Don't Look Behind You (6 page)

“Only at conferences of educators,” Mom told her.

“That's a dangerous kind of exposure,” Rita said, frowning. “No matter where we place you, your kids will be in school. All it takes is one teacher who's heard you speak, and word will be out that you're not the person you're supposed to be.”

“I'm supposed to be giving a talk next month,” Mom said. “How can I let the conference people know I won't be there?”

“We'll take care of that. Just give us a name and phone number.” Rita turned to Dad. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Where will we get the money to live on?” Dad asked her. “How can I get a job if I don't have references?”

“We'll try to fix you up with something,” said Rita. “We keep on the lookout for businesses that can be bought up inexpensively for our witnesses to operate. If you're the owner and manager of your own small business, nobody will have any reason to ask you for credentials.”

“You mean I have no choice about what line of work I'm in?” Dad sounded as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“Not much of one, I'm afraid. It depends on what's available.”

“That doesn't sound very encouraging,” Dad said grimly. “Any business that people are selling for peanuts isn't too likely to have much potential as a moneymaker.”

“We'll give you some cash to tide you over,” Rita said. “In the meantime we'll see about liquidating your assets. I'll have papers drawn up for you to sign that will give our department the authority to handle the legalities. What do you own besides your house and furniture?”

“Two cars,” Dad said. “An SUV registered in Liz's name and a Volvo sedan registered in mine. Jointly we own some shares of a mutual fund, an income-producing utility stock, and a batch of CD's. My broker, John Scarbrough, is with Morgan Stanley. I also have retirement plan holdings built up at Southern Skyways, but I guess it's too much to hope I can get my hands on those.”

“We'll have an attorney file papers to claim them,” said Rita. She paused. “Are we set, or do you have more questions?”

“I have one,” Mom told her. “What about my mother? I haven't had any contact with her for weeks now.”

“Max told me he's been in touch with Mrs. Gilbert,” Rita said. “He offered her the option of making this move with you. She said she didn't feel she was in any danger and didn't want to leave her friends and activities.”

“But we can't just disappear from her life!” exclaimed Mom. “She's stubborn and independent, but we're her family! What if she were to get sick or be hurt in an accident? She has to know how to reach us in an emergency.”

“You'll just have to trust there won't be an emergency,” Rita said. “As things stand now, you're the ones in danger, not your mother. You can't go into this program without breaking ties with people back home. It's hard, I know, but there isn't any alternative.”

Bram spoke up suddenly. “What will happen to Porky?”

“Porky?” Rita repeated, regarding him blankly.

“My dog,” Bram said. “My grandmother put him in a kennel. By now he's probably scared I'm not coming back for him.”

“I'm sure your grandmother will take care of your dog,” Rita said. She started to look away and then turned back again. “Is it a trick of the light, or are this child's eyes different colors?”

“It runs in the family,” said Mom, immediately defensive. “My father had one blue eye and one brown eye.”

“I'm afraid this is going to create a problem,” said Rita. “Something this unusual will attract attention.”

“Maybe I can wear dark glasses?” Bram suggested, sidetracked momentarily from the subject of Porky.

“Yes, for the present that's the best we can do,” Rita said. “As soon as possible, though, you'll need to get contacts.”

“Contacts!” Bram squeaked in horror. “I don't want contacts!”

“You won't have to wear them forever,” Mom consoled him.

“How long?” I asked. “How long are we going to be gone?” The talk about Dad going into business and Bram and me starting new schools had been very disturbing. Why should we have to consider such unlikely possibilities? I'd assumed that the appellate court hearings would take place that summer. Surely that meant we'd be back in Norwood before school started.

Before Rita could respond, Bram exploded into tears. “Iwon't wear contacts!” he shouted, going suddenly hysterical. “I don't want things stuck in my eyes, and Lorelei can't have Porky! He's my dog, not her dog! She doesn't even likehim!”

