Deliver Her: A Novel (10 page)

ALEX

Outside, the morning’s relentlessly bright sky had dialed down to gray. A steady stream of travelers emerged from neat lines of parked cars and tour buses, drawn like lemmings to the faux colonial house that was the Charlton Service Center. The grass border alongside the car was dusted with snow.

“It’s chilly. You might want to put this on.” Murphy held the lame quilted ski jacket Alex’s mother had bought on clearance and left on her bed, another
surprise
. Alex usually tried to suck it up when her mother shopped for her, wearing stuff once or twice to avoid hurting her feelings.

But this was
after
—after her mother made her choose sides in their separation. OK, nobody ever came out and said that, but Alex couldn’t help but feel that way. So when she found that coat on her bed, the
bribe
, she brought it down to the kitchen and dangled it in front of her mother, claiming she’d never be caught dead in it, letting it drop to the floor. (Even as she uttered those words, she practically heard Cass tsk-tsking.)

Her mother did her trademark lip-tightening thing. Angel sniffed the coat, then walked away. Alex had waited for that
gotcha!
rush from this moment of rebellion, but she had felt only lingering anger over her mother’s belief that a stupid coat would make everything better. And while they were on the subject, why did she feel she could waltz into Alex’s room any time she pleased? She had no right to throw away her Sweet Sixteen dress—the first thing Alex looked for when she came home from the hospital. Had she really thought getting rid of the bloodied reminder would make Alex forget? Or that the new coat was a way to kiss and make up?

But it
was
freezing in the rest stop parking lot. And since her mom wasn’t there to gloat, Alex took the jacket and put it on. She had bigger things to worry about, like contacting Evan.

Once again, Carl and Murphy reattached themselves like leeches and aimed Alex toward the service center.
If anybody thinks they’re my parents, I will literally die.
Inside, a sea of brown and yellow diamond tile led them to a food court, where odors of grease and microwaved pizza assaulted them. There was a McDonald’s, where a cheesy fake fireplace burned in a slate wall behind some crayon-colored tables. And something called Fresh City, with wraps and other healthy stuff. Auntie Anne’s and Papa Gino’s rounded out the remaining food options, unless you counted the vending machine snacks.

Travelers milled around the open space, perusing menus or stopping to play one of the many arcade games.

“Good time for a restroom break,” Carl said.

Alex gazed at the McCafe, longing to sit and sip a frappé mocha by herself. “I don’t have to go. OK if I walk around?”

“Sorry, Alex. Rules.”

Is this woman planning to wipe me, too?
Murphy led her toward a chrome “Restroom” sign over by a bank of pay phones. Standing in line with the woman, Alex leaned her head against the tile wall. It felt icy cold, like a brain freeze. Her lungs tightened in that familiar pull, signaling the need for a cigarette. The bathroom smelled like diapers and industrial-cleaning fumes so harsh she could taste them.

No sooner had they gotten in line than a noisy group of teenagers joined them.

“Let’s go, girls. We don’t have all afternoon.” A tall woman in an “I Heart NY” sweatshirt and too-tight powder blue sweatpants caught up to the teens, her laminated ID slapping against her sweatshirt’s plastic heart appliqué.
Chaperone from hell.
The girls hung in clumps, giggling and whispering.

Murphy was listing possible lunch choices: burgers, pizza, pretzels. Alex wanted a bagel. And gum. She was almost out of Rainbow Bubble, which was almost as rough as being out of cigarettes. If she couldn’t smoke, at least they could replenish her gum. They couldn’t expect her to go cold turkey on that, too. It was humiliating, having to ask for every little thing.

“We’ll see,” Murphy said when Alex asked for it.

Such a mom answer. “Is he, like, your boss or something?”

Murphy smiled. “He pretty much runs the show.”

“You guys married?”

This time, Murphy threw her head back and laughed. She had a nice laugh, soft and ending on a high note as though she were surprised, not like her mother’s demonic cackle. “No way. We are definitely
not
married. We’re just colleagues—you know, people who work together.”

“I know what colleagues are,” Alex snapped, offended. “I take English honors.”
Took,
she silently corrected herself, having been bumped back to regular English for never handing in homework. Now, today’s sick conspiracy obliterated any chance of salvaging her junior year.

