by Jackson, Meg
“Rosa, Melanie, come in,” I said, actually happy for the quiver in my voice, hoping it would make me more convincing.
“Go ahead, Gabriella,” Rosa’s voice came over the other end, her heavy accent hard to understand over the crackly radio.
“I was just about to go into 303, and I just got sick everywhere. Had to run right to the bathroom. It smells funny in here but I think it’s something else. I’m gonna come down, I need to go home,” I said. It wasn’t the best lie in the world, but what else could I do? They would know I went into the room when they checked the logs. The best thing I could do was pretend that I only went into the room to throw up, that I’d never seen the body or even touched the bed.
Of course, once I never showed up back home, and once someone discovered the body in the room, there would be a lot of questions. And, with Jeremy on the force, those questions would probably be broadcast across America once he figured out I wasn’t coming back. I could only hope that by the time those questions were asked, I would be safely on my way to Mexico.
“Make sure you flush,” Melanie’s voice came over the walkie-talkie. “Clock out and go home. Come in tomorrow?”
“Maybe, I’ll see,” I said, letting the walkie-talkie fall to my side once more.
I looked around the room once more, but knew I needed to get out of there as soon as possible. The longer I stood there, the more I’d freak out, the more I’d rethink what I was doing, the more I’d overthink how to cover my tracks.
Pushing my cart out the door, leaving the lights on, the way they had been when I got there, I made my way down to the basement, praying no one else would be down there. No one should have been down there. Rosa was still doing rounds, the laundry room was a separate building, and Melanie would be half-tossed and chain-smoking in the courtyard by that time of day.
And, as though God was still smiling upon me, no one was.
I tossed my load of laundry into one of the huge baskets, the sheets mingling together. Grabbing the duffel bag once it fell, I didn’t bother to put my cart away or even change into my regular clothes before going to my locker.
I had my own duffel bag in there, my gym bag, for the three times per week that I went to the gym after work. Today was not a gym day, but I kept a change of clothes in there all the time in case Jeremy made one of his “suggestions”.
That was another thing, by the way, about that marriage. When Jeremy didn’t want me to come home, so he could do whatever – or whomever – he did when I wasn’t around, he’d “suggest” that I go to the gym, and God help me if I didn’t take him up on that suggestion.
Now, I was thanking God for his little “suggestions”. I shoved the duffle bag full of money into my larger gym bag, throwing my running shoes into my locker to make room. I grabbed my purse as well, and threw my street clothes, which had been hanging up, into the duffel bag.
I didn’t clock out.
I didn’t look back.
I was on the highway, pedal to the floor (though not speeding), mind numb as I began to unravel what I’d just done, what I was going to do.
Which, I realized, was a total mystery.
I didn’t know how to start over with a duffel bag full of cash. I didn’t know how to create a new identity. I wasn’t wise in the ways of criminal behavior.
Jeremy was, but I couldn’t exactly turn to him for help, could I?
Well, all I had to do, for then, was get to Denver. Just get to Denver, I thought.
Wait, no.
I didn’t realize I was slowing the car down until I heard frantic honking all around me. I pressed my foot on the gas once more.
Not Denver, not Denver, Utah, go to Utah, I thought. I was driving the wrong direction for Utah, but I knew it was the smarter choice. It had to be. Jeremy had friends in Denver, cop friends. Utah? A whole new state? A wild sort of state? Lots of open land, not too much in the way of cell phone towers…
Utah.
I took the next exit, feeling my stomach flipping as the car swerved around one of the mountain highway’s many looping, high-octane turns, got back on the highway, going the other direction.
Utah, Utah, go to Utah, I thought, over and over again, my mind only able to focus on that one word, that one destination. It was all I could do not to throw up in my lap. The duffel bag, tucked underneath driver’s seat, seemed to pulse and throb behind my feet.
Holy shit, what the hell are you doing, Gabriella, you stupid bitch, you’re never going to get away with this, you better fucking turn this car around right now and go home before Jeremy gets there and wonders where you are. That voice, I realize now, was Jeremy’s voice in my head. But it sounded like mine at the time. And it was loud.
Keep going, you’re never going to get another chance, this is it, this is it, you have to go now, another voice was saying, a voice that sounded strange at the time but which, I’ve learned, is actually my voice. And it was louder.
It was 4pm. Another hour and a half and Jeremy would be home, wondering where I was. Just as I had that thought, my cell phone dinged.
Shit, I forgot about that fucking thing, I thought, panicking, knowing that cops could trace you by your cell phone signal. I reached down, keeping my eyes on the road, and grabbed the phone from the pocket of my maid’s uniform. It was Jeremy texting me. Shit, shit shit, I thought, my heart starting to race once more, my mind leaping to imaginary scenarios – all of which ended in blood. It would be my body tucked underneath a bed this time.
Hey. You should go to the gym after work. Just a suggestion, the text read. I nearly slammed my foot on the brake in utter bafflement. Instead, I started laughing. A psychotic sort of laugh, hysterical and high-pitched.
