“So you want to leave him first.” Her contempt is palpable.
“It’s not like that.” I tuck my hair behind my ears before crossing my legs.
“How’s it like then?”
“I need to snap him back into reality. He’s not thinking straight. The abruptness of my departure will force him to do that. It’s the only way to get him to stop postponing the inevitable.”
“Which is?”
“That he’s not going to get his way. Not this time.” I don’t know how she’s doing it, but she’s drawing things out of me, things I didn’t even realize existed.
“So you feel that if you don’t take a stand now, you never will?”
“Pretty much.”
She nods processing everything I’ve told her. “Michelle, I wish things weren’t so complicated. I really do.”
“You and me both.”
“But I promise to look out for him. If he doesn’t come to the next meeting, I’ll stop by the bar and check on him.”
Reaching into my purse, I pull out a slip of paper. “Here’s his parents’ number as well. Just in case.”
“And what’s this number on the bottom?”
“That’s my cell. I want you to have it.”
Solemnly, she stands and I follow her lead. Holding out her arms, she surprises me by giving me a hug.
“I’m sorry things have to be so hard for you.”
Patting her on the back, I mutter, “For all of us.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Tonight’s my last night as a waitress at Donnelly’s Pub, and no one knows it but me. I try to maintain a brave front, but cracks are beginning to show. Miguel watches me warily as Connor pops the lid off another bottle before sliding it in front of him. Pundits on CNN are discussing how al-Qaeda’s plans to build a dirty bomb on U.S. soil were thwarted earlier this month. Reaching for the remote next to the cash register, Connor changes the channel. Miguel shoots me a look before raising the bottle to his lips.
Discomforted, I use my back to push open the sliding door to the kitchen. My tray is laden with lipstick-smeared glasses bound for the dishwasher. A ladies bowling team kicked back with some whiskey sours after crushing their opponent. They were in a festive mood, leaving me a generous tip. But it doesn’t lift my spirits.
“What’s wrong? You look like hell.” Leave it to Tammy to be brutally honest.
“I can’t seem to be able to turn my mind off lately,” I offer as a way of explanation.
“You’re such a worrywart. Relax, would ya?” She elbows me in the ribs. “I asked Connor if I could head out early tonight since we’re kinda slow.”
Rinsing my hands under the tap, I throw her a questioning glance. “Have a hot date?”
She lowers her voice. “I might.”
“It’s about time, girl. Is it…?”
“Yes,” she interrupts before I can say his name, casting a furtive look at the back of Samuel’s head as he flips a hamburger onto a bun.
The two of them slept together a few times around Memorial Day after bumping into each other at the party of a mutual friend of theirs in the Bronx. But Tammy recently put an end to it when she found another woman’s panties in Samuel’s apartment. Ever since, they’ve barely said two words to each other at work. Maybe if Tammy moves on, things will return to normal. I hope so, for Connor’s sake. The tension is pretty unbearable.
Samuel slams his hand onto the bell indicating that an order is up. Tammy sashays by him, picks up her tray, and saunters out the door.
“Women,” Samuel mutters, tossing a dozen chicken wings into the deep fryer.
I don’t know why it’s a relief, but seeing that other people are dealing with shit too eases my mind slightly. But when I think about my impending flight from Donnelly’s Pub, the guilt comes rushing back.
Connor pokes his head in, breaking my train of thought. “Michelle, you got a minute?”
Pulling myself together, I move toward him. “Yeah, Connor. What’s up?” I try not to think about the fact that this might be the last time I ever talk to him.
“There’s something important I want to discuss with you.” Following him back behind the bar, I anxiously chew my gum wondering what it could be. “Do you think you can get up early tomorrow so we can talk about it over breakfast?” My mind goes into panic mode. Does he suspect something?
Putting every ounce of effort into keeping my voice steady, I respond. “Sure, Connor. What time?”
“Seven o’clock?”
I’ll be miles away by then. “Okay, I’ll set my alarm.”
