Sleeping with the Frenemy (5 page)

A clean-cut, dark-skinned man a good decade older than her waited in a red Corolla on the side of the road. He had rolled down his window and called her by her name, confirming he was a friend of Gilberto's. She got in the car, her heart pounding rapidly as he drove away, not speaking again until he parked at the bus station twenty minutes later. He handed her a disposable cell phone and instructed her to only use it once—to call Gilberto when she arrived safely to wherever she was headed, then to throw it away. He also gave her a white plastic bag with a baseball cap and a T-shirt with some sort of sports logo, recommending she go change in the bathroom before the bus left.

Deborah thanked her driver, and as she walked swiftly toward the bathroom, he drove away. She tried her best not to look wildly around. Again fear overtook her, knowing Genevieve could appear at any moment. No one was in the bathroom when she went inside. She went into a stall and peed since her bladder was ready to explode. She pulled on the T-shirt that was a size too big for her, put up as much of her hair as she could in a black band, then fit the cap on her head. When she finished, she went to the sink and washed her hands. When the door opened and people came in, she dropped her head and walked out to her waiting bus.

She gave her ticket over to the driver, went in the back and into a seat in the far corner, and hunched down so her face couldn't be seen from the window. She tried to stop her teeth from chattering, not from the cold but from the fear flowing through her body.

When the bus drove away, Deborah closed her eyes and silent tears fell down her cheeks in near relief.

* * * *

The four-hour bus ride was uneventful. By the time the bus stopped in the town of Rockfield, it was near dusk. On stiff legs, Deborah walked off the bus with the rest of the passengers, clutching her bag and rolling her stiff shoulders.

She'd only been to Rockfield a number of times since her mother had been admitted into the retirement facility there. The urge to go see her mother first and foremost was strong, but she couldn't yet. She was exhausted, sweaty, and hungry. First, she needed to get to the hotel indicated in the directions written out for her.

The small, five-story hotel was a few blocks away. She hurried along, keeping her head down the entire time, and when she walked up to the front desk, a polite male hotel clerk welcomed her. Deborah smiled through trembling lips and said she was staying for the night and should have a reservation waiting for her under the last name Smith.

“Why, yes, Mrs. Smith, your husband checked in earlier in the day,” the desk clerk explained and gave her the electronic key to her room.

Deborah hid her surprise. She couldn't believe the lengths Gilberto went to or the special group of friends he had to help her. For a short moment she wondered if she should had taken up his suggestion at hiding in Mexico where he said he could protect her better. She pushed that idea away since she'd asked so much of him already and didn't want to put him in more danger than he already was.

“Thank you,” she said softly as she took the key and went over to the elevators. She rode up to the third floor where her room was located.

She walked down the long hall and passed an older couple who gave her a strange look, or so she believed since her paranoia was at an all-time high. As soon as they walked inside the elevator, she rushed down the hall and with fumbling hands, slipped the keycard into the slot of the door. When the green light came on, she opened the door and shut it with a loud slam. She stumbled into the middle of the room, dove face first on the bed, and hid her face into a pillow.

* * * *

With her breath lodged in her throat, Deborah sat straight up out of a sound sleep. Her eyes were dry and her skin itchy and tight. Her nipples poked through her wrinkled T-shirt and goose bumps covered her body from the chill in the room. She rubbed her arms, her cap hanging off the back of her head barely covering her tangled, sweaty hair.

She couldn't say what woke her. It wasn't a nightmare or even a loud sound that may have come outside. The hum of the air conditioner drowned everything out. Squinting in the darkened room, she noticed the digital alarm clock. It was barely five in the morning. She'd slept for almost ten hours.

Her stomach let out a low rumble and she stretched her arms over her head while flexing her cramping feet. She still felt logy and stiff. But at least her heart didn't feel like it wanted to jump out of her mouth.

Rising from the bed, she turned on the lamp and shuffled over to her bag on the floor. She picked it up, pulled out the cell phone, and flipped it open as if to make a call. But she couldn't do that yet. First she had to visit her mother to make certain she was safe.

