What she saw stopped her in her tracks. The lobby was full of police—the original two and at least four additional officers. Big Dave was standing in the middle of them shaking his head and shrugging. From where she stood, she was hidden from their view, but not for long. If one of them took a few steps toward her they'd all know where she was. In that same instant Big Dave caught her eye and immediately looked back at the policemen. He gave a quick shake of his head and, without looking at her, he waved his hand in the air.
Was he using his hands to talk or giving her a signal? She took a step backward and looked over her shoulder. There was a door at the end of the hallway, and a sign over it read Exit. She had no time to thank Big Dave or think of a way out. There was just one. If she didn't take it now she'd be caught by the police and taken . . . where? Back to the Lakes' house? A shudder passed over her arms and down her spine.
She'd rather live under a bridge.
Moving slowly so she wouldn't gain their attention, she moved back until she was out of view. Then she turned and pushed her way through the emergency exit. Outside was a parking lot, and on the far side were long stretches of cars. She squinted at the sign above them. She wasn't sure about the first line, but the bigger words at the bottom read Used Cars. She blinked. The cars lined up in rows must've been for sale.
She sucked in her cheek. If only she could get a car. Then she could drive to New York, find a safe place, and park the car. The owners would find it eventually. It wouldn't exactly be stealing, would it? She could drive after all. Ted had told her that all farm kids learn to drive young. And she wouldn't hurt the car. Once more she looked over her shoulder. Whatever she did, it had to happen fast. They would be looking for her any minute.
Her heart raced, but her feet moved even faster. In a few seconds she crossed the back parking lot of the restaurant and headed for the rows of used cars. When she reached them, she felt her fear triple. There were people everywhere. Couples walked around looking at cars, and scattered throughout the rows were people dressed in nice clothes. Salespeople, probably.
With everyone around her, she couldn't exactly walk up and take a car, could she? She looked back at the restaurant. No one was coming after her, but it wouldn't be long.
The cars on either side of her were locked and had no keys in the ignition. She hurried down a row of vehicles until she came to a section of pickups. Trucks like the one Ted and Evelyn used to let her drive. The first one in the row had an open window and . . . she leaned in . . . yes, there were keys on the front seat.
She swallowed hard. You can do this, she told herself. Take the truck, get to New York, and find Grandma Peggy. Then you can give the truck hack. She glanced around, and out of the corner of her eye she saw police officers spill out the back door of the restaurant. She had maybe a minute to pull it off.
She slipped into the front seat and grabbed the keys. Her hands shook as she slid the largest key into the ignition and turned the engine. It was too late to back out now. From not far away she saw one of the well-dressed men turn and head toward her, his hand raised. Terror wrapped its arms around her, squeezing the air from her lungs. She had to get out of here fast.
The gearshift was just like the one in Ted's truck. She put it into drive and peeled out of the parking space. The squeal was bound to get the attention of the officers, but she had no choice. If she didn't move they'd catch her for sure.
She would only have the clothes on her back and the red-beaded purse, but that was okay. She had all she needed. Her mouth was dry, and she ran her tongue over her lower lip. "I'm coming, Grandma. . . . Please be waiting for me."
The aisle ahead was clear, but in the rearview mirror she could see people running after her. "Come on," she yelled at herself. "Go, Mary . . . move it." She wasn't sure where the entrance to the lot was, but it didn't matter. Trucks could take a curb. As soon as there was a break in the row, she turned and sped up to the sidewalk. She looked to the left. No traffic. Behind her the men were catching up, and in the far distance the police were heading toward the car lot. "Okay." She grabbed a quick breath. "Here goes."
The truck dropped down over the curb, and she was off. The freeway was just ahead. She'd paid close attention while Big Dave was driving, so she knew which way he'd been going. Without slowing, she entered the freeway heading the same direction as before.
There. She settled back against the seat. She'd done it. Her breathing returned to normal, and even her heartbeat slowed down. No one would know where she was going, so everything would work out just fine.
It took a few minutes to get used to the flow of the freeway, but it was easy compared with what lay ahead. She had to find her grandma as soon as possible. Grandma Peggy would explain the situation to the police and the Social Services and the people who owned the truck. No one would be mad at her—not once they understood.
She passed one exit, then another and another. With every mile she could feel herself getting closer to her grandma, feel the past falling away. Never again would someone chain her to a bed in a basement, and never, never would someone use her to meet the needs of men. Never.
The minutes passed, and no one seemed to be chasing her. Her back melted into the seat, and she loosened her grip on the steering wheel. Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked so she could see the road. "Grandma ... I'm coming." She could hardly believe it was actually happening. She was going to find Grandma Peggy, maybe even today. Every exit she passed took her closer to the place where she had spent her first years, the place where she still had a safe home and a pink bedroom and a pink teddy bear and a stack of books that finally . . . finally she could read.
A smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and she rolled down the window. It was wrong to take the truck, but what choice did she have? She'd leave it somewhere safe, and her short loan wouldn't hurt anyone. The summer wind felt wonderful on her face, washing away the dirt of her past, the grime of every ugly yesterday that had scarred her heart and soul and seared her memory. Her grandma would be waiting, and she could live with her and maybe one day her mama would join them. Because if Jimbo had lied about the police, maybe he'd lied about her mama. Maybe she wasn't dead. Maybe she'd joined up with Grandma Peggy, and they were both looking for her.