Lowering his hands onto my shoulders, he hesitates before pulling me in for an embrace and resting his cheek on top of my head. “Thank you,” he whispers before letting me go. Two firemen who are friends with his uncle enter the pub, and I know we won’t have another chance to talk. He turns to greet them as I step away to tend to my remaining tables. I freeze time for a minute and take in every detail. How his dark hair catches the light. How his tattoos peek out from under his sleeves. How he makes everyone who steps into his bar feel welcome.
Why does he have to be so selfish? Why can’t we keep on living this life together? We can be so happy letting things go on as they are. Why can’t he step back and see that?
I am on the verge of losing it when I hear Miguel cough. All he does is nod in my direction, but it’s enough to refocus on what has to be done. I have to proceed. There’s no going back. I’m at the point of no return.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I creep down the steps. It’s a little after five o’clock in the morning. I press my bags close against my body, trying not to make a sound. I cast one last look around the pub. Running my hand lovingly across the mahogany bar, I remind myself how grateful I am that I got to spend at least some time here. I have to focus on the positive. Otherwise, I don’t think I’ll be able to walk away from Donnelly’s Pub.
Inching through the dimly lit kitchen, I head for the back door. It’s the quieter option since Connor may hear the bell above the front entrance. I can’t take that chance. Sliding the heavy, metal deadbolt, I step into the chilly morning air. I awkwardly attempt to shuffle the weight of my bags, and in so doing I lose my grip on the door handle as it shuts behind me. An involuntary whimper arises in my throat. It’s official. My time here is over.
I trudge down Beekman Street. I refuse to turn around for a final glance at the familiar awning. If I look back, I might change my mind. I can’t give in to any hint of hesitation or regret. This is for the best. I know it is.
“Hey, sister, where are you going?” some random guy calls out to me as I walk by. I ignore him and increase my pace, wishing for the millionth time that I didn’t have so many damn bags to carry. I’m such an easy target.
Overly cautious, I grip the railing leading down into the subway. The train isn’t here yet, so I lean against the wall, dropping everything at my feet. The straps have cut red indentations into my hands and my back is killing me from the weight. I’m halfway there. I just have to keep going.
There’s an amputee on the platform jingling a tambourine. We’re the only two people down here, and he looks at me while exuberantly shaking the instrument. When I don’t respond, he starts to crawl off his blanket in my direction. Shit. I don’t want him to have to come all the way over here, but I don’t feel like picking up all my stuff either. He’s getting closer, moving across the filthy surface covered in wads of gum, cigarette butts, and God knows what else. I reach into my pocket for a dollar bill. Crumbling it into a ball, I toss it to him. My aim is off and it lands near the lip of the platform. Suddenly, we hear the screech of a train accompanied by a gust of wind that blows the dollar onto the tracks.
He starts belittling me for being so stupid, but there’s no time to waste as the doors open. I haul my load into the closest compartment while attempting to tune out his blistering rant. As the doors automatically close and the train begins to move, I hold onto the handrail. Through the window,
I can see him giving me the finger as we whiz by. A fellow passenger actually laughs. I groan, tipping my forehead against the cold steel. What a way to make an exit.
Rocking with the rhythm of the train, I notice my thoughts veer back to my earlier escape through the bowels of Manhattan. Look at me—nearly a year later, still running scared. Once a coward, always a coward, I guess. I didn’t even leave Connor a note. Pretty heartless considering all he’s done for me. He’s going to be devastated when he realizes that I’m gone. I wonder what he wanted to tell me over breakfast. It sounded like something important.
The train jerks to a halt and the undecipherable voice of the driver announces the stop over a burst of static. I can never make heads or tails of what they are saying. The number painted on the tiled wall is how I know when to get off at the right stop. It reads 42, so I gather my belongings and push through the people getting on.
