Saving Meghan(88)

Almost there, baby, Becky thought.

She stabbed at the food, yelling and cursing, accomplishing only one thing with her antics.

A distraction.





CHAPTER 41





MEGHAN


The hallway was empty. Mom was right—as usual. The nurses and orderlies were busy handling my mother, while everyone else on the floor was busy eating. I moved at a brisk walking pace down the quiet hallway, alert for any witnesses. I had the backpack on. I felt the pockets of my sweatpants for the cab money Mom had given me. Check. I made sure I remembered the address where I was going. Check. We wouldn’t have cell phones to communicate. Mom was shutting hers off and throwing it away. That was my suggestion. I saw a CSI episode where the police had tracked down the killer using cell towers to pinpoint his location, even though he didn’t make any calls.

I stood in front of the food cart. First I looked left, then to my right. All clear. From down the hall, I heard Mom still ranting about the lunch. She sounded like one of those crazy people I’d seen in videos freaking out at a fast food restaurant because of soggy fries or something.

It was now or never, I thought. Now or never. Pushing all fear aside, I opened the cart’s right compartment, where the mac and cheese was kept. It wasn’t hot inside, not like an oven, but there was plenty of lingering warmth from all the meals that had heated up the insulated space.

I squeezed my body into the compact opening by pulling my knees to my chest. I had maybe two inches of headspace. My back scraped against the metal slots used for holding food trays. I let the steel bite into my spine without making a sound. I closed the door shut, plunging myself into complete darkness. Eyes open or shut, I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. The lingering smells of salmon and mac and cheese made my stomach flip.

Mom’s voice was muffled but intelligible. “You know what, forget it!” she shouted. “Just forget it. Please leave us alone, will you?”

I couldn’t hear the water running in my room, but I knew that it was. The nurses would think I was in the shower. Even better, this impromptu gathering would count as a room check. It didn’t matter if the nurses saw me or not, because they believed I was in the bathroom—naked, wet, and sick from that gross lunch. It would be good enough for them.

Timing was critical to our plan. We would have fifteen minutes before the next room check. By that time, I’d be out of the shower and lying in bed, my head turned away from the door so they couldn’t see my face. At least that’s how it would look to the nurse who came to check on me. In truth, there’d be one of my shirts stuffed inside the blond wig Mom had brought to form the shape of my head. The blanket Mom brought and a bed pillow under the sheets would create the illusion of my body.

Mom would stay in the room until the second room check was over. She’d tell the nurse to let me rest. No reason for her to come inside just to look at my sleeping face. Then, Mom would say she was going to get some coffee in the café and she’d be back soon. But she wouldn’t come back. By the time the staff figured out it was a wig and pillows in the bed, we’d both be long gone.

Sometime later—maybe a minute, maybe more, it was hard to track time in the dark—I heard footsteps approaching. Terror gummed my thoughts as I tried to concentrate on relaxing.

Please don’t open the cabinet … please don’t open the cabinet …

“Que puta,” I heard Loretta mutter. I felt a sudden jolt, followed by a squeak of wheels. The cart was moving. “Que puta,” Loretta repeated. I knew what that word meant and figured she was talking about my mother.

I worried my weight would be noticeable, that Loretta would have a hard time pushing me out the door, but that wasn’t the case.

“Bye, Loretta,” I heard a nurse say.

Bye, all of you, I thought.

Being cramped up was hard work. My stomach muscles were burning. My legs ached mercilessly. My hip joints started to scream, but I worried about shifting position even a little, so I lived with the discomfort. I heard the elevator doors chime open. Loretta gave a little grunt as she wheeled me inside. Before long, I felt myself going down. I thought of myself finally being free from this place, of going home, but not home. I was going someplace new. I let go of all doubts about my mother. It didn’t matter if she was making me sick or not. It didn’t matter if she was crazy or not. It didn’t matter if I was making myself sick. I was getting out of here.

I would be free.

Closing my eyes, I did the rhythmic breathing exercises Mom taught me and began to think of all the good things in my life. I used to keep a gratitude journal, and the entries came back to me vividly.

My bedroom … my friends … my mother … my soccer … but him? Was I grateful for him? I gave it some thought as we went down, the elevator stopping to let people on and off. Yes, I decided, I was grateful. But could I forgive my father? That was the bigger question. I believed I could. But first, he’d have to own up to what he’d done. If he could do that, then he could join us wherever we were going.

That’s what I wanted, what I imagined as Loretta wheeled the cart out of the elevator and into a room that smelled like hot soapy water. I heard shouting in a foreign language. The cart stopped moving. I listened for Loretta’s footsteps, but I couldn’t hear anything over the hum of appliances and loud talking. I snapped my eyes open, but it didn’t make a difference. The pain in my joints intensified. I had to get out from under here. But what if Loretta was standing nearby? What if she saw me? I listened as best I could. I had the sense I was in a big, open space, maybe the kitchen. I heard running water and lots of commotion.