night, pushing the little Beetle as fast as she dared. After half an hour, she pulled off the beret and tossed it into the passenger seat. She didnât look back. She didnât think, and she didnât feel. Ice Woman.
The Beetle was no Escalade, but despite its rattles and coughs, it carried her steadily south and then west, on roads with numbers and names she didnât recognize. She bought coffee and a hamburger in a drive-through at about midnight, but not before pulling on the beret again to hide her hair. She was careful to keep her head down, handing over her money without looking up at the clerkâs face. She had slipped the bill out without noticing it was a fifty, but there was no demur. She pulled out again into the road, and ate the burger as she drove. She bought gas in a self-service station with one of the twenties sheâd gotten from the fast-food place. The restroom was locked, but there was no one around, so she went around to the back and squatted in a square of weeds and gravel. In moments she was on the road again.
The radio in the VW worked fairly well, but she couldnât find a classical music station within range. She drove on through the night in the hard silence of solitude.
She wondered, vaguely, how Jack would take the news of her disappearance. Of her apparent death. She hoped he wouldnât be too unhappy. Despite the distance between themâcall it what it was, an estrangementâshe was certain he cared about her. She had known many clients who resented their parents, but that didnât mean they didnât love them. She had often taken comfort in that knowledge.
Jack was safe now. As long as she was gone, he was safe. It was the only thing that made her feel anything, though it was more an absence of anxiety than a concrete feeling of relief. Better to lose a parent than to face the mindless fury of Ellice Gordon.
âIt takes time,â she had said to traumatized clients. âGive yourself time.â
Time was all she had left. Time, and a gutsy old yellow Beetle. And a bit less than ten thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She would count it, eventually. Work out how long it would last. Decide what to do next. For now, she drove, and watched the highway signs spin by.
By midmorning, with the cool autumn sun at her back, she knew she had to stop and rest. She left the freeway when she saw a sign for a town called Meadville. It seemed big enough to hide in, but not so big she couldnât find her way back to the freeway. It would have been better, she supposed, to stop when darkness fell again, but her eyes were burning and her hands aching from holding the steering wheel. She could yearn for the easy steering of the Escalade if she allowed herself to do it, but she resisted. Instead, as she pulled into the back parking lot of the simplest motel she could find, she patted the dashboard of the VW. It was doing its job to the best of its ability. It wasnât the little carâs fault it wasnât a Cadillac.
She pulled on the beret again and went to register in the motel office. The clerk was elderly, peering at her through thick glasses with black plastic frames. When he asked for a credit card, she said she had forgotten it. âYouâll take cash, though, right?â She gave him her most feminine shrug, spreading her hands helplessly, and he nodded.
âJust fill this out.â He pushed the form across a cracked counter that looked as if it had been lined with a leftover sheet of linoleum.
She wrote down an address in New York, not knowing if such an address existed or not. She made up a license plate number for her car, hoping the clerk wouldnât walk all the way around back to check. She took the key, thanked him, refused the city map he offered, and made her way up a set of splintered stairs to the room he had given her. It didnât look like there were any other guests, but she didnât mind that.
The Beetle was no Escalade, but despite its rattles and coughs, it carried her steadily south and then west, on roads with numbers and names she didnât recognize. She bought coffee and a hamburger in a drive-through at about midnight, but not before pulling on the beret again to hide her hair. She was careful to keep her head down, handing over her money without looking up at the clerkâs face. She had slipped the bill out without noticing it was a fifty, but there was no demur. She pulled out again into the road, and ate the burger as she drove. She bought gas in a self-service station with one of the twenties sheâd gotten from the fast-food place. The restroom was locked, but there was no one around, so she went around to the back and squatted in a square of weeds and gravel. In moments she was on the road again.
The radio in the VW worked fairly well, but she couldnât find a classical music station within range. She drove on through the night in the hard silence of solitude.
She wondered, vaguely, how Jack would take the news of her disappearance. Of her apparent death. She hoped he wouldnât be too unhappy. Despite the distance between themâcall it what it was, an estrangementâshe was certain he cared about her. She had known many clients who resented their parents, but that didnât mean they didnât love them. She had often taken comfort in that knowledge.
Jack was safe now. As long as she was gone, he was safe. It was the only thing that made her feel anything, though it was more an absence of anxiety than a concrete feeling of relief. Better to lose a parent than to face the mindless fury of Ellice Gordon.
âIt takes time,â she had said to traumatized clients. âGive yourself time.â
Time was all she had left. Time, and a gutsy old yellow Beetle. And a bit less than ten thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She would count it, eventually. Work out how long it would last. Decide what to do next. For now, she drove, and watched the highway signs spin by.
By midmorning, with the cool autumn sun at her back, she knew she had to stop and rest. She left the freeway when she saw a sign for a town called Meadville. It seemed big enough to hide in, but not so big she couldnât find her way back to the freeway. It would have been better, she supposed, to stop when darkness fell again, but her eyes were burning and her hands aching from holding the steering wheel. She could yearn for the easy steering of the Escalade if she allowed herself to do it, but she resisted. Instead, as she pulled into the back parking lot of the simplest motel she could find, she patted the dashboard of the VW. It was doing its job to the best of its ability. It wasnât the little carâs fault it wasnât a Cadillac.
She pulled on the beret again and went to register in the motel office. The clerk was elderly, peering at her through thick glasses with black plastic frames. When he asked for a credit card, she said she had forgotten it. âYouâll take cash, though, right?â She gave him her most feminine shrug, spreading her hands helplessly, and he nodded.
âJust fill this out.â He pushed the form across a cracked counter that looked as if it had been lined with a leftover sheet of linoleum.
She wrote down an address in New York, not knowing if such an address existed or not. She made up a license plate number for her car, hoping the clerk wouldnât walk all the way around back to check. She took the key, thanked him, refused the city map he offered, and made her way up a set of splintered stairs to the room he had given her. It didnât look like there were any other guests, but she didnât mind that.
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