My eyes scan the departures list as I'm waiting in line, trying to pick where I should go. Could be anywhere, really. There's a whole world of places. To be honest, the best place for me to go is probably Halifax, or Alberta. Somewhere in Canada. I doubt anyone would look for me there.
But instead I decide to treat myself to something a little less snowy and look at the flight to Argentina. It seems like a sort of poetic thing to do, fly to Argentina and retire. Live out my days over the water somewhere, drinking tiny coffees and talking to other expatriates.
I should change my name. What should it be? Loretta. That sounds good.
No wait. That is a country music star.
Amber. Ricky. Toni. Lisette. Eloise.
A million names. I could take any one. A different one every day. The possibilities are breathtaking.
Or, more sensibly. I could just use my middle name, Francesca. That might be a little easier, because Daddy calls me Francesca sometimes. At least I might remember to respond when people call me.
Oh, Daddy. A wave of remorse surges inside me. He's going to be so sad. I know it. Even though he's gruff and horrible sometimes, this is going to break his heart.
The ticket agent waves me forward, and I step ahead boldly into the empty space in front of her. I drop my passport and drivers license down at the counter and slide them to her.
“Argentina, please. The next flight,” I say in a trembling voice.
She snaps open my passport and peers at it, then compares it with my drivers license. After tapping into her keyboard, she gives me one of those professional smiles and raises her eyebrows. “Return date?”
I take a deep breath and smile. “One way,” I whisper.
She nods, crinkling her eyes at the edges.
Any moment now, I expect her to stop typing and look up at me, startled. I think that I must be on some kind of universal no-fly list, or a list that says you have to call my daddy in order to get permission.
And yet, there's none of that. Tap tap tap. She reaches down and plucks something off of a printer and then slides it into an envelope, stapling neatly at the corners.
“Checked baggage?”
I can't believe how easy this is. “No, just this,” I say, indicating my backpack.
She slides the envelope toward me with another impersonal smile. Her eyes are already darting over my shoulder to the next person in line. “Have a wonderful flight,” she says as her way of dismissing me.
My mouth is suddenly dry as I pick up the envelope and nod my thanks. I head off toward Customs and wait in line, my lips pressed tightly together so that I don't start singing spontaneously or something.
It's happening. Right now. It's totally happening.
The flight leaves in 55 minutes, down to 35 minutes when I finally get through Customs and taking my shoes off and putting them back on three different times. I scamper along the moving walkways, briskly shooting through the terminal arm toward the airplane that's going to take me away from here. My heart is a hummingbird in my chest. My brain is awash with snippets of pop songs.
Just before I get my gate, I swerve to the left to grab a quick latte. The lady prepares it in a flash, pushing it toward me with my new name scrawled on the bottom. Luna. That's a good name. The moon. That's me, waxing and waning. Currently full. Or new. I want to giggle at the thought, ridiculously pleased my own cleverness.
I ask her where the ladies room is and she gestures with her chin. Shouldering my backpack again, I take a quick sip of the sweet, hot latte before heading to the bathroom.
The stalls are hospital clean and flush decisively with a roar that indicates that anything I just left there has been scrubbed away into nothingness. I come back out of the stall and head toward the sink, ready to wash my hands for the last time in Chicago.
I know it sounds silly, but I keep doing that. My last latte in Chicago. My last bathroom flush in Chicago. My last time staring in the mirror in Chicago.
As I'm moving my hands underneath the roar of the hot air dispenser to dry them, I feel the door open behind me. Instinctively I glance over my right shoulder as a tall, stringy, dark-haired man approaches. He must be lost.
I want to explain to him that he's in the wrong place but he looks like he knows me, his mouth curling up in a diagonal smile. I only have time to suck in one yelping breath before he's got his hand clamped firmly over my mouth. Another man comes up swiftly behind him, plucking my two bags off the counter and putting them over his shoulder.
“One word,” says the stringy man, whispering so close to my face that I can smell his rancid coffee breath. Cigarettes and booze. Tooth decay. “One sound out of you, and I’ll slit your throat.”
I shake my head, whimpering, I can’t help it. This can't be happening. This can't be right. I'm so close!