Following the overhead signs, I proceed through a series of turnstiles and escalators until I reach the main floor of the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Locating the appropriate ticket window, I purchase my fare and head for the departure gates in the basement. Stopping at a vendor kiosk, I buy a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish. Trying not to spill a drop, I carefully rearrange how I’m holding my bags. It’s a clumsy adjustment, but I’m almost there.
Locating the right gate, I get in line and sit on the floor to sip my coffee. The caffeine rush revives me. The sense of déjà vu is strong, putting me a little on edge. It’s the same terminal I departed from after 9/11. I can’t wait to get on the bus already. The driver is outside the glass door having a smoke before loading his passengers. The underground garage is bustling with the first runs of the day.
I check my watch. It’s seven thirty. Connor knows I’m gone. Will he think to come here to look for me? He knows how I arrived in the city. Will he put two and two together and hunt me down before I can leave? Standing up, I mentally urge the driver to hurry up and start letting us board. I have to get out of here. Now.
The line is longer than I thought. It’s a Friday morning, and people are anxious to leave the city in order to kick off their Fourth of July plans a bit early. But tickets are slowly handed over as riders climb aboard. When I reach the driver, he stows my bags in the compartment underneath the bus. Relieved of my burden, I finish what remains of my coffee before taking a seat. Hopefully I won’t have to share with anybody and I can stretch out and relax for the ninety-minute drive.
There’s a commotion as an Asian boy tries to talk the driver into storing a cooler of fresh fish in the cargo hold. But the driver is adamant about the rising temperature in the confined space infusing the bus with a fishy aroma. However, the boy refuses to back down. It’s almost time to leave, and we’re going to be behind schedule if their argument continues, giving Connor precious time to find me.
Holding up his arms in frustration, the driver gives in. The boy, dressed in a white chef’s uniform, hustles onto the bus, and the only empty seat is right next to me. He slides in and the smell of the docks overwhelms me. I try not to gag. Breathing through my mouth, I listen as he calls someone on his cell phone. He’s talking in another language, but from what I can tell from his utterances of broken English, he works for a Chinese restaurant in the Poconos. Near where I’m headed.
Yeah, that’s right. I’m not going back to my parents’ house. Miguel is lending me his cabin, aiding my getaway attempt. He’s letting me stay there rent-free for the rest of the summer. At least until I figure out what I’m going to do without Connor pressuring me to return to NYU. I need a quiet place where I can think and figure things out. I have a lot of soul searching to do. That much is certain.
The driver swings the door shut. He beeps the horn and shifts the bus into reverse. As he maneuvers out of the tight space, he asks for a traffic update on his CB radio from drivers already on the road. I press my face against the glass, taking one last look at the city as we leave the terminal and emerge into the sunlight.
I don’t see Connor run into the garage as the bus pull away.
Chapter Forty
It’s rush hour, but there are more vehicles going into the city than coming out. The driver makes record time, exiting the Lincoln Tunnel fifteen minutes after leaving the Port Authority. When we swing around the bend onto Route 495, the Hudson River comes into view and beyond it the Manhattan skyline. It hurts to look at it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see the outline of the city without being haunted by the visual aftermath of 9/11. The smoldering ruins of Ground Zero are forever burned into my mind.
Seeking a distraction, I reach into my purse and pull out a photo of Connor. It was taken underneath the giant blue whale in the Museum of Natural History. Prior to snapping the shot, he made a dirty joke comparing the size of his manhood to that of the whale, so he has a goofy expression on his face. It’s one of the few pictures I have of him. I don’t know why I feel the need to look at it, but deep down I realize that I’m starting to miss him already.
Turning it over, I try to hold it together. This is going to be much harder than I thought. The enforced separation without any form of contact—I honestly don’t know if I can handle it. But I can’t cave, not this soon. When it comes to my feelings for Connor, I have to do what’s best for him, not for me. He needs to rebuild his life without depending on me so much. Fixing me won’t fix him.