The scene that followed was one of such emotional chaos that there was no more opportunity for sensible discussion. That night, however, after Bram had wept himself dry, after Rita had left to go back to Washington, after a dinner of takeout Chinese food and an evening spent watching sitcoms—I lay in bed, surrounded by my sleeping family, watching the play of lights on the wall across from me as cars sped along the highway in front of our motel. It was only then, thinking back on that strange conversation, that I realized the question I'd asked had never been answered.

CHAPTER 7

Rita was back again in five days. This time
she brought official-looking papers in a folder that contained, among other things, four birth certificates, four passports and a marriage certificate.

The name on my father's birth certificate was “Philip Weber,” and my Mom's was “Ellen Paul.” The marriage certificate was made out to show their true wedding date.

“At least we can celebrate our real anniversary,” Mom said.

Bram's new birth certificate gave his name as “ Jason Weber,” and mine showed me to be “Valerie Weber,” a name that I instantly hated. Not that I had ever been too crazy about my real name. I'd always thought it sounded like an ingenue on a soap opera. But I knew there was no way I could ever be comfortable as “Valerie.” When I heard that name the picture that leapt into my mind was of Steve's old girlfriend draped all over my own date, Bobby Charo, at Sherry's Christmas party.

“I will not be a ‘Valerie,'” I said. “That name has bad vibes for me. Why can't we choose our own names?”

“Names are the least of our worries,” Rita said shortly. “Our main concern is to get you people relocated. A major effort is being made to find you, and we want to get you transferred as quickly as possible.”

“What's happened now?” Dad asked warily.

“Your mother-in-law had a phone call. The man identified himself as Mrs. Corrigan's editor. He told Mrs. Gilbert a movie producer wanted to buy the film rights to one of her daughter's books.”

Mom's face lit up with the first real smile in weeks. “Did he say which book they want? What studio is it?”

When Rita didn't reply, her excitement faded. “I take it you don't believe the call was legitimate.”

“We know it wasn't,” Rita said. “We called your publisher. The editor who was supposed to be trying to reach you was away on vacation. Nobody in the office knew a thing about a movie offer.”

“Of course not,” Mom said with quiet acceptance. “Now that I think about it, a movie offer would have come through my agent, not my publisher, and neither of them would have tried to reach me through Lorelei. I don't think they even know what my mother's name is.”

“A man like Vamp knows all the angles,” Rita said.

“I don't like this,” Dad said. “How soon can we get out of here?”

“You leave tonight,” Rita told him. “It's all taken care of. I have you booked on a six p.m. flight to Florida.”

“Florida!” Dad exclaimed. “That doesn't make sense. The drug trade in that state is the highest in the country.”

“Vamp knows that too,” said Rita. “It will work in your favor, because it will be the last place he'll expect us to send you. You'll land at the Sarasota Bradenton Airport, but your final destination will be Grove City, fifty miles east of there. You're to travel in pairs, and your reservations have been made under your new names. That way, your tracks will be covered.”

Up until then, life had seemed to be stopped in a holding pattern like a frame of a broken movie reel. Now, abruptly, the film was running at triple speed, and in one brief moment we were jerked into frantic motion. For the next ten minutes we dashed about, grabbing clothing and tossing our scattered belongings into suitcases.

We were ready to walk out the door when Rita said, “Wait a minute. Something has to be done about Valerie's hair.”

At first I didn't take in who it was she was talking about. Then, with a start, I remembered that
I
was Valerie.

“What's wrong with my hair?” I asked nervously.

“It's much too eye-catching. The color and length will make you stand out in a crowd. We're going to have to cut it before we leave here.”

“No!” I cried. “I've been growing my hair for years!” My hands flew up protectively to cover my head. “I'll wear a wig or a scarf, but I'm not going to cut it!”

“It's much too long to fit under a wig,” Rita said. “As for a scarf, nobody wears scarves in the summertime. Most physical characteristics can't be changed, but we can change the length of your hair, and it's important we do it.”

“Mom!” I cried in anguish. “You aren't going to let her?”

But even as I spoke, I knew it was hopeless. Mom had never worried about appearances, and her own short hair was cut in a blow-dry style that Lorelei and I had always agreed looked terrible.

