Today's Reading
Better move, Rebecca told herself.
She made her way around the van, high-stepping through the snow, leaning on the side for balance until she found the driver's door. It remained open, snow spilling into the footwell and onto the driver's seat. She swept it out with her hand and climbed in, pulling the door closed behind her, only to drag more snow inside.
"Shit," she said.
Moonflower giggled somewhere behind her.
"It's not funny," Rebecca said, her voice like flint.
Moonflower whispered, Sorry.
"Just stay quiet and keep out of sight."
Silence from the back, and Rebecca felt a sharp bite of regret. No need to vent her anger at the child. Didn't matter. They had to get out of here. She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine coughed. For a moment she feared it might not catch, but it did, a pleasing rumble that thrummed and rattled through the cabin. She placed her hand on the dashboard.
"Good girl," she said.
And it had been a good van. Best she'd had in years. Almost always started first time, rarely stalled, and the AC still worked. Warm in the cold places, cool in the hot. What more could they want? But now it might have to go. She might have to get something else.
"Goddammit," she spat.
"What's wrong?" Moonflower asked, fear creeping into her voice.
"Nothing, honey," Rebecca said, smoothing her tone. "Just stay quiet back there, okay?"
"Okay."
She put the van into reverse and dabbed at the gas pedal, felt the wheels spin beneath her, barely rocking the suspension. In the side mirror, she saw the truck idling, the man's silhouette, watching.
"Please," she whispered.
A touch of pressure from her right foot, barely enough for the tachometer's needle to rise, then a little more. An inch of movement, then another.
"Thank—"
Then a lurch, the wheels spinning again.
Rebecca eased off the gas, pressed down on the brake, grasped the wheel between her cold-bitten fingers. Closed her eyes and offered a prayer to the god who'd abandoned her decades ago. She toed the gas pedal once more, feeling as she pressed down, listening with her body to the engine, the wheels, the chassis, seeking the sweet spot. The van moved, crawled, slow as spit on glass.
Hold it there, she thought. Hold it.
Back and back and back, still going, thank God, still going until the rear wheels met the road, the front wheels following, and she could feel the asphalt beneath. She rested her head against the steering wheel.
"God," she said. "Thank you, God."
She looked up into the side mirror. The truck still idling, the driver watching. She lowered her window, waved back at him. His hand, a thin black silhouette, returned the gesture, then he turned away. His exhaust belched, and the truck climbed the slope and rounded the bend, out of her sight.
Rebecca began to tremble, pent up adrenaline charging through her, seeking escape.
"Jesus," she said. "Jesus, fuck. Fuck me."
She had long since stopped worrying about swearing in front of her daughter. What was the point?
"You okay?" Moonflower asked.
The blanket lifted, her pale face appearing from underneath, and again Rebecca remembered why she'd called her daughter that all those years ago. Like the flowers in the old greenhouse. The memory of her own mother tending them, and the ache that came with it.
"Yeah," Rebecca said. "You need to sleep. Get back there."
She put the van into drive and moved off, slow, feeling the road through the steering wheel. Be careful. No more mistakes.
That man would remember her. And the van. The make, the model, the color. Maybe the registration, not that it mattered. And he'd remember her, describe her if he was asked to. Rebecca cursed under her breath, made a fist, bit her knuckle to keep from shouting out her anger. Breathe. Deep in, from the belly, then out, long and slow. Calm.
...