Deborah's bladder needed to be emptied and as she yawned loudly and held her hair away from her face, she walked into the bathroom. Among the typical toiletries such as the small bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and soap, there were also items on the bathroom counter usually not found in a hotel bathroom. Not only was a black suitcase standing next to the toilet, but near the sink was a box of hair dye, a magazine showcasing all different types of hairstyles and a silver pair of scissors one would find at a hair salon. There was also a makeup kit—not the usual kind a woman would use daily, but more the type one would use to cover her face if going to a costume party or dressing up for Halloween. None of these things came as surprise to Deborah. She expected to find them there.

Deborah pulled the suitcase on top of the toilet, opened it, and found clothes including underwear and bland-colored T-shirts, jeans, capris, and pants that would hide her curves and her femininity.

She pulled off her T-shirt and hung a towel around her shoulders. Grabbing the box of hair dye, she tore it open and began to make herself into a different person.

* * * *

She cried again in the shower. Deep, hacking sobs shook her body as she thought about all she'd left behind. Genevieve's name echoed in her mind, and even though there was no way she could return to her, she still ached to hear her voice one last time. But she couldn't do that. If she did, she most likely end up dead in the desert with a bullet in her head like the old-time mobsters did to their victims in the mid-twentieth century as Vegas was being built.

After Deborah shed her tears and washed out the dye from her hair, she got out of the shower and dried herself off with the towel. Wiping the condensation away from the bathroom mirror, she stared back at the reflection of a woman with jutting cheekbones and average run-of-the-mill brown eyes. But instead of her former highlighted blond streaks, now her hair was pure black. She was lucky her skin tone wasn't pale. She'd look very strange with her new hair color then.

She still wasn't done with her hair by a long shot. Flipping through the magazine to the section where the short hairstyles were located, she searched for the haircut she needed. After four years of never cutting anything more than an inch, she lifted up a good six inches off her shoulders and began cutting away. This time her eyes were bone dry as her hair fell into the sink and on the floor.

When all was said and done and her hair stood up in spikes only a few inches away from her head, she put in blue color contacts to complete the disguise. A total stranger stared back at her.

Gone was Deborah Murnay and in her place was a new woman— a woman reborn.

“That'll be fifteen dollars, sir,” the taxi driver said to his male passenger sitting in the back seat.

The scruffy young man, who looked a little past college age wearing dark jeans, a bulky gray T-shirt, and a jean jacket even in the ninety-degree heat, dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He mumbled a thank you and grabbed his suitcase as he got out of the car.

The taxi drove away, leaving Deborah in front of the facility where her mother had lived for the past year and a half. Rolling back her shoulders, Deborah lengthened her stride to walk more like a man and went through the automatic sliding doors.

Her cheek itched and she almost went to scratch it, stopping at the last moment. Along with her eyes drying out from the contact lenses she wore, the bronze makeup on her face, neck, hands, and arms made her itchy. She swore she could feel a rash forming where the fake whiskers of hair or scruff she had pasted on her cheeks and chin were flaking.

But she had no choice in the matter. If she didn't go so far as to wear a disguise, she wouldn't be able to see her mother. She couldn't come as her daughter. So she came as her son Wade Whilby instead.

Deborah walked up to the front desk where a rounded, older-looking nurse with gray hair hung up the phone and smiled at her. Deborah cleared her throat deeply.

“Good morning. I'm here to see my mother, Cora Whilby. I should be on the list of approved visitors,” Deborah said in a raspy voice and held her breath, waiting for the nurse to figure out she wasn't a man.

The nurse pulled out a binder and opened it. Her finger skimmed down the page and she tapped her cheek as she read. “Wade Whilby, you said?”

Deborah nodded and hunched her shoulders. “Yeah. My sister Deb told me she put me on the list. I'm in town for a few days and wanted to see our mother.”

The nurse looked back at Deborah with raised eyebrows.

Please believe me!

“Ah! Here's your name. Sorry for the questions, but the last time your sister was here was more than a year ago. The only visitor since then has been her wife.”

