I climbed in the Lincoln and started the engine, hearing approaching sirens.
I was leaking tears, wondering if I’d ever see Willy again.
I wondered if I’d be able to look him in the eye if I ever broke my promise.
15
I'm not certain, but I assume that the life of a fugitive doesn’t normally go from sleeping in bloody head bandages on an army cot above a sweat-stinking boxing gym to being saluted by a doorman in epaulets before settling into a four-star hotel suite, gliding from a steam shower Jacuzzi to a warm, enveloping spot between two-thousand-thread-count Egyptian sheets on a bed large enough to host a square dance.
But it did.
I had the notebook to thank.
I couldn’t believe it was real until sushi rolled in on a silver cart.
According to the notebook, the hotel I was in-the Commodore, across the street from Lake Michigan-had been secretly owned and operated by the Outfit for seventy years. I’d randomly selected it from the list of safe houses, closing my eyes and pointing at the page. There was a phone number and scribbled instructions next to it-make the call, ask for the manager, and say “Al sent me.” Afterward, all I had to do was show up and I would be treated like a VIP, no names taken and no questions asked. When I arrived and repeated the line to the doorman-“Al sent me”-he saluted, said my room was ready, and noted that the Lincoln would be at the curb each morning, ready to go. He looked me over from head to toe and politely enquired whether there was anything else I needed. I said no, but asked his name just in case.
“Al,” he said with a wink. “Just like everybody else around here.”
And then I was riding a silent, private elevator.
The key was in the door; the room was vast and smelled like roses.
It was after the three-course room service was demolished and my stomach was aching with satisfaction that the extreme quiet and stillness of the place set in. It was a stark contrast to the past three days. I threw the robe on a chair and lay on my back in silk PJs staring at the ceiling as my beaten body took on the composition of a jellyfish, adhering to the wondrous bed beneath it. My mind, which had existed in a constant state of jumpy alertness, downshifted to a low gear, and my hand inched toward a remote control. The enormous flat screen flicked on, and I heard familiar zither music. I turned my head and saw shadows flash against the walls of a black-and-white, bombed-out Vienna, and smiled-it was Lou’s favorite movie, The Third Man. It felt like an omen-whether a good or sinister one, I can’t say-just that it made me feel my little brother was nearby. I closed my eyes and let the music fill my lungs.
Zing-zing-zing.
Tinkle-zing-zing.
Thoughts of Lou moved me closer to my grinning, lanky dad with a permanent five-o’clock shadow and flour on his shoes.
Zing-zing-zing.
Tinkle-zing-zing.
Memories of my dad hugging my mom in the kitchen until she pushes him away, giggling and smoothing her skirt as I enter the room, her face lighting up, so happy to see me, and she opens her arms and I’m right where I want to be, in her embrace. Her arms folded around me, and I smelled her rose-oil perfume and soft dark hair. It was sweet and sorrowful because we were together; I also knew I was asleep and dreaming, but we were together, and asleep, and then I was pitching weightlessly over the edge of a cool blue waterfall, not caring if I ever touched the bottom. Falling, normally terrifying, was a relief. It felt so good that I never wanted to wake up, but I did, because my mom woke me. I felt her delicate hand brush my cheek and opened my eyes without lifting my head from the pillow. She was sitting in the chair across from me, and I said, “Mom. You’re alive. .”
She smiled. “I’m with your dad and Lou, Sara Jane, and we need you.”
“I need you, too. All of you. But I can’t find you.”
“You can’t stop now. You’ve come so far in such a short time.”
“I’m tired, Mom.” I yawned. “Too tired to go on.”
“But darling,” she said, her smile fading, “if you don’t look for us, who will?”
“So tired. .” My eyelids fluttered.
“Sara Jane,” she said, and the urgency in her normally calm speech forced my attention. “If you don’t look for us,” she said, folding herself into the chair across from me, “we may never be found.”
“Okay, Mom, okay,” I said through another yawn. “I’ll keep looking. I just need to sleep first, okay?”
Her smile returned. “You’re such a strong girl. .”
Behind her words, another voice warned, “That’s a nice girl, that. But she ought to go careful in Vienna. .”
My mom said, “But you have to be careful in Chicago. .”
The voice returned. “Everybody ought to go careful in a city like this.”
“Everybody,” my mom said, brushing my cheek again, “has to be careful in a city like this.”
I blinked awake at her gentle touch and looked at the robe folded over the chair. A voice murmured behind me, and I turned to the TV. I’d watched The Third Man with Lou so many times that I knew the character’s name-Popescu. “Everybody ought to go careful in a city like this,” he said gravely. I looked at the robe again and then lay back on the downy pillow. This time I couldn’t have stopped crying if I wanted to, the tears fed by the cool blue waterfall over which I’d tumbled. It was late Tuesday afternoon, and small gusts of air-conditioning rippled the curtains, moving golden spots of filtered sunlight around the ceiling. The room was so beautiful and comfortable, so desolate and remote, that it felt like the end of a life. I wanted to get up, pack my few things, and continue on my desperate journey to nowhere, but my body was dead weight.
I tried to lift an arm but it wouldn’t move.
I willed my leg to bend but it was paralyzed.
I turned inward to my aloneness and cried until I was unconscious.
When I awoke, the only light in the room was the rectangle of flat-screen TV, glowing on the wall like a secret portal. I looked to it, hoping for an answer, and watched a man bark about politics until his face turned red, and turned it off.
There were so few answers.
So many questions.
There was no one to help me but me.
For the next unknown hours I slept and became conscious and slept again. I remember trying to order room service, slurring my order into the room’s phone and then canceling it, trudging across the carpet to pee in the marble bathroom, and then rolling back into bed. It’s possible that I would’ve remained semicomotose forever if my cell phone hadn’t rung and led me out of the fog. It buzzed for what seemed like an eternity, but I was so far from wakefulness that I couldn’t rouse myself to answer it. After it stopped, I blinked thickly and opened my eyes. Sunlight blared through the curtains. I struggled to sit up, throwing my legs over the side of the bed like they belonged to someone else. I used the heels of my palms to grind sleep from my eyes, not knowing what day it was and not caring. It felt as if my entire being had gone through a gigantic meat grinder and then been slapped and patted back into shape.
It wasn’t quite an emotional breakdown that I had.
It was more like a break apart, clean and oil the pieces, and put back together.
I was far from being in a happy place, but at least more prepared for what might lurk outside the door.