The emotional toll of my secretive flight catches up with me. My eyes close and I drift into a fitful sleep. I dream of Connor sitting on a curb in front of Ground Zero, disheveled and with nowhere to go. He’s muttering something over and over to himself, looking up to where the towers used to be. I have to hear what he’s saying so I move closer to him. He doesn’t see me as tears streak down his soot-covered face and into his unkempt beard. Rocking back and forth, he lets out a howling moan before resuming his whispered chant. Standing directly behind him, I can pick out a name—Danny. Danny. Danny.
Someone is incessantly tapping me on the shoulder, and when I turn around, I fall out of the dream, awakening with my head on the Asian boy’s shoulder. I apologize profusely as he jumps up, anxious to retrieve his fish. Apparently, we’ve arrived in the Poconos. Thank goodness he woke me up or I would’ve missed my stop. I won’t criticize someone for the way they smell ever again.
Moving my head side to side to relieve the stiffness in my neck, I scoot off the upholstered seat and into the narrow aisle. Still slightly woozy, I hang onto the railing as I descend the bus steps. The driver already has my bags out. I hoist my load and head for the nearest payphone. Flipping through the directory, I locate the number of a nearby cab company and call it on my cell phone. They can pick me up in ten minutes. Perfect.
I check the directions that Miguel wrote down on a napkin for me, and they appear a tad complicated. Hopefully the cabbie is familiar with the area because it looks like I’m going to be out in the boondocks. It’s about as isolated as it gets.
Slipping on my sunglasses, I notice a yellow taxi enter the parking lot. I wave it over, and the cabbie gets out and pops the trunk, immediately reaching for my bags. He’s observant. I like that. It bolsters my confidence that he’ll be able to find Miguel’s cabin.
“Where you headed, miss?” He sounds like a local—a good sign.
“It’s probably easier to show you.” I hand him the napkin and he studies it intently.
“Oh yeah, I know exactly where this is. My buddy and I go hunting near that lake during deer season.” Smiling, he sets my mind at ease. “But I recommend stopping at a grocery store beforehand. There’s nothing out there for miles.”
I nod, signaling my agreement. I have three weeks’ worth of tip money so I’m not worried about letting the meter run. I better take his advice and stock up on provisions while I can.
“What brings you out here? Are you on vacation?” He buckles his seatbelt as I get in the back.
“No, just need the peace and quiet to sort some things out.” He seems friendly enough, but I d
on’t want to give away too much. I don’t want people knowing I’m going to be alone in the middle of nowhere.
“Well, that’s the place to do it. No one will bother you, except maybe the squirrels.”
I laugh at his joke, but my heart’s not in it. For a split second, I imagine what it would be like to spend time at the cabin with Connor. How we could take long walks in the woods. Toast marshmallows on a campfire. Swim in the lake. But I stop myself right there, because my fantasies are never going to happen. It’s too late.
***
A half hour later, we’re headed down a windy dirt road. The cabbie, whose name is Paul, was kind enough to take his lunch break while I went shopping, saving me the extra fare. I loaded the cart with a lot of nonperishables—peanut butter, crackers, pasta, soup—enough food to last me at least a month. And Paul gave me his cell phone number so I can call him whenever I need to replenish my supplies. A lot of the drivers are part-time for the summer tourist season, and many are transplants from New York City, unfamiliar with the more secluded areas. Apparently, a lot of New Yorkers are fleeing the city since 9/11, seeking a different quality of life rather than living under the constant threat of terrorism. I can’t say that I blame them.
Coming into view is a small ramshackle structure that doesn’t look much larger than a utility shed. I slide forward in the seat to examine it through the windshield. There’s a metal canoe chained to the wraparound porch. There’s only one floor, but the white siding appears freshly painted, and there are lace curtains in the windows. Again, I feel another pang. They’re similar to those found in my room above the pub.
The cab’s tires crunch over the gravel driveway as Paul parks alongside the curving slope leading up to the cabin. There is a canopy of trees shading the porch, and a refreshing breeze is blowing off the lake. Birds are chirping, and the scent of pine is everywhere. It’s like a postcard come to life.
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