Chapter 4 #3
“That’s…very kind of you,” I managed to say. “Thank you so much.”
“My daughter was in a similar situation not long ago,” she explained. “A stranger helped her out, so I’m paying it forward.”
I dialed the taxi, and a man answered after two rings. The ride to Anderson would cost seventy-five dollars. I reluctantly agreed and handed the phone back to the woman.
Outside, I found a secluded spot just beyond the bustling main entrance where the shadows hid me and I could wait for the taxi without drawing attention.
The air carried a crispness that tingled against my skin.
Here, in this moment of solitude, I seized the opportunity to finally dispose of the last remnants of my former life, tossing my prison clothes in a nearby trash can, feeling a rush of relief as I did.
Suddenly, my stomach seized and cramped, a familiar and dreaded sensation.
For the briefest of moments, I tried to ignore it, but I knew I couldn’t, not even for a few minutes.
The cramp subsided into a dull ache that ebbed and flowed, back and forth with the cramping, like a tide.
Each time I cramped, it was like tiny hands squeezing and releasing, longer and tighter.
Stepping farther into the shadows of the corner of the building, I checked with a quick, nervous slip of my hand between my legs, confirming the dreaded truth as my fingertips came back up brushed with a faint reddish stain.
I hurried toward the door, calculating whether I had enough time to buy some pads and go to the bathroom.
The answer came when I saw a white car with TAXI written in bold red letters approaching slowly.
My heart beat faster as panic set in. Not knowing what else to do, I scurried as far away as I could behind a cement planter, with my back to the parking lot, and quickly stuffed the wad of toilet paper I had taken from the bathroom into my panties.
The cramping was familiar; I knew what little good that temporary barrier would do, but it was my only option.
The taxi crept forward slowly, its driver scanning for its rider. I quickened my steps, despite the wetness between my legs, and waved my arms. I couldn’t lose this taxi.
As I tumbled into the back seat, breathless with relief, I apologized to the driver. His gaze—curious yet understanding—met mine through the rearview mirror.
“No worries, you’re here now,” he reassured me kindly.
I crossed my legs, shifting.
“Anderson, huh?” the driver asked.
I kept my gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the window, hoping to discourage small talk. “Yes, the Greyhound bus station. My boyfriend is waiting for me there.”
“Well…where y’all headed?” His tone was friendly.
“Baltimore,” I lied without thinking. “Family stuff. Going up before the holidays.”
He nodded. “Never been much for holidays myself. But my wife, now she’s all…”
His voice faded into the background, my cramps now a persistent jackhammer. I reached into my backpack and swallowed two Aleve with a gulp of water.
Our bodies had matured early, mine and Lila’s, our breasts pouring in and filling out before the second digit in our age.
Our periods soon followed. Mama’s body was an hourglass of heavy breasts, a tiny waist, and full hips, features she passed to us.
Growing up, we were never taught that we would develop and change; we just woke up one day and realized we weren’t quite the same.
Our torsos inched upward, and our feet outgrew our shoes overnight.
We had pretty faces and now pleasing bodies to match.
They became another tool to use to our advantage, whether we realized it or not.
And we didn’t. But boys noticed, especially the ones who moved in with their family just after Ms. Byrd, including Robert, who fell madly in love with Lila. Whom she loved right back.
Mama delighted in our new womanhood and, with renewed determination, used it to direct our daily activities, and not just during that time of the month.
“Picking flowers and swimming ain’t never got anyone anywhere,” she’d said.
She pressed Daddy about entering Lila in local beauty contests, but Daddy wouldn’t discuss it.
He hadn’t raised his daughters to be models.
He hadn’t raised us to leave his woods. He would be our lifeline to the outside world.
He couldn’t anticipate Ms. Byrd.
Over time, not even our remote corner could stay unaffected by people looking for cheap land, and a little neighborhood of trailers popped up around ours.
Sometimes we even played with some of the new kids.
But mostly it was Ms. Byrd I gravitated toward.
As the seasons turned, it was my quiet friendship with this adult who was not Mama or Daddy—or the deacon—that saved me, opened the world for me.
Ms. Byrd wasn’t like anyone else I knew.
Not Mama, with her sharp-edged ideas of what we should be.
Not Daddy, who was never around. Ms. Byrd had a quietness to her, a calm that seemed to see me in a way no one else did.
In her, I saw a freedom that didn’t exist in Mama’s house or Daddy’s woods.
