Remember to Forget (8 page)

P
sssttt!
You need to wake up back there.”

Maggie started at the gentle hand patting her knee.

“We’re coming into Columbus.” Corinne Blakely finger-combed her graying bangs in the visor mirror. “You need to tell us how to get to your friends’ house.”

A wave of trepidation cut through the fog of sleep. Maggie had rehearsed several scenarios before she drifted off, but now none seemed the least bit plausible. Besides, a new idea had started to nag at her. These people were going all the way to Missouri. She didn’t know a soul in Ohio, but it was still considered “the East.” If she could go on to Missouri with these people, find a place to start over in the Midwest, she would never have to worry about Kevin Bryson again.

She cleared her throat and sat up a bit straighter in the seat. It was beginning to get light outside the car windows. “I was wondering . . . would you mind if I rode on farther with you?”

Mrs. Blakely’s eyebrows shot up. “But what about your friends?”

“They didn’t know I was coming. And I’m kind of . . . I’m having second thoughts.”

“But where would you go then?”

“I have some other friends . . . in Missouri,” she said.

A shadow of suspicion flitted across the woman’s face. “But
they
wouldn’t know you were coming either.”

“Oh, they wouldn’t care,” Maggie said, injecting what she hoped was credible energy into her voice. “They’ve been trying to get me to come out and see them for ages. Would you mind too much?”

Mrs. Blakely glanced at her husband. Maggie caught the slight shrug of his shoulders.

“Well, I guess that would be fine with us,” Mrs. Blakely said. “But . . . maybe you’d like to call your friends first?” She unplugged the cell phone from the cigarette lighter and handed it back to Maggie. “Do you know the number?”

“No, but I can call information. If you don’t mind me using your minutes.”

The woman waved off the idea. “Don’t worry about it. Take your time.”

“Thanks.” Maggie took the phone. She studied the faceplate before she dialed 411. What if the Blakelys could hear the voices on the other end? She faded as far back into the seat as possible and waited for the operator to answer.

“What city?”

She smiled at Mrs. Blakely, who was hanging over the backseat watching her with an expectant smile on her tanned face.

“Kansas City, please.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’d like the number for Jennifer Anderson.” Her sister’s maiden name had rolled convincingly from her lips, but she immediately regretted using it. What if the Blakelys got suspicious, checked out her guise, and it somehow led them to Jenn in Baltimore?

“There are several listings,” the operator said. “Do you have an address?”

“No—” She sneaked a quick look at Mrs. Blakely. “This would be . . . Fred. Fred and Jennifer.”

Good grief. Where had that come from? She didn’t even know anyone named Fred.

Mrs. Blakely was digging in her bag. She unearthed a pen and a scrap of paper and handed them to Maggie just as the operator said, “I’m sorry. Nothing listed for Fred Anderson in Kansas City.”

“Thank you.” Maggie took the paper and pen Mrs. Blakely thrust at her.

The line went dead, but Maggie nodded and pretended to be listening intently. Avoiding the older woman’s gaze, she jotted “Jenny and Fred” at the top of the page. She wrote down Jennifer’s area code but made up the rest of the phone number.

“Got it,” she said, punching the phone off.

“Hopefully they can give us instructions on how to get there,” Mr. Blakely said, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

Maggie dialed the bogus number and crossed her fingers that it was invalid. No such luck, but the next best thing—an answering machine picked up on the third ring. A peppy voice informed her that “Brett and Cindy” weren’t home now but requested that she please leave a message.

She waited for the tone. “Hi.” She floundered, then found her cue on the scrap of paper. “This is . . . Meg. Hey, I’m headed out to see you guys.” She pretended it was her sister she was talking to and tried to urge some genuine enthusiasm into her voice. “I’m in Ohio right now, but I’ll probably get to your place sometime this afternoon.”

“It’ll be around five,” Mrs. Blakely mouthed.

“Probably around five,” Maggie parroted. “I’ll call later when we get into town.”

She hung up and handed the phone back to Mrs. Blakely. “I left a message,” she said, as if the woman hadn’t been eavesdropping on every word.

“Oh, well, at least they know to expect you. We can try to reach them again when we get a little closer to Kansas City.”

Maggie nodded. Poor Brett and Cindy—whoever they were. They’d be frantically cleaning house and wracking their brains to think who they knew named Meg. Maggie felt the way she had in seventh grade at Alisha Pierpont’s slumber party when they’d made prank calls late into the night. If it hadn’t been so mean, it would almost be funny.

Mrs. Blakely twisted in her seat as if she were going to settle in for a heart-to-heart. Maggie’s pulse quickened. She did not want to talk. She was having enough trouble keeping her stories straight. Feigning a yawn, she settled back into the seat and closed her eyes.

It wasn’t long before she fell asleep for real.

