39. Lourdes
Lourdes
By the time the plane touches down in Chicago, I’m exhausted from anticipating being intercepted, bracing for a hand on my shoulder, for hearing my name spoken in that low, controlled voice or shouted at some ear-piercing decibel level.
None of that happens.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Ares Zervas isn’t a man who loses or gets outsmarted.
Outside the terminal windows, the Chicago sky hangs low and gray. I thought I knew every cloud pattern here. It’s been so long. Too long.
My phone lights up again with the same unknown number. Ares wouldn’t call from an unknown number, thinking he could trick me into answering.
I stop at an ATM after I got off the plane and then wait my turn in the cab line, bracing against the cold. With the airport crowd in the terminal, I felt insulated. Now I’m out in the open. Am I in danger here? It’s a chance I’m going to have to take.
Finally, I’m at the head of the line and slip into a taxi. When I give the driver Sandrine’s institution address, he gives me a strange look over his shoulder.
Like I’m a patient.
He stares for a moment, then says, “That’s going to cost more than fifty dollars.”
“That’s fine,” I say, keeping to myself that I’d pay more if it gets me to Sandrine.
Shrugging, he throws the cab into gear and drives off.
As the airport disappears in the backdrop, I press my forehead lightly against the cool door glass and tell myself Ares will get over it. He’ll get over me.
Will I get over him? Damn, I feel guilty for deceiving him. I even miss him already.
I take out my phone and pop open the back to remove the SIM card. I carefully wrap it in the sheet of tin foil that I snagged from the penthouse before I left. Hoping what I read on the internet that tin foil is an effective block against cyber tracing, I drop the card into my purse.
The institution rises on the corner of a commercial park and a residential street lined with bare trees.
“Right here is fine,” I say to the cab driver when we approach the large burgundy sign that reads Lakeshore Neurological Rehabilitation Center.
I pay the driver and then step onto the sidewalk.
For a moment, I just stand there and let the wind tug at my coat.
Built in the 1960’s, this institution has a typical sterile brick facade.
After my father’s small trust ran out, I chose this place precisely because no one would look twice at it.
No one would suspect that a girl named Sandrine De la Vega was registered here as Jessica Parker.
I hike up a set of stone steps and pull open a heavy glass door. Memories attack me of the day I showed up knowing I had to tell my sister I was moving to New York with David.
I feel sick all over again. But today, I fix all of that.
A receptionist greets me warmly, and having taken my calls, she recognizes my name. I’m the only person who calls Jessica Parker.
When a nurse leads me down the hallway toward the common room, my knees start to wobble. I haven’t seen my sister in three years.
Sandrine is seated by the window, sunlight catching in her hair that’s pulled into a low, ugly ponytail.
She looks younger than she is. A sketchpad rests on her lap, charcoal smudged faintly along her fingertips.
She’s still drawing, and that makes me happy.
The money I spent to send her supplies didn’t go to waste.
She glances up at the sound of my footsteps, and her expression shifts from artist bliss to shock. “Lourdes,” she says, and the sound of my name in her voice nearly undoes me.
“Jessica.” I cross the room, remembering to be mindful that she startles at sudden moves and strange smells.
When she’s within reach, I gather her gently into my arms.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she murmurs against my shoulder.
“I wanted to surprise you,” I reply, breathing in the smell of lavender.
It’s pleasant, but the smell is everywhere. It has calming effects on the patients.
She pulls back to study my face, her gaze clear but faintly searching. This is challenging her brain and maybe setting her therapy back a few weeks. In the end, getting her out of this place is the best thing for her.
“How long will you be here?” she asks.
Bracing for what I have to tell her about what happened, I say, “For a while.”
“David doesn’t mind?”
“No.” I shake my head, then add gently, “David and I have separated.”
Sandrine studies me for a beat, like she’s deciding how much that means to her. “Oh. That’s sad. When people break up. Right?”
I stare at her, realizing I don’t know if she’s ever had a boyfriend. She never mentioned one to me. Maybe someday when she’s more stable, she can date.
I just nod and close the conversation. “It is sad.”
It’s the breakup with Ares that’s tearing me apart inside.
The rest of the day, knowing I’m safe, that no one will find me here, I just sit with my sister and blend into her world. I ask about her art classes, the food, and other patients, if she has friends here.
When the conversation drifts toward the edges of the harder parts about living here, I smile optimistically with responses, I’ll fix that. I’ll take care of that.
Because I will.
Later, I meet with her primary physician for a full update. I don’t mention moving her. I don’t want to come off as irrational and impulsive on my first visit in years.
When I leave the building that evening, the sky has already darkened. Although I tell myself the sensation prickling along the back of my neck is nothing more than exhaustion, I can’t shake the impression that there’s an earthquake happening in New York over my disappearance.
I take a cab to a motel that out-of-town relatives of another patient at the facility suggested.
It’s the kind of place where a front desk clerk doesn’t ask questions or look too closely at my ID.
Inside the bland, sterile room, the silence is loud and annoying.
A wall of tension presses down on me as I sit on the edge of the bed.
For the first time since stepping into the car in New York, the enormity of what I’ve done finally hits me.
I left without saying goodbye to Ares.
I left knowing he would worry.
And while I strongly bristle at the idea of belonging to anyone, I can’t deny how I loved being pampered and protected by him in Santorini.
I press my fingers to my eyes and let the tears flow out. It’s been two weeks since a brutal man dragged me from my bed in the Hell’s Kitchen apartment, where I watched him and his partner die.
Thanks to Ares.
I allow myself a few minutes of weakness. I’ve fucking earned that after years of being strong and hiding my feelings.
After my pity party, I activate the burner phone I bought from a vending machine at the airport.
I text my cousin Elodie in Scottsdale with the new number to pick up when I call to give her an update.
I’d been texting her from the old phone for the last few years.
She knows all the gory details of my life, but I delivered them in small doses.
When I last talked to her, I’d told her my plan to move Sandrine to Arizona. She was excited to see us and seemed very open to helping me.
“Hey,” she says, answering on the first ring. “Did you make it to Chicago?”
“Hi. I’m here now. I saw Sandrine today. She’s strong. But she’ll be better off in a specialized place. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to the director about the transfer.”
“I can’t wait for you both to be here,” she says. “Family is what’s best for our Sandrine.”
I choke up at how she cares about my sister even if we haven’t seen each other in years.
“Thank you so much, El.” I choke up again. “And…you’re still good if I stay with you until I get a job?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “I have a guest cottage waiting for you. Oh damn, I have a call I need to take on the other line.”
“Go, I’ll call you tomorrow with another update.”
“Sounds good.” Elodie hangs up to take her call.
Even with all these pieces falling into place, running out on Ares has my stomach too queasy for food.
This isn’t going to be an easy, quick, or inexpensive process, but I’m committed to seeing it through for my sister.
I lie down and stare at the stained ceiling.
Escape accomplished.
Day One complete.
After a few minutes of my head on the pillow, sleep claims me.