They could all live together once Mary found them.
Yes, it was all going to work out. She could already imagine the smell of her grandma's house, already feel her arms around her. Soon, very soon. She pressed her foot to the pedal, but as she did she saw flashing lights in her rearview mirror.
Her eyes fell to the control panel. She wasn't speeding. They're not coming for me, she told herself. I'm way too far ahead of them. Just in case, she changed lanes until she was on the far right. In the mirror the police were gaining ground. Two cars, both with their lights flashing. They changed lanes, and Mary felt her heart fall to the floor of the truck. One more lane change and they were right behind her.
She was wrong. They were coming for her after all. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she pressed the gas pedal to the floor. She wasn't going to give up without a chase, not when her grandma was so close. At the next exit, she whipped the truck down the ramp. But up ahead was a red light. Two lanes of stopped traffic blocked her path, and the shoulders weren't wide enough for her truck.
The police were right behind her. A booming voice came from one of them. "Pull over!"
She thought about sideswiping the cars on the right and squeezing past them. But that would never work. The police would get through easier than her, and she wouldn't lose them. Besides, she might hurt someone. Slowly, all life and hope and promise leaked from her. She pulled over, put the truck in park, and sat back in the seat.
The officers were on her in seconds, their guns drawn. "Put your hands on your head," one of them shouted at her.
In that instant Mary knew it was over. Over the next ten minutes, when she put her hands on her head and stepped out of the truck, and while strangers stared at her from their
cars, and officers searched her and read her something called rights, and as they slapped the familiar handcuffs on her wrists, all the while she couldn't stop thinking about one very sad thing.
It was the same thing that haunted her for the next three years after she was convicted of grand theft auto and placed in a juvenile detention center in New Jersey, and when she was caught sleeping with the math teacher while there. While she studied hard enough to get her high school equivalency certificate and when she was placed in a work program doing clerical tasks at the New Life Center on the streets of inner-city Washington, DC.
Mary Madison allowed only one thought to dominate her heart and soul. It was the saddest thing of all.
Grandma Peggy would never know how close she'd come.
* * *
Chapter 12
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Emma wanted to cry for Mary. "Did your grandma have any idea where you were or that you were trying to find her?"
"She had an idea." The pain in Mary's eyes colored everything about her face. "She saw the newspaper the day after I was rescued from Jimbo's basement. She called the police and told them she thought I was her granddaughter."
"So . . ." Emma tried to contain her frustration. "Why didn't the police get the two of you in touch?"
"I couldn't remember my last name. The information Grandma Peggy had didn't match what was in my file. I guess a lot of people called after my picture ran. If the caller's details didn't match, then the police dismissed the call. My grandma said my name was Mary Madison, but my file said I was Mary Margaret."
Emma slumped. "That's terrible."
"Yes." Mary's eyes grew damp. "My grandma loved me so much. She still tells me all the time how much she prayed for me back then. No matter what she did, she couldn't find me, but she could talk to Jesus. And Jesus could talk to me."
"But . . ." Doubt breathed on Emma's neck. "Jesus doesn't really talk. I mean, not out loud." She thought about her mother, how faithful she'd been checking up on her and the girls after she'd moved in with Charlie. "That's what my mama says too. She can talk to Jesus, and He can talk to her."
"He talks to us through His promises in the Bible." Mary blinked back the tears in her eyes. "And through other people." She hesitated. "I can look back over my story and see lots of people who, in a sense, were like Jesus to me. My grandma, of course, and Ted and Evelyn, and even Big Dave, the truck driver. But more than ever he used my friend Nigel." She smiled. "I'll save that part for tomorrow."
Emma stood. Her heart was torn in a dozen different directions. If Jesus had come to Mary through the people in her life, then maybe He'd done the same for her. Maybe she'd missed it somehow. She was amazed at Mary's strength and her willingness to tell her story even when going back in time was obviously painful for her.
Mary rose and put her hand on Emma's shoulder. "Are you seeing yourself yet? the pieces of your story woven into the pieces of mine?"
"Yes." Emma felt her chin quiver. "I never thought anyone would understand."
Mary hugged her, just a quick hug, but for a moment it reminded Emma of everything safe and warm and good that she'd walked away from. An ocean of sobs began to build in Emma's heart.
Her mother had tried to hug her that way, but ever since she got pregnant with Kami, Emma had always pulled away, kept her distance. Now she ached to feel her mother's arms around her again. How come she hadn't listened to the people in her life, the ones who were trying to be like Jesus to her?
She couldn't speak, so she gave Mary a nod and a hurried wave. As she picked up her girls and took them to the cafeteria and afterwards as she read the girls a book and patted their backs as they fell asleep, she stuffed the sorrow that grew inside her.
Finally when the girls were sleeping, she took a pad of paper from the desk drawer in her room and sat in the chair by the small window. Only then did the tears come and with them a review of her life, every bad choice and missed opportunity. . . .