“I have a daughter,” Murphy volunteered. “Younger than you. She’s ten. Her name’s Jamie.” Alex pictured a smaller version of Murphy, a Mini-Me wrapped in her own black trench. She felt sorry for the kid. Murphy dug for her phone and pressed a few buttons. For a second Alex wondered if she’d let her borrow it.

“Here’s my girl.” She knew what Murphy was doing, like Dr. Fallon
after
. Trying to get all buddy-buddy,
relating
. Alex played along, as she had for a time with the counselor, peering into Mom Haircut’s screen. The girl actually was kind of cute, probably took after the dad. Her straight brown hair came to her shoulders, and light pink glasses framed blue eyes. She sat cross-legged on grass, smiling as she tickled the underbelly of a squirming puppy.

“My mother takes care of her when I have to travel for work.” Another divorced mom. Wasn’t everybody, these days?

“Does she see her dad much?” Probably more than she saw hers, Alex thought.

Murphy cleared her throat. “Jamie’s father died. In the line of duty.”

“In 9/11?” The question popped out before she could stop it. Her mom had rushed to the city to help that day with a bunch of nurses from the hospital. Alex was six at the time; she didn’t remember it very well. They watched the Ground Zero memorial service every year. Their own town lost fourteen people in the attack.

“Oh, my. That was such a tragic day. But no. It was a year later. Jamie’s dad was a police officer. In Jersey City.”

Alex did the math quickly. “Does Jamie remember him?”

A quick intake of breath. “No, unfortunately. I was pregnant when my husband Jimmy died. Jamie was born a few months later.”

Jimmy. Jamie.
Duh.
Named for her father. Like Jack was, for her dad. Except their dad was living and breathing. He might even be in the same state as Alex was right now; she glanced behind her, as though her father might magically stroll out of the men’s room.

He didn’t. Alex rolled her shoulders, thinking that if he had, he would take her home, no questions asked. At least, Alex
thought
he would. Lately he resisted Alex’s charms, always tired and cranky after his tree jobs. Like over that college thing; her entire body stiffened at the memory of that confrontation. It wasn’t fair when he changed the rules.

To Murphy, Alex mumbled what hundreds had murmured in her ear as they streamed past her at Cass’s service: “Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. We miss him every day.” For the first time, Alex noticed the American flag pin on Murphy’s trench.

They were getting along so well, Alex forgot for a second why they were even together. When their turn came, Murphy was all business again, waving her into an empty stall. “Meet me out here by the sinks,” she instructed. Alex locked the stall and sat on the toilet. She didn’t have to go, just needed a few seconds alone to think. She wished the giggling girls outside the stall would shut up. And she sorely missed her phone. It was like losing an essential organ. She could only imagine the bazillion missed calls from Evan. And Shana must be losing her mind right about now without Alex at the lunch table. Although Alex had skipped so many times, Shana had found other random people to eat with.

Twirling the toilet-paper roll loudly to buy more time in the stall, Alex weighed her options. With Murphy all business again, the moment to ask for her phone had passed.

1. Find a pay phone.
The ones right outside the bathroom were too obvious, too out in the open. And if her keepers took her cell, they’d never let her use a pay phone.

2. Make a break for it.
She surveyed the stall: Behind her, a sign listed all the gross things you weren’t allowed to flush. (
Did
people need a reminder not to dump grease
into the toilets, she wondered, reading?) Overhead, the ceiling looked like the ones in all her classrooms: square fluorescent panels set in an aluminum grid with lighting that made everybody look sick. And there were no windows anywhere. In short, the bathroom offered zero possibilities.

3. Push Murphy down and run past Carl through the front door, then hitch a ride or hide on a tour bus.
Although she’d gotten good at hitching, the thought of running made her head ache. And Carl was right outside waiting. He’d probably have the place on lockdown in thirty seconds.

Murphy pounded on the metal door. “Alex, almost done?”

OMG.
She wasn’t a three-year-old. “Be right there.” Alex spun the paper roll once more for effect, fuming at the unfairness of being held against her will. She’d read that abducted people sometimes fell in love with their captors. She thought of Camo Man outside the bathroom and almost threw up in her mouth.
As if
she’d get all Stockholm syndrome-y over him.

