Authors: Faith Sullivan
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.
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 don’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.
Paul begins unloading my bags, and I rummage through my purse for the key. Holding the weight of it in my hand, I can envision Miguel when he gave it to me. It was almost closing time one night last week, and Connor was in the back figuring out the next day’s bank deposit. We had some time to talk, and as our conversation progressed it all came pouring out of me. I never expected that Miguel would make such a generous offer, and it was one I couldn’t refuse. He provided the solution I so desperately needed, and I could count on his discretion when it came to keeping my whereabouts a secret.
Paul gives me a concerned look. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay out here?”
I admit I’m a little freaked out, but I don’t want to reveal my uncertainty in front of him. “Oh yeah. I’ll be fine.” I try to sound casual but end up nervously chirping my reply.
“Well, if you need anything…” I don’t allow him to finish. Instead I shove a wad of bills in his hand. “Whoa, that’s too much.”
“Keep it. You deserve it for carting my ass all the way out here.” He laughs, shaking his head as he gets back in his cab. I wave as he makes a sweeping turn across the driveway, leaving me utterly alone.
Stepping into the cabin, I feel the floorboards creak beneath my feet. It’s tiny, no doubt about it. There’s just enough space for one person, maybe two. Similar to my studio apartment in Greenwich Village, it consists of a main room and a claustrophobic-sized bathroom. That’s it. The furnishings are sparse—a couch with a fold-out bed, a card table with two mismatched chairs, a refrigerator, a stove, and some kitchen cabinets—only the bare necessities, nothing more, nothing less. And I thought the amenities in my room at the pub were minimal. This is really roughing it.
It’s a bit musty in here. I try opening the windows, but it proves to be a challenge. Straining with all my might, I can’t get them to budge. I locate a hammer in one of the drawers and tap gently on the frame to loosen it up. Giving it another go, I manage to push one open about two inches or so. Overheated, I amble into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. The tap is dripping, and when I turn on the faucet, a brown, muddy stream shoots out. I let it run for a while and eventually the water turns clear. Drying my face on the front of my shirt, I inspect the shower. There’s a deep circular stain around the drain, but nothing I can’t handle. I hear the hum of the refrigerator from here, so at least I know the electricity’s on.
Plopping onto the couch, I take in the view of the lake. Just the sight alone brings me a sense of contentment. I can already feel my body starting to relax after escaping the tumult of the city. It’s weird to think how quickly I adapted to a fast paced, urban lifestyle. Now it’s going to be an adjustment to experience life at a slower tempo, but it’s one I’m looking forward to. I feel strung out, and I don’t know if it’s from dealing with Connor’s unpredictable nature or my anxiety about the future, but all I know is that it’s time to hit the reset button on my stress level before I burn out completely.
There’s a rocking chair on the front porch and I gravitate toward it. Slipping off my black Converse high tops, I move across the floor, propping the front door open with a two liter bottle of Diet Coke from one of the grocery bags. It’s probably best to give the cabin time to air out since it’s been shut up for so long.
Bringing my cell phone along with me, I debate whether or not I should call my parents to let them know where I am. I wouldn’t put it past Connor to have already called them looking for me. I don’t want them to think I disappeared or that I’m lying in a gutter somewhere. But what if they tip off Connor? Is it worth the risk?
I weigh the options in my head, flipping back and forth, matching the to and fro rhythm of the chair. Stilling its motion, I rest my ankles on the porch railing. My battery’s getting low. Before I can chicken out, I scroll through my contact list, hitting the dial button. My palm is sweaty so I place the phone between my shoulder and my ear. After a series of rings, the answering machine kicks on, prompting me to leave a message.
“Hi Mom. Hi Dad. It’s me. Just wanted to let you know that I took a little break from the city. But everything’s cool, and there’s no need to worry about me. I’ll try calling you again later, okay? Love you.”
With relief, I hang up. I’m glad that’s over with for the time being. Now they won’t have to call the police to issue a missing person’s report. The last thing I need is for them to fly off the handle. Connor, on the other hand, is another story.
A family of ducks skims the water in front of the cabin, quacking away, following each other in a staggered formation. No doubt their webbed feet are paddling furiously beneath the surface. I’ll have to remember to bring some slices of bread down to the dock tomorrow to feed them. They’re about as much company as I’m going to get.
Suddenly my phone rings, and I nearly drop it. The volume of the ringtone disrupts the stillness around me. I check the caller ID. Connor. Should I answer it and settle things once and for all? I can’t avoid him forever. Besides, I don’t want him going off the deep end. That lingering worry in the back of my mind refuses to be quieted.
Biting the bullet, I take the call. “Hi, Connor.”
“Hi, Michelle.” His voice is too mellow. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Holding my breath, I don’t give him much to go on.
Sighing heavily on the other end, he whispers, “Thank God.”
He’s not taking the approach I expected. He’s not demanding to know where I am.
“Are you okay?” I can’t help it. I’m worried about him.
“I’ve been better.” He sounds hoarse. “I miss you.”
And those three words nearly break my heart. I want to tell him where I am. I want him to come to me. But I can’t. Standing up, I walk across the yard. I have to be strong for his sake. He knows I’m safe. I have to end this conversation before I weaken and give in to him.
Dipping my foot in the water, I place it on the smooth stones of the lakebed. The sensation revives my resolve. I can do this. “I miss you too, but I have to go.”
“Michelle, wait.” His panic is evident now, filtering beneath the surface of the brave facade he’s trying to maintain.
“It’s for the best, Connor.” And with a frustrated moan, I hang up on him. Seconds later, my phone rings again, but I don’t pick up. Instead, I slide it into the pocket of my cut-off shorts and wade into the lake up to my knees. This separation has to work. It has to.