS Batavia.
“$20.00, ma’am.” Baggage thudded on the sidewalk outside the train station.
Had she dozed off and dreamed, or had it happened that way?
How could I forget? Of course I had doubts, regrets. I never expected to go back, but I must.
Liz tried to turn it off. Please, Elisabeth, don’t distract me. I need to keep focused.
Annoyed by the paltry $2.00 tip, the driver snatched it and left her holding the sleeping baby inside the bulky car seat, surrounded by a pile of bags.
Liz grabbed a cart and loaded everything, tucking Eddie’s seat between their suitcases, cushioned by his diaper bag and the small cooler containing the only essentials for the baby.
A few suit clad men and women tapped laptops. Two bums wandered around picking through the garbage. Two National Guardsmen patrolled. No one raised an eyebrow at her, or a finger to help her. All good. The less attention, the better.
Window 4 was the only one open, the clerk sipping coffee, chattering on her cell phone. She put it down as Liz approached.
“I need a one way ticket to Grand Central. How much is the baby’s?” Liz rummaged in her bag, rifled through the remaining seventy-eight of the hundred dollars she’d allotted for the day. Would there be enough to pay for the airport bus? Food?
The clerk stood to peek at Eddie. “Under two is free. Acella is at 5:15 a.m., $115.00. Metroliner is 6:20, $67.00. I need identification please.”
“Metroliner.” No need for high speed. She needed the extra to buy food.
Liz slid the money with their passports under the glass.
The woman compared the photo with her face. A few keystrokes later, the ticket spit out of the slot. “Track 4. The conductor will help you get your bags aboard.”
Liz took it, and the change. “Thanks.” Being a fugitive was expensive.
She figured out a system to haul everything. Eddie in the stroller, the car seat balanced on the stroller hood, the laptop, her purse, the cooler, and the diaper bag over the back of the carriage. She pushed it with her elbows while pulling the two suitcases.
With still an hour until the train, Liz burrowed in her suitcase and found her knee brace. She put it on over her pants–no way could she get all this crap to the bathroom and into a stall. She’d have to hold it. A cup of sweet tea would taste good right now, and a muffin. That, too, would have to wait.
Eddie’s face registered confusion, his eyes narrow, peering at the odd conglomeration of people going by, then back at his mother for reassurance.
Liz tickled him until he giggled. She could tell that he missed his Dad, Mae, Kevin, trips to the barn to visit the cats and horses. Liz’s heart melted. This bordered on child abuse, neglect for sure. Kidnap, perhaps.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I miss them too, sweetie.” How did this get so far? This escapade would make the financial situation worse. Mike, Mae, and Kevin would never forgive her.
Elisabeth answered with a back flip. Because we need to find Edward.
The tote board flashed the track for the 6:20. An announcement crackled an overhead reiteration. Liz hesitated. Elisabeth did not. She’d boarded that train to Liverpool against all odds, against all reason. And she’d made it to the ship. To America, to Edward. Now it was time to go back to face the consequences, to face her past, to face him again.
Liz collected her things, gave Eddie a breadstick to keep him busy, and shuffled off like a bag lady across the terminal.
The train stopped outside Grand Central for an interminable ten minutes, waiting for a signal. The plane wasn’t leaving for hours, but immobility was intolerable. The onboard nap and complimentary salted peanuts had done nothing to refresh her, in fact exhaustion threaten to overcome her resolve. Maybe this delay was a sign she should turn back, go home, forget this crazy stunt.
Elisabeth would have thrown herself out the train window at that thought if Eddie wasn’t draped across her lap. Liz collected her belongings. Her stomach churned, mixing hunger with anxiety into a soured milkshake. Food, I need some food. Her head spun, she blinked to clear her vision.
The train jolted into motion. “Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. We’re arriving on Track 22. Amtrak personnel
will be happy to assist you in making connections. Please stop by the information kiosk in the terminal.”
Soon they’d be on the bus to the airport. Hours early. They’d be past the security checkpoint before anyone at home realized where she was going. Lost in a throng, anonymous, safe until the moment of boarding, when it might all end. This was her only chance, one she’d have to take.
The train screeched to a halt. Liz stood, opened the stroller with her foot, and put Eddie inside. She collected her suitcases, draped bags over the handles of the carriage.
The Widow's Walk Page 22