***
She was an only child. Her mother had worked nights as an X-ray technician and delivered newspapers before sunup. Together they shared an apartment and got by, but never with very much. Emma had worn secondhand clothes, and birthdays and Christmases were sparse. Even so, Emma thought her life was wonderful. Her mother was kind and bighearted, with an easy laugh. Faith was everything to her mother, and as a child, faith had been a comfortable given for Emma— Sunday school every weekend, church classes every Wednesday night.
She and her mother found ways to stretch their money. They'd visit the library and check out books together. Her mother would read the tougher ones aloud, and Emma would read the simpler ones, like Stuart Little and Charlotte's Web. When they reached the funny parts—when Stuart was nearly washed down the kitchen sink or when Wilbur, the pig, tried to fly— they'd set the book down and laugh, sometimes so hard they had tears in their eyes.
Her mother taught her how to make homemade modeling clay from flour and water and food dye, and on rainy Saturdays they'd make crafts together and sing to country songs on the radio.
Emma had heard stories about her father, Jay, and the way he had rescued her mother from the streets of Washington, DC. But she never really knew how much her mother had loved him until one day when she was twelve. Emma walked into her mother's room in search of toothpaste. But there was her mom, sitting low in her chair, crying as if her heart had broken in half.
"Mom . . ." Emma approached her, and only then did she see the scrapbook in her lap. It was something her mother had showed her years earlier. "You're looking at pictures of Daddy?"
Her mother didn't answer. She put the scrapbook down and opened her arms. "Baby . . ."
Emma came to her, dropped to her knees, and hugged her mother for a very long time.
"I loved him ... so much." Her mother's sobs went on for another few minutes. When they finally eased up, she drew back and studied Emma. "He should be here to keep you safe. You're getting older and . . . and you need him."
Emma wasn't sure what to say. She'd never known her father, so she couldn't relate to his death the way her mother could. But that afternoon, lost in her mother's embrace, her cheeks wet from her mother's tears, she had felt an overwhelming sense of loss. What if he'd lived? How different would her life have been with a daddy like Jay Johnson looking over her, taking care of her?
Looking back, Emma was pretty sure the change in her heart happened that day—the one that ushered anger into her soul, slipped it in between the complicated layers of adolescence and left it there to simmer and grow. How dare God take her father from her? How dare her father leave her and her mother alone, her mother scraping by with two jobs, always tired and anxious and overworked?
Even with her work, her mother had tried to be everything to her—both mother and father in one. When Emma was thirteen, the neighbor lady no longer came over and slept on the sofa so Emma wouldn't be alone at night. The extra money Emma's mother paid the woman was the difference between buying teenage shirts and jeans for Emma or keeping her in secondhand clothes.
"You'll be safe, Emma. I'll lock the doors, and you'll never know I'm gone."
But Emma knew.
She'd lie there at night, eyes wide open, and jump at every sound. The wind was like a scary voice whispering to her that she was all alone, the creakings of the old building like bad guys trying to break in and hurt her. Eventually she'd fall asleep.
In the morning—after her mother delivered her newspapers—she would get home and hug her tight. "It makes me so happy to be here in the morning, Emma."
Before she left for school, she and her mother would hold hands, and her mother would pray for her. "Protect Emma, help her be a light to others, and help her fall more in love with You every day. In Jesus' name, amen."
Emma liked the closeness with her mother, but the words of her prayers always fell flat. Protect Emma? God had already taken her father, the man known for his ability to protect girls. Why would her mother think God wou
ld have any interest in protecting her now? The part about being a light didn't fit right either. The picture that had come to her mind was one of an advertisement, as if her mother wanted her to go around shouting with her actions, "Have faith in God! It'll be good for you."
But having faith hadn't helped her mother, and it certainly hadn't helped her father.
As for love, Emma wanted more than some talked-about emotion from an invisible God. By the time she was in high school, the only love that made any sense to her was the love being offered by boys her age.
Her mother thought by working nights and early mornings she was making herself more available for Emma. But early in her fifteenth year, Emma figured out a way to work her mother's absence to her favor. She took up with a boy three years older than her, a boy whose parents had little control over him.
When she told the guy she was home alone every night, he raised his eyebrows. "Every night?"
"Yep." Emma angled her head and gave him a coy smile. "Gets awful lonely."
The boy figured out a way to ease her loneliness the next night. He showed up an hour after Emma's mother left for work and stayed until the sun came up. A new pattern took shape in her life. Her daddy wasn't there to take care of her, but there was never a shortage of boys who were.
***
The memory dimmed, and Emma felt the ache of the years build in her throat.
Her mother had trusted her, prayed for her all those years. How could she have turned her back on everything that mattered to her? Fresh tears slid down her cheeks, but she kept her crying quiet so Kami and Kaitlyn wouldn't wake up.
***
It was no surprise halfway through her fifteenth year when she realized that she no longer felt close to her mother. They both noticed it, because her mother had pulled her aside one Saturday morning and took gentle hold of her shoulder. "Maybe we need a craft day, huh, Emma?"
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