I wasn't given time to argue my case. Within minutes I was standing in the bathroom with a towel draped over my shoulders and my eyes screwed shut so I wouldn't have to watch in the mirror as Rita hacked off my beautiful hair with fingernail scissors and Mom gathered it up and put it in the wastebasket. Then we piled into Rita's car, a compact too small for five people, and sped back along the freeway toward the Richmond airport. The wind stroked the back of my neck with alien fingers, and despite the heat of the day, I found myself shivering.

During the drive, Rita issued a string of admonishments about what we were to do once we arrived in Grove City. When we reached the airport, she pulled into a loading zone and kept the engine running while she distributed our plane tickets and handed Dad the folder of official documents. Then she wished us luck and drove away quickly, leaving me with the feeling that she was grateful to be done with us. Once inside the airport, we paired off and proceeded on to the gate as we had been instructed.

Mom and I entered the metal detector through one doorway, and Dad and Bram through another, and we sat at opposite ends of the waiting area, counting the minutes until flight time and trying to behave as though we didn't know each other. When the boarding call came, Dad and Bram went first, jumping up from their chairs and hurrying to the front of the line. Bram was having one of his hyper spells, hanging on to Dad's hand and bouncing along excitedly like a rubber ball on the end of an elastic band.

Mom and I hung back and fell into line with some late- arriving passengers. When we reached the door to the ramp we displayed our boarding passes and new passports and waited while the attendant examined them. He seemed to be taking a great deal longer than necessary, and I felt a sudden chill of apprehension.
What do we do,
I asked myself,
if there is a problem with our tickets? What if they want more identification?

As it turned out, I didn't have to worry, for there wasn't a problem. The attendant tore off the tops of our tickets and handed back the stubs.

“Enjoy your flight,” he said with a friendly smile and waved us down the ramp and onto the plane.

By the time we entered the cabin, Dad and Bram were nowhere in sight, having taken seats at the back of the aircraft. Our seat assignments were toward the front, and we stashed our luggage in the overhead compartment and settled ourselves into the middle and window seats in the seventh row. Several more last-minute passengers hurried on board, flushed and breathless as though they had just run a marathon, and then the doors were closed and the flight attendants cruised the aisles, checking to see that everyone was wearing a seat belt.

A few minutes later Richmond lay far below us, a mosaic of rooftops, punctuated by brilliant blue swimming pools. The plane continued to climb until the city's highways had been reduced to a network of overlapping lines with black dots creeping along them like sluggish ants. Then, in an instant's time, the earth vanished completely, buried beneath a layer of marshmallow clouds, and we and our fellow passengers were alone together in an infinite expanse of open sky.

Mom reached over and gave my hand a squeeze.

“We've made it, honey,” she whispered. “We're safe at last.”

“Do you really believe that?” I returned the squeeze, momentarily forgetting that I was mad at her.

“Of course,” she said reassuringly. “And just think, we're going to Florida! What a wonderful place to take an extended ‘maxi-vay'!”

She was making such an effort to act lighthearted that I tried my best to respond with the same sort of cheerfulness.

“I wonder if it's like the TV commercials, beaches and palm trees and everybody gulping orange juice.”

“That sounds good,” Mom said. “I wouldn't mind a glass right now. Here comes the girl with the drink cart, maybe I'll get some.”

When the flight attendant reached us, Mom ordered her orange juice spiked with vodka, which was something I had never known her to do before. I asked for a Coke, and the freckle-faced girl who sat next to me in the aisle seat ordered a Sprite.

“I like Coke better,” she confided, wrinkling her nose. “I'm scared, though, of what might happen if we hit rough air. My mom bought me this dress just to make the trip in, and Coke's so hard to wash out if it spills on your clothes.”

“I'm not wearing anything elegant enough to worry about,” I said, having had no time to change out of my jeans and T-shirt.

“I see what you mean,” said the girl, observing me critically. “My mom says people ought to dress up when they travel. Did you get a discount haircut? One side's longer than the other.” She didn't wait for a response. “I'm Abby Keller. I'm going to visit my dad and his wife for the summer.”