4. Get a message to somebody.
She could slide it across the counter to the coffee guy:
Help! I’m being held against my will!
Then again, Carl and Murphy would probably whip out their badges and shut that one down, fast. Someone would tweet it and she’d end up on the seven o’clock news. Not that her friends ever watched; stuff had to be trending on Twitter or heart-ed by a bazillion followers on Instagram to get on their radar. But their parents watched.

What else?
She couldn’t think with the girls’ stupid laughter echoing in the cavernous bathroom. They must be on a school trip, bored to tears, this rest stop the highlight of the day. Proud owners of Boston whale-key chains.

Alex sat up. It was a long shot, but maybe the message thing
could
work, if one of these idiot girls would help. If the situation were reversed, Alex and her friends wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity, she reasoned. Well, maybe not Cass. She’d be all:
Don’t do that. What if you’re texting a criminal or something?
As much as Alex loved Cass, she could be a major buzzkill sometimes.

Not Shana. Shana had a pair. Like the week before her Sweet Sixteen, when the three of them tested party makeup in Alex’s bedroom, and Shana had pitched her vodka idea again, and for the bazillionth time, Cass shot her down.

“Geeze, Cass, you’re such an angel,” Shana had teased, turning to Alex. “Come on. It’ll be cool, Al. We’ll use your prezzies to sneak it in. Gift bags are the perfect size.”

“Seriously, Shana,” Cass had said. “Why do you always have to create drama?”

There was a glimmer of truth in Cass’s words. Shana liked to stir things up a bit—get the party started. But when it came down to it, Shana usually ended up on the sidelines, watching everyone else turn into waste products without partaking much herself.

Yeah, Shana definitely would be game for this
, Alex thought in the bathroom stall. So if any of these girls had even an ounce of Shana’s guts, this might have a chance of working. Cracking her gum, she pulled her wallet from her purse. Movie stubs, school ID, ATM card, but nothing in the bank account it linked to. She swore she’d had a ten last night, but then remembered she bought cigarettes. There had to be change, though. She shook her bag, rewarded with the clink of coins at the bottom. Peering inside, she separated two wadded-up dollar bills from a mess of gum wrappers and grabbed a couple of quarters. Less than three bucks; she’d have to sweeten the pot a little. There must be something else she could add.

There it was. A smile played at Alex’s lips. Evan had given her a little something extra awhile back. Mom Haircut had missed it. Or thought it was a Tic Tac. Yeah, that would definitely seal the deal. It would have been nice to have it for the rest of the ride, but this was more important.

Next, paper and something to write with. More digging: last semester’s progress report, a neon blue highlighter. They’d have to do. She put her purse on her lap like a desk, smoothed the paper over it and wrote:
Plze text to 555-897-3320.
Other than her mother’s, Evan’s was the only number she had memorized. Shana made fun of her for it. She added a brief message for Evan, hoped he’d figure it out. At least he’d know she tried.

She folded the bills, making a little pocket and dropping the coins inside. She added the yellow pill from her purse pocket, wrapped the entire thing inside the note and folded it as small and flat as she could, leaving a little money sticking out. This was for real, not like that trick Jack liked to play from under the promenade, poking a dollar through the boards to tempt walkers overhead, only to yank it away when they went for it. Every time. Jack would tumble back into the sand cracking up until their mom yelled for him to get out of there.

The last challenge: getting the packet to the girls at the sink without Murphy seeing. Concentrating, she blew a bigger bubble than usual, peeling the residue from her lips and rolling it between her fingers.

OMG. Gum could work. Quickly she wadded her gum and stuck it to the inside of the stall door, then pressed her SOS packet to it.
Voila.
Pleased, she silently unlocked the stall door, opening it just enough to see the line of people waiting. When the next giggling girl stepped up, Alex swung the door open and held it for her.

“About time, Alex.” Mom Haircut’s arms were crossed; all Alex’s sympathy for the woman vanished.

“Sorry. Thought I got my period.” Under the woman’s watchful eye, she washed her hands and tossed the wet towel in the garbage. “Thanks for waiting.” Adjusting the purple scarf around her neck, she gave Murphy her sweetest, most sincere smile. “Let’s eat.”