Saving Meghan(90)
The cabdriver, a stout man with a goatee and tweed cap, talked on his phone, earpiece in one ear, not listening to the radio. Becky wondered if they had discovered the ruse yet. Was the hospital going crazy, looking for Meghan? Had the Amber Alert been issued? Sunlight sparkled across the dappled water of the Charles River as the cab traversed the Longfellow Bridge en route to Cambridge. It was during this crossing that a thought came to Becky, another potential pitfall in her plan that she may have overlooked.
Cameras.
Becky was sure there were plenty of cameras inside the hospital, but she had no idea if there were any outside. If so, it was possible the police could pick up the license plate of the cab she’d hailed not far from the hospital’s main entrance. And that meant they could do the same for Meghan. Like most Boston area residents, Becky had sat glued to the television during the hunt for the Boston Marathon bombers. She knew how determined and thorough the police could be. The fact that they could identify the bombers in a crush of spectators by piecing together security camera footage from different storefronts was nothing short of astounding. The safe harbor Becky believed she’d steered her and Meghan into no longer felt quite so protected.
Becky did not let the new worry consume her. Again, no plan was perfect, but this one appeared to be working well despite how quickly she’d put it together. The cab turned onto Memorial Drive, a two-way road that followed the snaking contours of the Charles River. Becky looked out the window at a crew boat tearing through the water, thinking God would keep her and Meghan safe, that there would not be any cameras that would lead the police to their hideout. She’d cash in all those prayers that her online community had sent for so long.
Eventually, the cabbie dropped Becky off at a three-story apartment building tucked in a quiet street near Inman Square, a populated neighborhood in Cambridge that was within walking distance of the better-known Harvard Square. Becky paid her cabdriver, leaving a generous tip but not one that would stick in his mind.
At the other end of the street were two grocery stores—a Trader Joe’s and a Whole Foods—but Becky and Meghan might be living off takeout for a while. She could probably shop for food wearing Meghan’s brown wig, but the risk might not be worth taking. During the planning stage, she’d found out that home delivery services like Peapod did not accept cash. Later, Becky would see if she could figure out a workaround so that they could subsist on something other than pizza and pad thai.
Turning the dials on the portable lockbox attached to a bike rack outside the apartment to the code the owner had sent her over email, Becky retrieved one set of keys. She headed up a short flight of stairs to the second-floor unit. The door at the top of the stairs was closed, but not locked. Becky opened that door with her heart in her throat. Would Meghan be there?
“Sweetheart?” Becky called out as she stepped inside.
Meghan jumped up from the living room futon. She threw her arms around her mother, tears in her eyes.
Becky held on tight, as though Meghan might float away should she let go. “I told you you could do it, baby. I told you.”
Meghan’s body trembled, but soon relaxed. Becky stepped back so she could peer into Meghan’s eyes, checking her up and down to make sure she was perfectly fine. Both mother and daughter were overcome with an uncontainable giddiness, like a pair of bank robbers who realized they’d escaped with the cash and their lives. They laughed and they cried while fading sunlight filtered through the windows overlooking the quiet street two floors below.
Becky acclimated herself to her new surroundings. It was one thing to see a place online, but something else to be there in person. True to its description on Airbnb, the apartment was very private, which suited them perfectly. The place was furnished with an eclectic eye—country chic, Becky thought of it, with funky chairs, plenty of houseplants, and interesting art on the walls. Nothing here could be found in a Pottery Barn catalog. For sure it was nothing like Becky’s former home.
Former. The thought of never going back to where she had once lived, abandoning those memories—including a box of Sammy’s baby pictures and clothes—struck Becky with force. She understood they’d taken but one step in a long journey.
Becky and Meghan swapped stories from their respective ends of the escape. Meghan recalled crawling out of the kitchen, while Becky described her anxiousness descending the elevator, fearing a nurse would check the room before she made her getaway.
“Should we see if we’re on the news?” Becky asked.
Meghan figured out how to turn on the TV. They sat together on the futon, drinking water from tall glasses found in a well-stocked kitchen cabinet. The police had issued an Amber Alert. Becky’s and Meghan’s names scrolled along the bottom of The Ellen Show. At five o’clock, Meghan’s daring escape was the lead story on all the news outlets. Police formally named Becky as a suspect in the kidnapping of her daughter and mentioned that she was a person of interest in the mysterious death of Dr. Peter Levine. Reporters harped on the fact that Becky was also accused of Munchausen by proxy.
“God, Mom,” Meghan said. “They make you sound like a crazed killer or something.”
Becky said nothing.
Both Meghan’s and Becky’s pictures were broadcast on TV. Meghan groaned when she saw hers.
“Did they have to use that shot?” She rolled her eyes. It was a candid pic Becky recognized from her daughter’s Instagram page. Meghan’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her smile was a little crooked. “And who sent them that anyway?” she hollered. “My account is private.”