“I guess Genevieve checked in on Mom since she's the one paying the bills,” Deborah replied easily and waited for the nurse to give her a pass.

The nurse rested her hand on the phone as if she was going to pick it up, and a trickle of sweat dripped down the side of Deborah's face. Finally, when the nurse took out a white pass and left it on the top of the desk, Deborah's shoulders relaxed and her knees unlocked.

“Your mother is in room 504. Walk down the hall and make the left where the elevators are. The nursing staff upstairs can help you if need be.”

Deborah grabbed the pass and nodded her thanks. The nurse nodded in return and picked up the phone when it started ringing.

The walk to the elevator and the ride up took seconds, but it felt more like hours. When she arrived on the fifth floor and the doors opened, she walked out into the hall, saw the sign on the wall with an arrow to 504, and went in that direction.

She couldn't believe it had been so long since she last saw her mother. With the cancer eating away at her body, she could no longer function on her own and was stuck to her bed. The last time she had seen her mother was when she and Genevieve had come to visit her at her former facility. The doctors there believed she didn't have much longer to live. Genevieve thought the same and moved her mother into a much more expensive care service after Deborah had come back after the first time she'd left her. Genevieve agreed her mother needed the best care possible. It was also Genevieve's way of controlling her. If she ever thought of leaving Gen again, Gen would take it out on her mother.

When Deborah arrived at her mother's room, she walked inside. The sounds of an oxygen tank filled the dim room, and when Deborah ventured in further, she covered her mouth. Her eyes grew damp as she saw her mother asleep in her bed. She looked so frail and peaceful, as if she was already dead.

“Mommy,” Deborah whispered brokenly, and left her suitcase in the corner, walking over to the side of the bed where she pulled over a chair and sat down. She gazed on the woman she loved more than her own life and a sob left her mouth as she carefully picked up her mother's limp hand and held it to her cheek.

Tears fell down her face and she sniffed loudly, unable to stop her shoulders from shaking as she cried. She swallowed and closed her eyes, her chest heaving. Again she whispered, “Mommy.”

This time her mother's eyelids flickered and a moan left her mouth as she turned her head. When she opened her eyes, she blinked a few times and grimaced.

Deborah kept her mother's hand against her cheek and licked her dry lips. “Mom, do you know who I am?”

A wheeze escaped Cora Whilby. “I think I know who my own child is, even with that getup on. Please tell me that evil woman you married is dead.”

Deborah laughed hoarsely and when her mother lifted up her other hand toward her face, Deborah leaned over and embraced her mother, finally reunited after being separated for so long.

* * * *

“I can't believe you destroyed your beautiful hair. Did you have to make it so dark?” her mother groused as she fingered Deborah's short, prickly hair.

“You know I had to do it. It's the only way I can be certain I'll be safe.” Deborah pointed out as she rubbed a palm over her head. For the last hour her mother not only complained about her hair, but her eye color and the makeup she wore that most likely was damaging her skin.

“You'll never be safe. You know that,” Cora said sadly, looking down at her lap, visibly shaken.

“Oh, Mommy, please don't cry.”

“Don't tell me what I can't do. If I want to cry, I will. Knowing you've been hurt and almost died at that woman's hands, and there was nothing I could do to stop it… oh, Christ.” Cora lifted up a shaking hand to her mouth and closed her eyes.

Deborah squeezed her mother's hand and didn't respond at first. She opened and closed her mouth, taking a deep breath before she spoke. “There's a possibility that could be true, but this is a chance I have to take.”

“Just like you took the chance in marrying that viper, even after I told you she'd be trouble?” Cora coughed into a tissue, her back shaking from the force. Deborah pushed the pillows up higher behind her.

“You're right. Is that what you want to hear? I've paid for my mistake in more ways than one,” Deborah said softly, wiping her cheek even though no tears fell.

Her mother's brow wrinkled and she grabbed Deborah's hands in both of hers. “We've all made mistakes. I know all too well, seeing as what I went through with your father.”

“Are you saying because Dad treated you horribly that I've fallen into the cycle you did?” Deborah asked. Flashes of “arguments” between her father and mother when she was a child popped into her head.

