Lone Girl (The Wolfling Saga) (11 page)

It was a note from Tom. I knew his handwriting well. How many times had a seen his scrawl upon the chalk board in class? However, to my dismay it was brief.

Rose,

I was foolish.

I’m sorry.

Tom.

Cold, detached and impersonal - that is what this note was.
Pinned to the note was the last of the cash Tom had. Seventy dollars.

It was as though the man who’d writt
en it was empty inside. And that was exactly how I felt at this moment. Empty. Numb.

“He left,” I said to myself.

And he had.
Why? Because of the phone?
Had I pissed him off bad enough to leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere? Apparently so.

My heart felt as though it had been shattered into a thousand tiny fragments.
My chest felt constricted and my breath came out in short gasps.

Betrayed
.

Suddenly I saw the urgent love-making from the previous night in a different way. He hadn’t been fervent because he wanted me desperately. He had decided to leave and had come to say goodbye.

I yelled Tom’s name in the hopes that he would hear, but I was answered only by dogs howling in nearby yards.

My phone. Where is my phone?

I rummaged through my backpack and pulled it out, only to remember that the battery was dead.

“Shit!”

Who would I call, anyway? A taxi? My mother? I was hundreds of miles away from home with seventy dollars in my pocket.

At that moment it began to rain – light at first, but within a few minutes it was pouring down, the droplets battering against the tin roof of the factory. I stood inside the open doorway, listening to the wind as it blew through the shattered windows.
I shivered– I didn’t have any winter clothes and the season was upon us.

I wasn’t sure how long I stood in the open doorway watching the rain batter the pavement. Hours, perhaps. I was in shock at finding myself alone. My eyes burned because I’d forgotten to blink for so long. My skin prickled with cold, but I could barely feel it. I simply stood there and existed for an infinite amount of time. I wanted to curl into a ball and hibernate for months on end – but that was
n’t me. No, I was Rose Goldman and I would not let myself succumb to this pain in my chest.

I needed to find a pay phone
and that meant getting drenched. Finding an old plastic bag in the factory I fashioned it into a makeshift poncho, which I draped over myself before stepping into the rain.

I walked through the suburban streets, water battering my face and seeping through my clothes. Within fifteen minutes I was cold and wet. Shivering, I hunched against the rain, trying to protect my eyes. When I finally found a busy street, there was only one thing to do – and it terrified me.

Which way did I want to go? North or South? Alaska or home?

I looked up and down the busy road, my heart thundering. I couldn’t continue alone. I was poor
and without a vehicle. I had no other choice.

I stuck my thumb out and began to hitchhike.

It wasn’t as easy as the movies made it seem. I walked, my arm thrown out towards the passing cars. Soon, my hand was numb with cold.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been walking for, but it felt like ages.
Cars and trucks zoomed past, their headlights blaring and windscreen wipers moving rapidly against the onslaught of rain. Didn’t anyone have the heart to pick up a young girl on the side of the road during a rain storm? Perhaps the plastic bag wasn’t doing me justice. I decided to remove it and stuff it into my backpack.

Finding a ride was much easier when my age and gender was apparent to passers-by. Barely two minutes had passed when a large eighteen-wheeler sounded its horn and pulled over by the side of the road. I ran to catch up, my damp canvas shoes
slapping loudly against the muddy tarmac. I looked up at the passenger door and saw a man peering at me.

“You okay?” the middle-aged trucker asked, winding the window down a few inches to talk to me.

“A bit wet,” I said. I must look a mess. I could feel my damp hair plastered to my face.

“Where you heading?” the truckie asked.

“South,” I said.

“Anywhere in particular?”

I shook my head. “Just … just south.”

“All right … well, hop in.”

I clambered into the cab which was warm and dry with sheepskin seat covers. The heater was blasting hot air and I could smell coffee.

“You look like no one owns you,” said the truckie, looking me up and down.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the semi’s side-mirror. I was pale, with dark rings around my eyes. My hair was wet and matted. I looked thin and drawn. My lips were blue.

“Do you smell wet dog?”
he said suddenly.

My cheeks burned.
“It’s been a rough week,” I said, turning away from the unappealing reflection. I removed my wet jumper and stuffed it by my feet before trying to thaw my hands by the vents.

“Here,” the truckie handed me a towel. “It’s mostly clean.”

“Thanks.” I took the towel and didn’t want to think about whether it was clean or not. Right now, all I wanted was to be dry. I rubbed my hair with the towel as the truckie began to drive.

“I’m
Frank,” he said a minute later, taking a swig of coffee from his thermos.

“Hi Frank,” I said, staring as he drank the hot beverage.

Frank the truckie noticed my gaze and glanced at me, then the beverage. “Uh … thirsty?”

I nodded fervently
and he poured some of the coffee into the lid and handed it to me. I drank it in three gulps.

“Oh, that’s good. I haven’t had a hot drink in a week.”

“Hungry?”

“Yes!”

Frank rummaged around in the compartment between us and pulled out a stack of sandwiches. “I suppose I can spare one or two –” He stared as I grabbed the stack and began to cram the sandwiches into my mouth. They were corned beef. I didn’t even like corned beef.

“Or – or all of them,” he said, looking a little crestfallen
as I ate feverishly. I might have been on death row with my last meal. “Oh well. I wasn’t hungry anyway,” he added.

