Twenty minutes later, she got on the bus. An elderly woman motioned to her bulge as she moved down the aisle.
"How much longer?" the woman asked.
"Another month."
"First one?"
"Yes," she answered, but her mouth was so dry it was hard to keep talking. She started down the aisle again and took a seat toward the rear. People sat in the seats in front of and behind her. Across the aisle was a young couple. Teenagers, draped over each other, both of them listening to music. Their heads bobbed up and down.
She stared out the window as the bus pulled away from the station, feeling as if she were dreaming. On the highway, Boston began to recede into the distance, gray and cold. Her lower back ached as the bus rolled forward, miles from home. Snow continued to fall and cars whipped up slush as they passed the bus.
She wished she could talk to someone. She wanted to tell them that she was running away because her husband beat her and that she couldn't call the police because he was the police. She wanted to tell them that she didn't have much money and she could never use her real name again. If she did, he would find her and bring her home and beat her again, only this time he might not stop. She wanted to tell them that she was terrified because she didn't know where she was going to sleep tonight or how she was going to eat when the money ran out.
She could feel cold air against the window as towns drifted past. Traffic on the highway thinned and then the roads became crowded again. She didn't know what she was going to do. All her plans had stopped at the bus and there was no one to call for help. She was alone and had nothing but the things she carried with her.
An hour from Philadelphia, her cell phone rang again. She cupped the phone and talked to him. Before he hung up, he promised to call her before he went to bed.
She arrived in Philadelphia in the late afternoon. It was cold, but not snowy. Passengers got off the bus and she hung back, waiting for all of them to leave. In the restroom, she removed the duffel bag and then went into the waiting room and took a seat on a bench. Her stomach was growling and she sliced off a little cheese and ate it with crackers. She knew she had to make it last, though, so she put the rest of it away, even though she was still hungry. Finally, after buying a map of the city, she stepped outside.
The terminal wasn't located in a bad part of town; she saw the convention center and Trocadero Theater, which made her feel safe, but it also meant she could never afford a hotel room in the area. The map indicated that she was close to Chinatown, and for lack of a better plan she headed in that direction.
Three hours later, she'd finally found a place to sleep. It was dingy and reeked of smoke, and her room was barely large enough for the small bed that had been crammed inside. There was no lamp; instead, a single bulb protruded from the ceiling and the communal bathroom was down the hall. The walls were gray and water stained and the window had bars. From the rooms on either side of her, she could hear people talking in a language she couldn't understand. Still, it was all she could afford. She had enough money to stay three nights, four if she could somehow survive on the little food she'd brought from home.
She sat on the edge of the bed, trembling, afraid of this place, afraid of the future, her mind whirling. She had to pee but she didn't want to leave the room. She tried to tell herself that it was an adventure and everything would be okay. As crazy as it sounded, she found herself wondering if she'd made a mistake by leaving; she tried not to think about her kitchen and bedroom and all the things she'd left behind. She knew she could buy a ticket back to Boston and get home before Kevin even realized she was gone. But her hair was short and dark and there was no way she could explain that.
Outside, the sun was down but streetlights shone through the dirty window. She heard horns honking and she looked out. At the street level, all the signs were in Chinese and some businesses were still open. She could hear conversations rising in the darkness and there were plastic bags filled with garbage piled near the street. She was in an unfamiliar city, a city filled with strangers. She couldn't do this, she thought. She wasn't strong enough. In three days, she'd have no place to stay unless she could find a job. If she sold her jewelry, she might buy herself another day, but then what?
She was so tired and her back throbbed. She lay down on the bed and drifted off to sleep almost immediately. Kevin called later, the bleating of the cell phone waking her up. It took everything she had to keep her voice steady, to betray nothing, but she sounded as tired as she felt and she knew that Kevin believed that she was in their bed. When he hung up, she fell asleep again within minutes.
In the morning, she could hear people walking down the hall, heading for the bathroom. Two Chinese women stood at the sinks and there was green mold in the grout and wet toilet paper on the floor. The door to the stall wouldn't lock and she had to hold it closed with her hand.
In the room, she had cheese and crackers for breakfast. She wanted to shower but she realized she'd forgotten to pack shampoo and soap, so there wasn't much point. She changed her clothes and brushed her teeth and hair. She repacked the duffel bag, unwilling to leave it in the room while she wasn't there, and slung the strap over her shoulder and walked down the steps. The same clerk who'd given her the key was at the desk and she wondered whether he ever left this place. She paid for another night and asked him to hold her room.
Outside, the sky was blue and the streets were dry. She realized the pain in her back had all but vanished. It was cold but not as cold as Boston, and despite her fears she found herself smiling. She'd done it, she reminded herself. She'd escaped and Kevin was hundreds of miles away and didn't know where she was. Didn't even know she'd left yet. He would call a couple more times, then she'd throw away the cell phone and never speak with him again.
She stood straighter and breathed in the crisp air. The day felt almost new, with endless possibilities. Today, she told herself, she was going to find a job. Today, she decided, she was going to start living the rest of her life.
She had run away twice before and she wanted to think she'd learned from her mistakes. The first time was a little less than a year after she was married, after he'd beaten her while she was cowering in the corner of the bedroom. The bills had come in and he was angry with her because she'd turned up the thermostat to make the house warmer. When he'd finally stopped, he'd grabbed his keys and headed out to buy more liquor. Without thinking, she'd grabbed her jacket and left the house, limping down the road. Hours later, with sleet coming down and nowhere to go, she'd called him and he went to pick her up.
The next time she'd gotten as far as Atlantic City before he found her. She'd taken money from his wallet and purchased a ticket on the bus, but he'd found her within an hour of her arrival. He'd driven his car at breakneck speed, knowing she would run to the only place where she might still find friends. He'd handcuffed her in the backseat of the car on the drive back. He stopped once, pulling the car over to the side of a closed office building, and beat her; later that night, the gun came out.
After that, he'd made it harder to leave. He usually kept the money locked away and started tracking her whereabouts obsessively. She knew that he would go to extraordinary lengths to find her. As crazy as he was, he was persistent and diligent and his instincts were usually right. He would find out where she'd gone, she knew; he would come to Philadelphia to find her. She had a head start, that was all, but with no extra money to start over somewhere else, all she could do was watch for him over her shoulder for the time being. Her time in Philadelphia was limited.
She found a job as a cocktail waitress on her third day in town. She made up a name and social security number. Eventually, it would be checked, but she'd be long gone by then. She found another room to rent on the far side of Chinatown. She worked for two weeks, accumulated some tip money while searching for and finding another job, and quit without bothering to pick up her paycheck. There was no point; without identification, she wouldn't be able to cash it. She worked another three weeks at a small diner and eventually moved out of Chinatown to a run-down motel that rented by the week. Although it was in a seedier section of town, the room was more expensive, but she had her own shower and bathroom and it was worth it, if only to have some privacy and a place to leave her things. She'd saved a few hundred dollars, more than she had when she'd left Dorchester, but not enough to start over. Again, she left before picking up her paycheck, without even going back to quit. She found yet another job at yet another diner a few days later. In the new job, she told the manager her name was Erica.