“I can't say,” Cora replied and stared out the window. “I wish I had more time with you.”

Deborah nodded sadly. As soon as she left and hopped on the bus, she might never see her mother alive again. “Let's make the best of what we have now,” she said brightly and gave her mother a happy smile.

Cora watched her closely.

Deborah looked away. “Mom, I know—”

“What time do you have to catch your train?”

“Four. I should leave here around three, at the latest,” Deborah replied and glanced at her suitcase where her ticket lay hidden.

“Well,
son,
I hope your trip is uneventful. You're planning on going back to that place I told you about?”

Deborah stopped from rolling her eyes over her mother's vagueness. “Mother, we can talk freely here. I don't think the room is bugged even with you-know-who involved. And yes, I'm heading to Woodberry Creek. “

“Good.” Cora nodded. “She won't think of finding you there.”

“I should hope not after all planning I've done. When I arrive in Woodberry Creek, Sharon Wade will be there waiting for me,” Deborah said and shared a smile with her mother. Not only would she be residing in the small town in Pennsylvania her mother grew up in and one Genevieve had no idea about, but she'd picked her new name in honor of her mother's mother, her grandmother Shara, and Wade, her grandfather.

“Did I hear ya say Woodberry Creek?”

Deborah lightly jumped as a loud booming voice echoed in the room. A large, stocky black woman with hair shorter than hers and wearing dark green scrubs walked in carrying a tray.

Her mother smiled at the nurse and coughed again. “You have ears like a hawk, Michelle.”

Michelle snorted and put the covered tray on the table near the bed. She pulled off the plastic cover and the smell of chicken and rice wafted up. “You'd better believe it.” Michelle jutted her chin out toward Deborah. “And who is this handsome young man?”

Deborah did her best not to blush under the scrutinizing stare. She dropped her face down near her chest, mumbling her “name.”

“This is my son, Wade. He's visiting me before he goes back home.”

Michelle fisted her heads on her abundant hips. “Pleasure to meet you. Your mother is a lovely woman, even if she does cheat at Scrabble.”

“I do not!” Cora shouted hoarsely and coughed loudly.

“Mom, calm down.” Deborah remembered to keep her voice low and lightly slapped her mother on the back.

“I-I'm okay,” Cora replied. When she finished her coughing fit, she took her breathing tube out of her nose, picked up a fork, and poked at her food.

“You're from Woodberry Creek? I have family there,” Michelle said as she fluffed one of the pillows behind Cora's back.

“Oh, really?” Deborah asked weakly, wishing Michelle hadn't overheard their conversation.

“Yup. My three brothers live on the border of Woodberry Creek, close to Augusta.”

Cora bit into a roll. “Augusta? In Georgia?”

Michelle gave her a strange look. “Yes, ma'am. The only Woodberry Creek I know of is in the state of Georgia.”

Deborah shared a knowing look with her mother and finally relaxed her shoulders. “I've lived there for almost five years now. Woodberry Creek is a beautiful town.”

“Next time I go visit, I should look you up,” Michelle answered.

“That would be nice,” Deborah responded and spent the next few minutes asking Michelle about her family, making certain to agree with her about the Woodberry Creek in Georgia she had no desire to visit.

When Michelle finally left, Deborah waited until her mother finished her late lunch. Soon Cora's eyes began to drop.

“I love you, Mommy, so very much,” Deborah whispered against her mother's ear as she placed her head on the pillow next to her.

“And I love you, my favorite daughter,” Cora replied to her only daughter, blinking away tears.

Both mother and daughter stared at each other until the elder woman drifted off to sleep. Deborah wanted to leave something tangible behind that belonged to her but didn't want to take the chance.

After saying her final goodbyes to the sleeping woman who did her best in raising her, she kissed her on the cheek and walked away.

No one called out or stopped the young man wearing a blue baseball cap, T-shirt, and jeans, who called a taxi from the pay phone in the lobby. And when the man got into the taxi, he was forgotten; just like one of the many visitors walking in and out the doors of the retirement home for the dying.