Chapter Three
Mia
I wake feeling disorientated. My head is throbbing, and I can hear a television on.
I realize I’m in the motel room I slept in last night.
Yesterday’s events come flooding back. Forbes tried to rape me. He sexually assaulted me. My mother – she’s alive. She signed me away. She left me with Oliver.
My heart and stomach start to ache, painfully.
Then I make the mistake of rubbing my eyes. “Shit!”
I press my head back into the pillow and ride out the wave of pain, and grief until it all settles into a dull ache in my chest.
I don’t move again until my bursting bladder forces me out of bed. When I’m done using the bathroom, I check my eye in the mirror.
Jesus, it’s bad. Swollen and black and my eye is bloodshot to hell. No amount of cover-up will conceal this.
Guess I’ll be wearing my sunglasses for the next week.
I drop a couple of Advil to take the edge off the pain, and go back to bed. Resting my back against the headboard, I start channel hopping. I’m trying to focus on the television, and ignore the noise and questions in my mind, but it’s not working.
I know I need to decide what the hell I’m going to do. I can’t just stay here in a motel room, off the I-90, in god knows where. But I can’t go back to my apartment either. Or Boston for that matter. Forbes will be waiting for me.
So what do I do?
I could go to Colorado and find my mother.
No way. She abandoned me. She left me with Oliver.
But you don’t know her reasons. You know what Oliver was like. How terrifying he was. What if she had no choice but to leave?
I bang my head back against the headboard. “Goddammit! No!” I mutter into the silence.
This goes on for a while. But no matter which way I argue it in my head, I won’t rest or be able to move forward until I know why she left me. It will eat away at me.
Maybe finding my mother will finally help me figure out who I am. Give me closure or something. And I have the free time. School is out for summer break. The time could help me figure out what to do with my life, and finding her might help me find myself.
Since Oliver died, I’ve just carried on with the life he set for me. This is my chance to break free and change things.
I don’t even have to go back to Boston if I don’t want to. Yes, I have my apartment there, but that’s not going anywhere, and I could eventually sell it—shit! Goodwill is coming today to collect Oliver’s things.
I dive for my bag and get my cell. I turn it on and ignore the notifications of texts and voicemails from Forbes. I place a call to the lawyer who is handling the house sale.
Voicemail. Too early for anyone to be in the office. I leave a message, explaining that I’ve had to leave town for a few days, and asking if they can arrange for someone to be there to let Goodwill in the house.
I hang up and turn my cell off. The last thing I want to do is hear any of Forbes’ cruel words.
With a plan in hand, I dress quickly, cringing that I have to wear yesterday’s things. I need to make a stop and get some new clothes and underwear.
I tie my hair into a ponytail, put my sunglasses on, and check out of the motel.
In my car, I tap ‘Durango, Colorado’ into the GPS.
Wow. Okay, so this going to be one hell of a long drive.
I consider for a moment flying to Colorado, but then I decide I want to leave no trace for Forbes to follow. Not that I think airports give out that type of information, but Forbes can be very persuasive when he wants to be, and I just don’t want to risk leaving him a way to find me.
I know he’ll look for me.
Forbes is not the kind of guy who gives up easily on what he thinks belongs to him. And he definitely believes that I am his.
I get back on the road and drive for a few hours before I need to stop for gas. While in the station, I ask the attendant if there are any malls nearby. No malls, but he tells me there is a Walmart a few miles away.
Perfect.
I follow his directions to Walmart. I stock up on jeans, t-shirts, tank tops, pajamas, underwear, toiletries and more Advil. I also grab a pair of ballet flats. And a gym bag to keep all my new things in.
Heading for the checkout, I pay for my items, making small talk with the cashier.
I’ve just left the store, bags in hand, when I realize I haven’t gotten a hairdryer. My hair is a nightmare—thick and holds water like a sponge. It was still damp this morning from washing it last night.
I’m just about to head back inside, when the hair salon next door catches my eye. Before I even have a chance to think, I’m walking toward it, then I’m seated before a mirror as a woman called Shirley asks what I want to do with my hair today.
I blink. “Oh, uh…”
My eyes drift around at the many pictures of hair models on the wall. Then I realize what I want. I want to look different.
“I want you to cut it all off.”
Did I just say that?
“All?” She looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind. I probably have.
I have great hair. It’s blonde, very thick and very long, but now I just want it gone. I want to look different. I want to start my new future, with a new me.
“Yes. I want that style.” I point at a picture of a woman with short hair. It’s a pixie style.
She looks so pretty…
So happy…
I want to look like that.
Shirley tilts her head to the side, assessing me in the mirror. “Well, you definitely have the bone structure to carry it off.” She smiles. “Right, let’s get your hair washed. Give you time to change your mind.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
I sit down at the basin and lie my head back into the sink.
“You okay to remove the sunglasses, sweetie?” Shirley asks.
I freeze.
It takes me a moment to gather the courage to reach my hand up and slowly slide them off.
I hear her gasp of breath, and I’m thankful that I can’t see the expression on her face.
“Sit forward, sweetie. I forgot to put a towel around your shoulders.”
I do as she asks.
Shirley slips a towel around my shoulders, then I feel her hand gently squeeze my shoulder.
It feels like support. Solidarity.
It brings a lump to my throat.
Maybe she knows what it’s like to get a black eye. It’s not the pain on the outside that does the damage; it’s the effect that bruise has on the inside that does the worst kind of damage.
The black eye heals. The pain never does.
“Right, lay yourself back,” Shirley says. “Let’s make a new woman of you.”
***
An hour later and I’m back in my car. My purchases on the backseat. The new me in the front.
I tilt the mirror to look at my new hairstyle. My bangs sweep across, hanging in my eyes a little, and it’s just long enough to tuck behind my ear, but it is short.
I look completely different, just like I wanted.
Suddenly, laughter bubbles up and out of me. I’m laughing, and I have no clue why, then without warning I burst into tears.
I’m laughing and crying. What the hell is wrong with me?
Maybe I’m having some kind of breakdown.
A woman walks past my car, giving me an odd look, and I realize I must look like a crazy person, sitting here laughing my head off with tears streaming down my face.
I dry my face with my hands, start my car up, and begin my long drive to Colorado.