Saving Meghan(95)

A pressing need demanded Becky risk a brief shopping excursion. She spent extra time on her disguise to make sure no strands of blond hair spilled out from underneath her brown wig. She walked with purpose, head down, careful to avoid all eye contact, until she came to an electronics store not far from Inman Square. According to the salesperson, a chipper young man of Indian descent, the LG TracFone would allow her to make calls without being traced.

He went on to describe plenty of other features, but untraceable calling was her only purchase criterion. As he talked, Becky wondered what use a person would have for a TracFone outside of criminal activities. Then the salesperson asked if she was selling something on Craigslist, which made sense to her. Becky told him yes, she was in fact selling some furniture through Craigslist, and left the store with the phone in a bag and sixty fewer dollars in her wallet.

She walked back to the apartment in a hurry, mindful not to touch the wig, which was irritating her scalp. Bright sun filtered down from a nearly cloudless sky. A warm spring breeze bathed her face, scenting the air with the fresh smells of blossoming trees and flowers. She could not enjoy the fine afternoon weather, however, as every step was marked with fear. Did that person recognize her? What about that woman across the street? Or that man on his phone? Was he calling the police? Each worry served to quicken Becky’s strides, and soon she was winded from exertion.

Back in the apartment, she found Meghan asleep in the bedroom. How many hours had she been sleeping? It had to be at least twelve. She was sleeping all the time. In the two days since Dr. Zach Fisher had made his televised plea, Becky had kept a close watch for signs of Meghan’s deteriorating health, for any proof that Dr. Fisher was telling the truth.

At Walgreens, she had purchased a thermometer, a wireless blood pressure monitor, and a device to read Meghan’s glucose levels. Those instruments told her nothing. Whatever was wrong with her daughter—whatever had been wrong all along—had always lurked below the surface, impervious to detection. She was foolish to think two hundred dollars’ worth of medical devices available in aisle four at the local pharmacy would tell her something the doctors could not.

Becky fixed herself a mug of green tea and slumped on the futon to watch the five o’clock news. Instead of the lead story, she and Meghan got a mention ten minutes into the newscast. With no updates, no leads, and no developments from Dr. Fisher’s press conference, there was little for the reporters to discuss.

Becky sipped her tea as she debated her next move. Her head told her Dr. Fisher’s plea was a trap somehow, but her heart was saying something else. Her heart told her that Meghan was direly ill.

It’s cancer … it’s a rare form of cancer … she needs treatment, not a bus ride to California … she needs help …

Try as she might, Becky could not pull out from her thought spiral.

She slumped on the futon, letting Meghan sleep while her tea went cold. She held the phone in her hand. One call might answer the question she’d been chasing for years, the question that had inspired her to create her Facebook group, that had brought Veronica into her life, that gave her filing cabinets full of medical jargon, and had ultimately ripped her and Carl apart. One answer was all she sought: What was wrong with Meghan?

Becky returned to the futon, where she stared at the phone as though it were going to tell her what to do. If she called Zach, he’d want to see Meghan right away. He’d arrange a meeting place and time. He’d take Meghan back to White, not to the crazy floor, but somewhere she’d be treated properly for her illness—finally. It’s not mito; it’s cancer, Becky thought again.

But what would happen to me? Becky wondered. That had to be a consideration. In addition to jail, Carl would fight her for full custody—a hardship of an entirely different sort. Judge Trainer would take away her parental rights. Jill Mendoza would be back in the picture. Kelly London, too.

Becky saw herself standing at a fork in the road, but there was no good path to take. Go to California and possibly delay treatment for too long, maybe even past the point of no return. And that’s even if they could get to California. Becky had yet to figure out how to make fake IDs. Then they’d have to find a new doctor, one who might reconfirm the mito diagnosis, or maybe not. Maybe he’d say, I wish you’d gotten to me sooner. I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.

Becky powered on the TracFone. The keypad illuminated in white light.

A chorus of it’s a trap … it’s cancer … it’s a trap … it’s cancer looped in Becky’s mind.

She dialed a number from memory. The phone rang. She heard a click. A voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sabrina,” Becky said.





CHAPTER 46


Becky heard a gasp, followed by a deep inhale, and then, “Becky? Is that you?”

“It’s me, Sis,” Becky said, stretching out her legs on the wood coffee table in front of the futon. “Long time no talk.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Becky, where are you?”

Her sister had a scolding tone, as if Becky had missed curfew. Once again, Sabrina was playing the parent, a role that had been thrust on her all too often.

“I’m safe,” Becky said. “And Meghan is, too. We’re okay. That’s all I can tell you.”

“You need to go to the police.”