The Silent Sister(42)
Clutching her suitcase and purse, she followed the other passengers out of the San Diego train station, wincing at the blinding late afternoon sunlight, the sky a more vivid blue than she’d ever seen. A line of cabs was parked beneath a row of palm trees, and she climbed into the backseat of one of them and asked the driver to take her to Ocean Beach.
“Where in Ocean Beach?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.
“Um, a motel?”
He chuckled, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “You want a nice motel or a cheap motel?” he asked.
She thought of the three thousand dollars her father had left in her purse. A lot of money, but how long would it last? Find a job, her father had said, but all she could think of doing at that moment was crawling into a bed where she could sleep away the rest of her life.
“Cheap,” she said.
Thirty minutes later, the cabdriver pulled up in front of an old motel only a block from the ocean. It looked rundown and dingy, but that close to the beach, how bad could it be? She lugged her suitcase out of the back of the taxi—she couldn’t believe it had felt so lightweight to her only a few days earlier. Now she could barely lift it to the sidewalk. Her hands shook as she peeled bills from the wad of cash in her purse, and when she reached through the window to pay the driver, the money fell from her fingers onto the floor of the cab.
“Oh!” she said, trying to open the door, but the driver waved her away.
“No problem!” he said, and she watched him drive off, leaving her alone, and only then did she realize that the blue sky had clouded over and dusk was closing in. She needed a room.
She carried her suitcase into the bare-bones lobby of the motel, where a man, as big and broad as Tom Kyle, stood behind the counter, brazenly smoking a joint. She froze just inside the doorway.
“Ain’t got no rooms,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.”
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Her brain was too tired to comprehend what he’d said, and the scent of the marijuana alone made her dizzy.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I need a room,” she managed to say. “Where can I get one?”
“Saturday night in Ocean Beach?” he asked. “Nowhere. Stay on the beach, like everyone else. Then you come back tomorrow. Maybe a room for you then.” He sucked on the joint, filling his lungs, holding it in. “You okay?” he asked again in a stream of smoke.
She had no voice to answer. She turned and walked outside.
The sky had turned an inky blue in the few minutes she’d been inside the motel. The air grew chillier by the second as she walked the half block to the beach and she was glad she had her jacket. The man was right. There were people on the beach, a mixture of vibrant, healthy-looking people her age, some of them winding up a volleyball game, all of them packing up to leave, and the bedraggled men and women who, she was certain, had no home to go to. They huddled alone or together against the seawall, and she guessed they were settling in for the night. She stood at the entrance to the beach, paralyzed, unsure what to do as darkness fell around her.
She clutched her purse in one hand, her suitcase in the other. People stared at her. She stood out, and that was the one thing she couldn’t afford to do. Walking onto the sand, she took a few steps to a vacant area by the seawall. She set her suitcase flat on the sand, sat down on it, and hugged her arms across her body, pressing her purse and the money inside it to her chest. Everyone’s eyes were on her. The homeless people. Staring. Wondering who this strange new girl was. What if someone called protective services? She was only seventeen. They could take her in, couldn’t they? And then the questions would start. Questions she could never answer. Daddy would be furious at her for botching this. But then she remembered she was eighteen in all the documents she carried. Birth certificate. Social Security card. Driver’s license. Protective services wouldn’t be able to touch her.
She couldn’t let herself sleep. As soon as it was dark enough, she took the money from her purse and crammed the bills into her underwear, flattening them against her breasts and her hips. She heard some of the people talking. Heard laughter. The clink of bottles. “Fred Marcus,” she whispered to herself. “PO box 5782. Pollocksville, North Carolina.” And she repeated it over and over again, like a prayer.
Her muscles grew stiff as she sat like a statue, trying not to draw any attention to herself. The darkness terrified her. She felt like a target for anyone who wanted to hurt her. Rob her. But no one bothered her and she had nearly begun to relax when she saw a light bobbing along on the beach near the seawall. People began calling out, “Hey, Ingrid, over here!” and “Ingrid! Ingrid!” They came to life as the beam of light found them, and she caught a glimpse of the woman who seemed to know them all and who stopped and chatted with each of them.
She hugged herself harder as the woman and her light drew closer, and her fingers toyed nervously with her pendant where it rested snugly in the pocket of her jeans. There was nowhere to go and her mouth was dry as dust as she waited for the light to find her. When it finally did, she blinked and turned her head away.
“Hey.” The woman carrying the light dropped to the sand in front of her. “You’re new,” she said. She rested the lantern on the sand so that it reflected off the wall, and her face, while shadowy, was suddenly visible. Blue eyes. Straight nose. Wide smile. “I’m Ingrid,” she said. “What’s your name?”