Then she asked the inevitable question, “What's your name?”

I froze for a moment, unable to come up with an answer. Although I could no longer call myself April Corrigan, I was not yet ready to be Valerie Weber, the identity I would assume once we landed in Florida.

“April Gross,” I said finally, settling on a compromise. Half real, half fake.

“Oh, gross!” the girl exclaimed rudely and burst out laughing. “Do people tease you? I know my friends would tease me. Do they say, ‘Oh, here comes that gross girl?'”

“A name's just a name,” I said shortly. “People get used to it.” Except when it's a name like Valerie, I added silently.

“Where are you going?” asked Abby. “To Sarasota?”

I nodded, feeling progressively more and more uncom-fortable.

“I wish that's where I was going to be staying,” Abby said. “It would be nice to live on the coast where the beaches are. My dad and his wife live in Dullsville. That's not really its name, of course, but that's what I call it. Can you believe the only movies they get there are so old you can already rent them on DVD?”

I glanced across at Mom and saw she had finished her drink and fallen asleep with her head propped against the window. Beyond the double pane of glass the clouds were the color of smoke, and the sky was beginning to dissolve into gentle darkness. Mom's face was illuminated by the overhead reading light, which accentuated the rounded curve of her cheek. With nothing to do but read and eat and watch television, she, too, had put on weight during our confinement. That, and the angle at which the shadows fell, blunted her features and gave her for the moment the look of a stranger. This was not the author Elizabeth Corrigan; the woman dozing beside me was Ellen Paul Weber. In the seat on my right, Abby continued to chatter.

“I bet Dad and Margaret don't even own a DVD player. They probably don't even sell them in that hick town. If my parents had to get a divorce, you'd think at least my dad could have moved someplace exotic like Miami or West Palm Beach. But no, he moved to Dullsville to be with Margaret. Then after she got him to marry her, she didn't want to leave, because her daughter's got one more year of high school. Besides, Margaret's sister and her family live in Dullsville, and Margaret can't get along without all her relatives. Are your parents divorced? Is that why your dad's not with you?”

I mumbled some sort of noncommittal reply. Then, to my relief, the flight attendant who had come by with the drink cart reappeared with a cartload of snacks. They didn't look appetizing enough to wake Mom up for, but I accepted one for myself and was pleased when Abby did too, as I hoped that meant she'd stop talking and concentrate on eating. I underestimated my seatmate, however, for while I gnawed my way through a dry bag of pretzels, Abby continued to rattle along, undaunted by the food in her mouth, filling me in on every unpalatable detail of her parents' divorce and remarriages.

Finally, in self-defense, I gave up on eating, put my seat into a reclining position, and closed my eyes. Incredibly, Abby finally took the hint and fell silent. I focused on the hypnotic roar of the engines, and the next thing I was aware of was a voice on the loudspeaker asking passengers to fold up their tray tables and check their seat belts in readiness for our descent into the Sarasota Bradenton Airport.

When I opened my eyes I saw that Mom was also awake and had hauled herself up into a sitting position. As soon as the plane had taxied to a stop at the gate, we collected our bags from the storage compartments over our seats and joined the line of passengers leaving the aircraft.

We emerged into warm, damp air filled with unfamiliar fragrances, descended a set of portable stairs to the ground, and crossed a short stretch of runway to the terminal, which was brightly lit and churning with activity. The door through which we entered opened into the baggage area, where a revolving belt was preparing to spew out luggage.

Abby, who had popped out of her seat the moment the plane touched the ground, was there ahead of us with her mouth already in motion. With her stood a middle-aged couple whom I could only assume were her father and the detested Margaret.

Since we had not checked any luggage, Mom and I continued on across the lobby to a set of double doors at its far end. A few minutes later we were joined by Dad and Bram, who had left the plane through a door in the tail section. Bram seemed calmer, but his eyes were overly bright, and he did not show the slightest sign of drowsiness.

“You're not wearing your sunglasses!” Mom said accusingly.

“It's dark!” Bram protested. “You don't wear shades at night!”

“You'll have to until you get your contacts,” said Mom.