What a fucking day for one of Jeremy’s suggestions.
Fucking rat bastard, you finally threw me a fucking bone, rot in hell you wife-beating piece of shit, I thought, loudly, that same strange voice overwhelming Jeremy’s in my head. I stopped laughing. I had no idea where those thoughts came from. I’d never thought that way about my husband before.
But it wasn’t just a thought…it was a feeling. I was mad. Mad as hell. And…free. I pressed the pedal harder. Now, it would be 7:00 or later before Jeremy realized I wasn’t coming home. I had three hours to make time before he even suspected anything. The mountains around me were already gradually falling lower, preparing to make way for the high deserts of Utah.
Everything inside me was at war, it seemed. Fear and rage, sense and whimsy, love and hate, self-defeat and encouragement. I plastered a smile on my face as I sped past a state trooper. Obviously, the guy couldn’t see it, but it made me feel a little better about the duffel bag under my seat.
Once the trooper was out of sight, I tapped out a quick reply to Jeremy’s text.
Good idea baby, I’ll be home around 7, want me to make lasagna? I needed him to think it was all a normal day, a normal night, for as long as possible. I waited, agitation increasing, for him to text me back. I wanted to turn my phone off. He could be tracking me right then, for all I knew. Deciding to beat him to the punch, I tapped out another message.
Phone dying and I think the car charger is broken, wasn’t working this morning, I’ll see you at home, I’ll buy pasta in case you want me to make the lasagna but we can also do take-out. Love you, have a good rest of the day!
And with that, I shut my phone off. Remembering something I’d seen once on Law and Order, I struggled with the case while trying to keep my car straight on the road. Finally, violently, the back of my phone popped off and I took the battery out, tossing all the parts of the phone back onto the passenger seat. Now, I was totally screwed if I needed to find out where the hell I was, but at least I didn’t have to worry about being tracked.
Unless he could track the car.
Fuck.
Just get to Utah, for now, Gabby, I thought, surprising myself once more by referring to myself by my childhood nickname. Jeremy didn’t like that name, and I’d stopped going by it after we starte
d dating. It’s a wonder what a car full of cash can do for you. What sorts of changes impulsivity can breed. How one little decision – regardless of whether or not you were even thinking when you made it – can change every single thing about you, about your life, your future.
And then, on the flipside, how easy it can be to barrel sideways into someone’s life when you’re riding high on that decision. How someone will let you in, only to find out later that you’re bringing a heap of trouble with you. And how amazing it can be when you find out they don’t care, that they think you just might be worth it.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?
The farther and farther I got from the mountains that had been my home (and, now that I look back on it, my prison) for three years, I started to feel more and more wild and invincible. Each mile I put between me and Jeremy seemed to take away an hour that I’d spent under his spell. The bruise above my eye throbbed. I looked at it in the rearview, and started to forget why, exactly, I had let him do it to me. Why I’d covered it up.
Well, I’d known why I’d covered it up. I couldn’t exactly go to the cops. He was the cops. The whole force was friends with him, and I knew that going to the police would just get me in deeper trouble than ever.
But how could I have stayed through all those nights of crying, all those empty bottles of concealer, all those warning signs that it wasn’t going to get better?
Because, really, I’d believed for a long time that things “were going to get better”. Either I’d figure out just what it was Jeremy wanted from me, who he wanted me to be, and be able to do it and become that person and we’d both be happy, or he’d realize I wasn’t ever going to be who he wanted me to be and give me a break. For three years I’d really, truly believed that, even though everything was screaming at me that it wasn’t the case.
Love is stupid. Love is stupid, stupid, stupid.
I’m not saying that I went from Rihanna to Beyonce in a matter of an hour and a half, but there was definitely a shift inside me. I wasn’t the same beat-up little girl that had left the house that morning. I was one part mad, one part panicked, one part elated, and one part numb.
And, if things went perfectly, I’d be 100% rich and living free in Argentina – or wherever – by the end of the week.
I just had to get to Utah first.
~ 4 ~
Once the sun started setting, a lot of my confidence and the anger that had driven me so far began to wane. It was hotter down here, though the night air still had a bite to it. The Rockies loomed behind me, the desert stretching out in front. I’d passed Moab, home of Arches national park, and started heading south. All I knew was that if I kept heading south, I’d hit the border eventually, and have some semblance of safety.
It was around 9pm; if Jeremy had thought I’d been running late, he probably knew something was up by now. I hoped, prayed, that his first instinct was that something had happened to me, not that I’d run off. I hoped that he still thought I was too stupid and weak to leave.
If he called work, well…no one from housekeeping would be there to tell him I’d left early, and even if he heard about it the next day or someone at the front desk told him, the timeline would be way too close for him to know whether I’d texted him before or after “getting sick”. I was happy I hadn’t clocked out. The less of a paper trail, the better. They’d only be able to say it was “4-ish” or “around 4”, and “4-ish” is when I texted him that my phone was dying.
