Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(28)

I could see the floodlights of Ellis Island. I knew that it was over a half mile away, and having lived in a time of extreme water restrictions, I was not the most experienced swimmer. I knew enough about swimming to know that a mile in the water was going to feel like ten miles on land. But what choice did I have? It was now or never.

I dove.

Just before my head hit the water, I thought I heard Mrs. Cobrawick wish me luck.

The water was freezing. I could feel my lungs constrict.

The way my hospital gown was billowing out, it felt like it was drowning me. I untied it. With nothing but underwear on, I started to swim in the darkness.

I tried to remember everything I had ever read or heard about swimming. Breathing was important. Keeping water out of your lungs. Swimming straight, too. Nothing else was coming to mind. Hadn’t Daddy ever said anything about swimming? He’d said something about every other subject in the world.

I ignored the cold.

I ignored my lungs and my heart.

I ignored my aching limbs.

And I swam.

Breathe, Anya. Go straight. I kept repeating this to myself as I paddled my arms forward and kicked my legs.

I was almost three-quarters of the way to Ellis Island and completely exhausted when Daddy’s voice popped into my head. I don’t know if this was something he’d actually said to me or if I was just losing my mind. What the voice said was: “If someone throws you in the pool, Annie, the only thing to do is try not to drown.”

Swim.

Breathe.

Don’t drown.

Swim.

Breathe.

Don’t drown.

And what felt like an hour later, I was there.

I coughed when I hit the rocks. But I had to keep going. At this point, I knew I was probably behind schedule and I didn’t want to miss my second boat. I used my rubbery arms to scale the rocky cliff. I could feel my limbs and naked stomach getting cut on the sharp stones, but somehow I made it.

When I tried to stand, my legs were slick and useless. There was a sick, wet feeling in my throat and lungs. And yet I was alive. I ran across the shore until I found the boat that would deliver me—a motorboat with the name The Sea Quill painted on the side.

The sailor averted his eyes upon seeing my partial nudity. “Sorry, miss. There’re clothes for you in the bag. I didn’t know you’d come upon me nekkid, though.”

The sailor started the boat and we headed for New Jersey. “Worried we missed each other,” the sailor said. “I was about to leave.”

In the canvas bag that had been provided for me, I found boys’ clothing—a dress shirt, a newsboy cap, a pair of gray pants with suspenders, and an overcoat—and then I found a large piece of gauze, a pair of round spectacles, a fake ID for one Adam Barnum, some money, a mustache and spirit gum, and finally, a pair of scissors. I put on the clothes first. I twirled my hair into a bun and concealed it under the newsboy cap. It didn’t feel right. I asked the sailor if he had a mirror. He nodded toward the cabin down below. I descended, taking the scissors, the gauze, and the mustache with me.

The illumination in the cabin consisted of a single bulb, and the mirror was only six inches in diameter and pitted from the sea air. Still, it would have to do. I applied the spirit gum to my upper lip and stuck on the mustache. I looked less like myself, but I could still see that my current disguise was unconvincing. The hair would have to go.

I spread out the bag so that it would catch the clippings. I rarely had my hair cut, and I had certainly never cut it myself. I thought of Win’s hands on my head, but only for a second. There was no time for sentimentality. I picked up the scissors and in less than three minutes all I had left was one inch of wavy hair. My skull and neck felt naked and cold. I looked at myself in the mirror. My head looked too round and my eyes too large, and if anything, I looked more babyish. I donned the hat again. The hat, I felt, was going to be key.

In the hat, I did not look like Anya Balanchine. And if I squinted I could even see where I looked a bit like my brother.

I tried on the glasses. Better.

I backed up in an attempt to see more of myself in the tiny mirror.

The clothes were boyish enough, but something was off.

Ah, breasts.

I unbuttoned my shirt so that I could wrap the gauze tight around my chest—the bandage stung against the places where the rocks had lacerated my skin—and then I buttoned myself back in.

I studied myself.

The effect was not awful, but it disturbed me. It might seem silly, but I had spent most of my life as someone people had called pretty. I was no longer “pretty.” I was not even handsome. I was somewhere between homely and ordinary. I thought I would pass as—what was my new name?—Adam Barnum.

I wondered if I should keep this up the whole time I was in Mexico or if I should only try to do this while I was in the process of escaping. I suspected the disguise worked best if you didn’t consider me too closely.

I climbed the ladder back up to the main deck. I threw my hair clippings overboard.

Upon seeing me, the sailor started. He picked up his gun.

“Captain, don’t shoot. It’s just me.”

“My word, I didn’t recognize you! You were such an attractive little thing ten minutes ago and now you’re plain as mud.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I crossed my arms over my chest.

At Newark Bay, there were hundreds of shipping containers and boats. For a second, fatigue set in, and I despaired of being able to find the right ship. But then I remembered Simon Green’s instructions—row three, cargo ship eleven—and I quickly found the shipping vessel that was supposed to take me to Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca, on the west coast of Mexico.