The Sixth Station(46)

Anyway I gulped down three cups of joe and popped two cheese Danishes into the microwave. They tasted better than anything I can ever remember eating, so I popped in another. Then, like my grandmother, I stuffed another three in my bag, while the Indian lady’s husband, who was in charge of restocking the continental goodies, glared at me like I was the last beggar in Mumbai.

Like you never ate six cheese Danishes, Raj?

Instead of being ashamed of myself, I poured another cup of coffee and took it to my room.

By 6:35 I was wired out of my mind on caffeine and sugar. I turned on the iPad and immediately made sure that the global tracking device was set to “off.” Not that I ever had it working. The idea that a company (and now the authorities) had the ability to track a person wherever and whenever was always something I wanted to avoid—unless I was trapped on a mountain with no way down or something equally as ridiculous.

The free Wi-Fi in the room required a guest name and password. I tried to remember what the hell name I’d registered under. Marie? Roxanne? Then I remembered the improbable Rochelle Cherry and opened a Hotmail account under the name “CATHARAZ.”

I went into the bathroom and took out the scissors. Oh God. I started with my bangs. I’d had bangs since I was two. Snip, chop, slice. And then the bob. Snip, snip, slice, chop, chop. My hair was sticking up all over, and the sink and floor were covered in my lost hair.

Do not leave one single strand. DNA and all that. But what was my crime here? Bad hair?

I opened the box of Féria “R76 Spicy Red” and, following the directions, applied it to my hair, didn’t wait the appropriate time, then washed it out and conditioned it with my head under the shower, the color running in rivulets into the tub. It looked like the aftermath of a brutal slaying.

That was somehow appropriate, because when I stood back up and looked at myself in the mirror, what I’d done to myself was akin to murder. My formerly brunette bob was a red one-inch mess. I looked like one of those aging rocker chicks that can’t get over the fact that she’s no longer a groupie. I looked like my name should be Rochelle Cherry.

I dried it with the towel, which left a lot of red on the white towel, so I stashed it in my purse, planning to throw it out somewhere far away. I’d covered enough crimes to know that it’s best not to leave anything suspicious behind. I ran the shower until the red dissipated and then cleaned the tub with the same towel. What a mess.

I went back to the tablet and—bingo!—there was a message. It was from Leftyoneeye@hotmail.com. Lefty One Eye was the name of our dog, the one I took in when I came home one night and found the poor guy shivering on the steps of the brownstone. When I couldn’t get pregnant, Lefty was like my consolation gift from the heavens.

We once had a throw pillow on the couch that read, “We’re staying together for the sake of the dog,” which turned out to be true.

When Lefty died after eating three Costco-sized boxes of frozen burgers we’d bought for a BBQ, he killed off the last part of us as well.

I could feel myself welling up again. If only Donald could see me now.… Oh, shit, who cared anyway? I ate another cheese Danish. Unthawed this time.

I opened the e-mail, and there it was—God bless him—a confirmation number, bar code, and all, for a Delta flight from the Pearson International Airport in Toronto at 7:05 P.M. that night, arriving Istanbul, 2:15 P.M. the following day with an hour-and-a-half stopover at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport.

I couldn’t tell by his e-mail if I had a direct with a layover or a switch of aircraft. If it was a plane change and the first plane was late or the gates far apart—which they always are at de Gaulle and which inevitably involves a shuttle bus—I was screwed. I’d play it by ear.

Hey—if I even get that far without being apprehended or shot, I’ll be happy.

I still hadn’t gotten a call from Dona, so I took a chance and hit “return” and typed in the fax number with the annotation “Bates Motel f#.” I hit “send” and figured it would get me nailed, totally confuse Donald, or somehow he’d know it was for Dona.

In rapid order two more messages arrived. The first was from “Hot Sexy Viagra Male” (how do they find you two minutes after you open an account?), and another one from Edward.Gibbonsays@libero.it. Dona! Only she would manage to get an Italian Internet account.

I opened it.

It was also written in Italian: “La prenotazione prepagata è stata fatta in nome di Alexandra Zaluckyj in Europacar all’aeroporto di Istanbul.” “A reservation—prepaid—has been made in the name of Alexandra Zaluckyj at Europacar at the Ataturk Airport.”