There were also the legal ramifications. I ran. I testified for a grand jury, but took off before Jared’s trial. Jared was still convicted, partly because he’d branded all eleven of his girls. But I ran, despite subpoenas. I have no idea if anyone came after me, looked for me. In New York, among the shelters and the streets, I procured a driver’s license and a phony birth certificate. They’re surprisingly easy to come by if you ask the right questions. I looked like a drifter, unassuming and trustworthy. It cost me every cent I had at the time. But my identity wasn’t mine, not legally, anyway. Still, I felt safer than if I’d let Detective Maslow do it for me.
“I guess I can’t explain it. I technically could. I’ve been sort of lost lately.” Lost in my thoughts, the words fell out of my mouth unbidden, and until I said it, I hadn’t known it was true. Sometimes, things don’t seem real until you verbalize them. I had been thinking about my mother, dreaming about her. The idea of looking for her again had seemed daunting and vague.
“I did a feature series once. Adoptive reunions. In Texas, seven, eight years ago,” Cash said, leaning forward across the table. “I can help. Do you want me to help?”
“Are the society pages boring you?” I teased, poking the air in his direction with my spoon.
He sat back, crossing his arms. “Yes, God yes. Sometimes it’s all I can do to stay awake.” He scratched at the back of his neck, realizing his admission. “Not that your, uh, event wasn’t spectacular. And I met you and you’ve been great, but . . .”
I laughed, letting him off the hook. “I get it. So many rich people, so little time?”
“I live in a studio in the East Village. I mean, the lean months can be a special form of torture.”
I have a vision of my mother, Evelyn, dignified in her starched hotel uniform, adorably cinched at the waist, pirouetting in the kitchen, leaving for a night shift, while sixteen-year-old me licked peanut butter off a spoon. Evelyn worked as a housekeeper by day and a hotel maid by night or early morning, depending on her shift. Despite her patchwork jobs, we still struggled to make ends meet.
We’d laughed at our poverty then, called it “creative financing,” collecting dented cans of creamed corn that we’d eat over toast. That changed when she got sick the first time, it no longer felt as adventurous. It felt precarious, dancing on the edge of a razor blade. There were real consequences to poverty, I learned.
I remember lean months.
A waitress appears, her heavy blue-lidded eyes darting back and forth between our single cups of coffee. I can see her calculating the tip and trying not to roll her eyes. Cash pays the tab, over my protest. “So let me help you.” He bites his lip. He seems very into the idea.
“We’ll see, okay? Write the story, see what you come up with. Will you send it to me before you run it?” I am concerned about the pictures. I realize the pictures combined with my admission of being from San Francisco could sink me. I haven’t been this stupid in years. Not at least since that New York magazine feature photo, with me hiding in the corner, but still somehow with a maniacal rictus grin.
While I don’t think I’m actively being pursued, the idea of hiding is long ingrained, the thought of going back claws at the back of my throat.
“Yeah, of course.”
We stand to leave together. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand hovering lightly above my back, guiding me out. Men and their shows of chivalry. He opens the door for me and I step out into the busy sidewalk. The sun is gleaming and I squint, fishing around in my pocketbook for sunglasses.
“Call me when you have the article written. I really loved the photos, Cash. You’re a talented photographer.” I pause then because I’m being sincere and his smile is wide, a faint flush in his cheeks from the compliment. He walks with me to the corner, where I will go uptown and he will head downtown, to his office.
The white walk sign blinks and I step off the curb. The roar of an engine is the only sound I hear; the voices of the crowd are muted. I look up and freeze. A car is careening through the intersection, its headlights bouncing as the car hits a pothole. My feet are solid lead blocks, glued to the pavement. Suddenly, something hits me hard and I feel myself tumble through the air. I scream and close my eyes, my fingers losing their grip on my purse strap. When I open my eyes, Cash is breathing hard on the ground next to me, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his eyes wildly scanning the intersection. The car—in retrospect it was a gray sedan, glinting in the sunlight—is nowhere around.
“It turned left!” Someone from the crowd points to the alley.
“Did you get a plate number?” Cash shouts back before scrambling up and running halfway down the street in the direction the car turned. He decidedly gives up, jogging back to me. I sit up. My shoulder burns where it hit the pavement.
“What the hell was that?” Someone says.
A slight Hispanic man is crossing the intersection, wiping his hands on his white apron. He’s left his food cart across the street and his eyes are wild.
“That car, miss.” He is breathless and nervous. “Are you all right? He saved your life.” He gestures toward Cash, who is preoccupied, looking up and down the street.
I nod and stand up, half-embarrassed, and force a laugh. “They must have been drunk.”