In her gentle wisdom, she taught me everything Mama never could and Daddy never would.
And she’d helped me that fateful night.
An hour later, the taxi pulled to a stop in front of a Chevron gas station. Perhaps seeing my worried expression in the mirror, the driver said, “This is it. The bus leaves from here.”
“Thank you,” I said, handing him the last of my money and flashing a look at the clock on the dashboard. Seven fifteen—several hours until the bus left. I scooted out the door, mindful of what would happen when I stood. I needed to get to a bathroom, fast.
After standing and immediately sensing a gush between my legs I quickly glanced back at my seat to make sure I hadn’t stained it, then hurried into the gas station.
Several customers brushed past me as I entered and scanned for the bathrooms. I spotted them in the corner and hurried.
These pants were all I had; I couldn’t afford new ones.
Blood had soaked through my panties and stained the inside of my bottoms. Sitting on the toilet, I wiped myself clean, removed my underwear, and dabbed as much blood as possible from my pants.
I placed a fresh wad of toilet paper between my legs and pulled my pants up.
At the sink, I washed my panties, scrubbing quickly, watching the blood fade from red to pink to clear under the running water.
I wrapped them in several layers of paper towels and pressed hard to dry them.
I stuffed them into my backpack, washed my hands, and went to find some pads.
A box of pads cost $4.99 plus tax. Only briefly did I consider stealing them.
I may be a convicted murderer, but I’m no thief.
I approached the cashier, handed her my gift card, and returned to the bathroom.
Forty-five dollars remained, and a line of anxiety rushed through me.
I needed to get somewhere and settle down, if only long enough to earn more money.
Leaving the gas station behind, I walked down the street until the glow of a Waffle House emerged into view.
The aroma of fried meat and grease danced in the air, stirring a deep hunger within me.
I didn’t have the money for this. And yet, I wanted it.
After everything—the long, disconnected walk, the wild dogs, and the dull throb of my period—I felt entitled to indulge.
It wasn’t just about food; it was about reclaiming something for myself. What’s freedom if you don’t enjoy it?
I pushed open the door and sat at an empty booth.
I don’t remember ordering. The plate arrived minutes later—a colossal bacon-cheeseburger crowned with a mountain of golden fries.
I thanked the waitress and reached for the ketchup, my hands shaking.
I grasped the burger and took my first bite.
The crunch of lettuce and tang of pickles mingling with the juiciness of the meat flooded my mouth.
Each chew and swallow was a revelation, a rediscovery of flavors once distant, now real.
Tears welled in my eyes. It wasn’t just a burger and a handful of fries, but the sweet freedom of a new beginning.
After eating, I made another trip to the bathroom, then walked back to the gas station and sat out of sight until other passengers, one after another, arrived.
The bus soon halted before me with a low rumble.
The driver disembarked and opened the luggage compartment beneath the bus.
I joined the line, my hands sweating, heart racing.
I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see uniformed officers closing in on me.
I was steps away from leaving South Carolina.
The line shuffled forward, each person presenting their paper tickets to the driver. As my turn approached, I unfolded my ticket and removed my hat. It was a risk to let the driver see my face, but one I’d calculated on the drive to Anderson.
“Ticket and driver’s license,” he said, his hand outstretched, his face a mask of routine.
I forced a tight smile and pushed my ticket forward, the paper shaking.
“Driver’s license?” he asked.
I hesitated, a heartbeat suspended in time, as anxiety crept in.
Another problem had presented itself. While I had considered the risk of using Officer Madison’s name to purchase the bus ticket, the necessity of presenting valid identification hadn’t crossed my mind.
Officer Madison’s driver’s license wouldn’t match the name on the bus ticket.
“I don’t have it,” I finally said, the lie rolling off my tongue with desperation. “He has it and won’t give it back to me.” I turned my head so he could see the bruise darkening my cheek.
For a second, time seemed to stop. I held my breath, anticipating the refusal that would come.
He studied my face, his eyebrow raising.
Then his shoulders sagged, a subtle gesture of concession in answer to my plea.
In one motion, he stepped aside, inclined his head toward the door, and handed my ticket back.
I accepted it, my fingers closing around the paper like a lifeline. “Thank you,” I said, my throat tight.
The bus started to move, pulling away from the station in a slow crawl. I leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes, and let the hum of the engine soothe the jagged edges of my nerves as the world outside blurred into motion.