“Sorry,” I said through a mouth full of food.
“I’ll … I’ll give you money for them.”

“Ah, it’s all right. You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

“I haven’t,” I admitted, cramming another half-sandwich into my mouth. “Just packets of chips and a mars bar.”

“Now that’s no diet for a young woman,” said Frank, taking another swig of coffee.
“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” I said, swallowing a huge amount of food and coughing.
“But you can call me … Anya.” I wasn’t sure why I chose that name - perhaps because Anya Kelly was on my mind.
She’d said he would leave me. She was right.

“Ah. Using fake names, are we?” said Frank with a chuckle. I looked at him properly for the first time.

Mid-forties, thinning blond hair and a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken recently. He had soft, fleshy body. There were crumbs in his lap from where he’d been eating on the road.

“Thanks for picking me up, Frank,” I said sincerely.

“No problem, Anya,” he said. “It’s not safe for a young woman to hitchhike alone.”

“So you’re doing me a favo
r by making sure I’m not picked up by a psycho?”

“I usually pick up hitchhikers when I’m on the road. It gets pretty lonely.”

“Ever murdered any of them?” I asked, finishing off the last of his sandwiches. It was meant to be a joke, but it seemed Frank didn’t appreciate my sense of humour.

“
What? No. No, of course not!”

“I was joking,” I said quickly. I didn’t want him to throw me out of the truck.

“Right … well, I’ve had a few crazies in that seat before.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

“Picked up an old bloke – probably in his sixties – was high on crack or something. Tried to stab me when I pulled into a gas station.”

“How’d you stop him?”

“I’m stronger than I look. Besides, this layer of fat protects most vital organs.” He slapped his pudgy stomach.

I smiled, the feeling now coming back to my fingers.

“So, what were you doing on the road anyway? Where are you from?” he asked.

“It’s a long story, Frank,” I said, leaning back in the chair and taking a deep breath.

“It’s a long drive,” Frank replied.

I wasn’t sure why, but
I was feeling loquacious. Perhaps because I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone other than Tom for a week. I needed to talk – to rant and rave and cry. But Frank was not the person I needed to talk to.

I rested my head back and looked at the truckie. “I
ran away,” I said.

“With a boy?” Frank guessed.

No, not a boy,
I thought.
A man
. “Yeah,” I said. It was a half-truth.

“
Ah. It’s always a boy. What happened? Where is he?”

“He left me.”

“On the side of the road, in the rain?” Frank asked.

“Pretty much.”

“What did you do?” asked Frank.

“What makes you think
I
did anything?”

“Isn’t it always the woman?” said Frank,
his tone casual.

I shifted uncomfortably. “No.”

Frank scoffed but kept his eyes on the road. “In my experience it’s always the woman who starts the argument.”

“That’s
your
experience,” I said, an edge to my voice. However, Frank was right on this occasion. Tom had left me because of something
I
had done. It was my fault.

I wasn’
t going to ask why Frank thought women were always at fault – not that it mattered. I sensed that he was going to tell me anyway.

“My wife,” he said, his grip tightening on the wheel. “She
cheated on me while I was on the road. I came back after a week-long trip to find that the locks had been changed and all of my belongings were on the front-lawn.”

I stared at the truckie, no
t sure what to say. “That sucks.”

“
Yeah,” Frank nodded, his nostrils flaring. “It sucks.”

The topic of his wi
fe’s betrayal was making me uncomfortable. I decided to quickly change the subject before he got too upset.

“So, this weather, huh,” I said, pointing at the wipers, which were moving back and forth rapidly as the rain battered the windshield. “Pretty miserable, isn’t it?”

“I mean, she could at least have had the decency to tell me and split our belongings fifty-fifty. But no. She kicks my ass to the curb as though the last twelve years of marriage never happened,” Frank continued, his voice breaking.

I fell into silence. What was I meant to say when I was in a semi with a stranger who was an over-emotional
truckie?

“She took the house and all of my possessions
and she’s making
me
pay child support for God’s sake! Does that seem right to you?” He looked at me, a little angrily. “
Well
? Does it?”

“No, not at all,” I said with raised eyebrows.

“So I was forced to get a stinking, dingy apartment by myself. Almost lost my job because I was so depressed. I’d never meet deadlines. I even thought about ending it all.”

“Yeah … Wow,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

“It’s like I don’t even know her. I was living with a fucking stranger for twelve years. I mean, who is this person I had a child with? You think you know someone.”

I licked my lips and stared out of the passenger window, watching the damp road speed by.

“So what did you do?” Frank asked after taking several deep, steadying breaths.

“I told you, I didn’t do anything.”

“You can tell me. I won’t judge.”

“It was nothing, really,” I said, staring at my hands in my lap. I felt Frank’s stare upon me
and knew he sensed my lie.

“
He wouldn’t have dumped you on the side of the road without a good reason,” said Frank.

“It was just a … misunderstanding,” I said softly. I didn’t want to talk about it. Frank’s eyes were accusing
and I felt uncomfortable being his passenger.

“You know what, you kinda look like a younger version of my ex-wife,” Frank said slowly.

“Uh, do I?”

“Yeah. Except the eyes. She had blue eyes.

“Right.”

“Sorry, I can be a bit … intense sometimes, so I’m told.”