M
aggie awoke to the splatter of rain on the windshield. The sky was gray, and the cars on the interstate all had their lights on. Maggie peeked through half-lidded eyes, trying to determine if Mrs. Blakely was dozing in the front seat or simply waiting for Maggie to wake up so she could pounce on her with a barrage of questions.

The woman was curled up in the seat, her head lolling with the motion of the car. She seemed to be asleep. Her husband had tuned the radio to some sports talk show and seemed intent on the on-air banter.

Maggie adjusted her position, being careful to place herself where her eyes didn’t meet the driver’s in the rearview mirror. She rode that way until they exited the interstate a few hours later for fast food—a
McDonald’s drive-thru. They were back on the road in minutes. Maggie took her time eating the cheeseburger Mr. Blakely insisted on paying for. When it was gone, she leaned her head against the window, playing possum.

After an hour, her muscles ached with the need to stretch. It was going to be a long trip. She consoled herself with the knowledge that every mile she suffered put her that much farther from Kevin.

The radio blared louder as a commercial started. A minute later an announcer read the latest news in a monotone. But when national news gave way to a local update, Maggie froze. She didn’t know how far this particular station’s signal reached, nor did she have a good sense of how far away they were from New York by now, but what if they reported her missing or kidnapped in yesterday’s carjacking? Or worse, what if Kevin had them broadcasting her description?

She slunk back into the corner of the seat.

She ran blindly, instinctively in the direction that would take her farthest from the life she’d known before yesterday.

Chapter Ten

T
he newscaster on the radio rambled on . . . something about the Illinois Department of Education. Maggie shot up in her seat and gave a little gasp. “Are we in Illinois?”

“Just crossed the state line.” Mr. Blakely reached to turn the radio down.

Good. Way out here they surely couldn’t care less about yet another New York City carjacking. She kneaded the knotted muscles in her neck and shifted to the other side of the car. Before long, the white noise of the rain and the road lulled her back to sleep.

“Meg . . . wake up, Meg. We’re in Kansas City.”

Maggie struggled to the surface of a dream so real it took her a few seconds to separate it from reality, even after she was sure she was fully awake. Yawning deeply, she stretched and peered out the
car window. Relief flowed through her to see wide, rolling plains in every direction. In her dream she’d been slogging through a jungle thick with bamboo. The stalks grew so dense she could only move a few inches before she’d have to clear another step of the path. The reeds snapped apart at the joints as easily as if they were toothpicks, but in spite of that, she felt as if she was getting nowhere—going backward even. And when she glanced behind her, she saw Kevin’s scowling face hovering over an endless highway.

She shivered and looked outside again, trying to supplant the disturbing image with the reality of the lush landscape outside her window. The sun hovered above the ribbon of highway spooling over the plains before them, but it shone warmly and bore no sinister visage.

“What time is it?”

“Almost five. I’m going to stop for gas at this next exit,” Mr. Blakely said. “You might want to try calling your friends again. See if we can get some directions.”

As they pulled into the QuikTrip, Mrs. Blakely awoke. At her husband’s nudging, she located the cell phone and handed it to Maggie.

While Mr. Blakely got out and gassed up the car, Maggie dialed the number again, willing Cindy and Brett—whoever they were—to not be home yet.

The same exuberant voice from the recording answered—Cindy, obviously—only unmistakably in person this time. Maggie waited past three “hellos,” hoping the woman would hang up so she could carry on the pretend conversation she’d hastily written a script for in her mind.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

The voice was so loud in her ear, Maggie was afraid Mrs. Blakely could hear. She took a breath and plunged in. “Hi! It’s Meg.”

“Meg? I’m sorry.
Who
is this?”

“I’m in Kansas City.”

“I’m sorry. Who did you say this was?”

“Yeah, I missed my bus and . . . well, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you all
about it later, but anyway I’m here in town and thought I’d stop in and see you guys. But I need directions to your house.”

A long silence.

“Um . . . I think you have a wrong number.”

“Yes. Sure.” She waited a few beats. “Main Street? Okay. Turn left. Then what?”

“Listen,” Cindy said on the other end, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m hanging up.”

“Okay.” Maggie stalled, waiting for the telltale cellular silence. “—Fifteen eighty-seven you say?”

Mrs. Blakely scrounged on the console for the pen and paper, handing them back to Maggie. She could almost see the woman’s ears prick as she listened to every word of Maggie’s side of the convoluted conversation.

Maggie mouthed her thanks and took the pen and paper. She wrote down 1587 and a capital R followed by a scribble she hoped looked like it could be a street name. “Great,” she said, smiling into the phone, almost convincing herself she was talking to a long-lost friend. “We’ll see you in a little while then.”

“Who
is
this?”

Maggie nearly dropped the phone. Apparently Cindy hadn’t hung up as threatened, and whatever perkiness she’d had at the start of the conversation was exhausted.

“Can you hear me?” shouted Cindy. “Who is this?”

Maggie stole a glance at Corinne Blakely, who wore a confused frown. Had she overheard Cindy’s end of the conversation in the quiet of the idling car?