And if they told him I’d gotten sick…
But my mind was just racing around in circles, chasing the same thoughts, the same possible-but-unpredictable scenarios. It wasn’t getting me anywhere but tired. I had put some serious mileage in between Jeremy and I; thank God for deserted country roads, where speed limits are more like suggestions than hard-and-fast rules.
I began to look for somewhere I could get a bite to eat, maybe even a room for the night. The thought of staying in one place for the next eight hours made me a little extra panicky, but I’d worked all day and was exhausted from the adrenaline rush and constant anxiety. All those greenbacks wouldn’t mean a damn thing if I fell asleep at the wheel and drove myself into a canyon.
As I rode along, the desert lay on either side of me, and in front of me, like a great, big blanket of nothing. Distant, strange shapes of arches and rocky outcroppings faded into the dark sky. I sat forward, straining my eyes. Finally, after what felt like forever of nothing but the same-old-same-old, I saw a sign for the next exit.
Ditcher’s Valley, 5 mi.
Ditcher’s Valley: if that doesn’t sound like the kind of place that was made for wives on the run, I don’t know what does. I knew it couldn’t have been a very big town, but I also needed to get gas and assumed that there would be a Texaco or something else there where I could get directions to a bigger town with a hotel, or at least a plate of microwave nachos.
Damn, but gas station microwave nachos sounded like a meal from paradise in that moment. Jeremy didn’t like when I indulged in “crap”. Jeremy didn’t like when I did a lot of things.
Screw him, stuff your face with that gross, melty cheese, I thought with a smile, still testing out these waters.
Ditcher’s Valley had a population just under 2,000, if you believed the highway sign that welcomed you in. The first place I saw that looked open had everything I needed: motel, bar, restaurant. The whole kit and caboodle.
I still didn’t feel that great about the idea of stopping on my journey for the night, but logic won out in the end. I needed to get some sleep. I really did. I could feel my brain doing that thing where I’d realize ten minutes had passed and I couldn’t tell you a damn thing about what I’d been thinking about. That, plus a dark highway, did not bode well for my personal safety.
I pulled into the parking lot, noting with some surprise the abundance of motorcycles outside. It seemed like this place catered to exactly one sort of person: bikers. Oh well, what did I care? I was just there to get a room and a meal, not make a bunch of friends and do karaoke.
I checked myself in the rearview before opening my car door; the concealer had mostly worn off by then, my face slightly streaked from the sweat that had poured down my face during the ride. I looked, to be honest, like shit. First stop would be the bathroom, for sure. Just because I didn’t have anyone to impress didn’t mean I wanted to walk around like a slob, either.
As I was about to shut the car door, I remembered the duffel bag under the seat. I mean, I hadn’t really forgotten it (how could I?), but I realized that I probably shouldn’t leave an indiscriminate amount of cash in a bag in my car outside of a biker bar. Hoisting it out and clutching it tight to my chest, I crossed the wide front porch outside the bar and ducked inside, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
I didn’t have to try very hard. The bar was full, wall-to-wall, with loud, rowdy, boisterous bikers of both genders. It wasn’t so loud that I couldn’t hear myself talk, but it was definitely loud enough to make me feel splendidly anonymous. I spotted the ladies’ room and made a beeline for it; it was a single-person bathroom, for which I was thankful.
After splashing some water in my face, washing away the concealer, I went back into the bar. I didn’t see any place that specifically seemed to deal with the motel portion of the bar/restaurant, so I went straight to the bar, where a few bartenders were making chitchat with the clientele. No one seemed in much of a rush to get their drinks, and money never seemed to pass any hands as I waited for someone to spot me.
Finally, one of the older women, who was really gorgeous despite being in her late thirties, came over to me. She was wearing a black leather vest over a tight white tank top and hip-hugging jeans. She looked like the sort of women who’d never let a man raise a hand to her. I envied her.
“What can I do ya for, sweetheart?” she said, her eyes running over me, lingering on the bruise above my eye and the bag I held clutched tight to my chest.
“A room? Is t
his where I can rent a room?” I asked, raising my voice slightly to be heard. It felt weird to speak loudly; living with Jeremy, I’d learned to affect a sort of whisper as my default speaking volume.
“Yup, we got rooms,” she said, leaning back and reaching for something under the bar. “Single room is 60 bucks, with tax that’s…72.79. Cash or charge, hun?” Despite her liberal use of endearments, she sounded like she didn’t trust me, or just generally disliked me off the bat.
“Cash,” I said, wishing I’d taken the time to take some of the hundreds from the duffel bag and put them in my wallet. I’d left my purse in the car. “Um, hold on, I have to go get my wallet.”
“Alright,” she said, eyes narrowed as she watched me walk away. I trotted to my car and quickly unzipped the duffel bag, grabbing my wallet and slipping three hundreds from a wad of cash into the billfold.
Back in the bar, I had to wait a little longer before the bartender came back. I handed her a hundred.