Kit remained quiet, maybe lost in thoughts of his own. After a moment, he said, “I remember reading about that in the paper. I’m sorry I didn’t put two and two together sooner,” he told Valentina.
“Don’t be sorry for me. I’ve had a decent life. It’s Renée I’m sorry for. I swear I’ll send her to Switzerland. Anywhere that’s far away from that perverted piece of garbage.”
“You’ll do what’s best for her,” Ali said. “Renée is a good kid, just young and impressionable.”
“I get that, but why him, of all people? He’s old enough to be her father! It’s sick!” Val said, then stepped away from the window. “I’ve always disliked him. She knows this. He knows it, too.”
Ali rubbed the old scar on her temple, thinking back to when she was Renée’s age. She had been hardened, wise beyond her years. No way would she have been intimidated by a freak like John Wilson. But before the final experience that sent her running, she’d always held a shred of hope that her life would turn out to be normal, happy, if only the state would find a nice foster family for her to spend the last two years of high school with.
Chapter Thirteen
Covered in blood—her own and his—Alison reached the bus station and saw that it was empty, except for a clerk who appeared lost in his video game. She hurried to the ladies’ room before he could spot her.
Seeing herself in the mirror, then quickly looking away, she turned the faucet on with her uninjured arm. Alison was grateful it was her left arm that was injured, since she was right-handed. She caught the icy cold water in her right hand, splashing her face several times before she dared to look in the mirror again. A cut on the left side of her head oozed blood. She leaned in closely to get a better look. The cut was deep; it probably needed stitches. She also sensed her arm was broken, but medical attention was out of the question. If she showed up at the emergency room at this hour, with her injuries, it wouldn’t take long for someone at the hospital to call Child Protective Services. She’d be returned to the Robertsons’， where she was unprotected by those who were paid to protect her and three other girls.
Each pulse of her heartbeat magnified the pain in her head and arm. Knowing she had to take care of her injuries on her own, she went inside one of the three stalls, choosing the handicapped one, because it was biggest. She slid down onto the dirty tile, not caring there was urine on the floor. She’d seen much worse. With the small amount of cash she’d saved, she had enough for aspirin and some kind of arm bandage. Alison stayed in the stall for another hour before the pain sent her out into the night, searching for relief. Pretty sure IGA was open twenty-four hours, she made her way out of the bus station undetected.
It took an hour for her to walk the three miles. She kept telling herself all the pain in the world was better than being around him. Inside the IGA, the scent of the bakery’s yeasty sweetness filled the air. The tasty donuts were famous around town. Alison wanted one so badly she could taste it. She hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday. Finding the aisle where the pain relievers were, she chose a generic bottle of extra-strength acetaminophen, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a box of Band-Aids. Unable to find a brace, she opted for an Ace bandage. She’d figure out a way to use it. Next, she headed to the bakery, where the donuts still smelled like heaven. She took a box of six, along with a small carton of chocolate milk, not knowing when she’d have another chance to eat.
She dropped her purchases onto the conveyer belt. The cashier, an older woman, shook her head. “Girl, you look pretty beat up,” she said as she bagged her items. She took her cash but didn’t speak again. Alison was grateful. Yes, she was beat up, but more mentally than physically. As soon as she left the store, she headed back to the bus station, and again she slipped in without anyone paying attention. She’d had three of the donuts and all of the milk on her walk back. Now back in the handicapped stall, she swallowed four of the pills, using water cupped in her good hand from the faucet.
Next, she removed her shirt, careful of her injured arm. When she saw the extent of the damage to her arm, she realized the Ace bandage wouldn’t do much save hide the cuts. Taking a deep breath, she eased her arm under the cool water, carefully wiping away the blood from the cuts; then, she doused her wounds with peroxide, cringing at the sting. Once she’d cleaned up as best she could, she added Band-Aids, then wrapped the Ace bandage around her arm loosely before pulling her shirt back over her head. Another glance in the mirror revealed she looked hideous, but she’d cleaned up most of the visible blood. Knowing it was now or never, she went to the clerk, a woman this time, and asked her what time the next bus left.
“Ten minutes, ” she told her.
“How much?” Alison asked, not caring where the bus was headed, as long as it was out of the state of Ohio.
“Fifty-five for a round trip to Atlanta is all we got now,” she said, adding, “each way. ”
“What’s it cost for one way?”
“Sixty dollars,” she told her.
She counted out the money and gave it to the woman, realizing after her purchase at IGA and this ticket, she only had eighteen dollars left. The lady handed her a small booklet with a number of pages. “Each stop, you’ll need one to show the driver. You’ll change buses in Tennessee.”
Alison had never left the state of Ohio. Acting like she’d done this before, she said, “I know.” She flipped through the booklet. She also held onto the IGA paper bag, thankful it was light.
“You want food, you gotta bring your own,” the clerk told her.
Alison knew it was obvious she’d never traveled before. She held up the box with three remaining donuts. “I’m good,” she said, even as hot shards of pain shot up and down her left arm.
“Then have a safe trip,” the lady added.
Alison took a seat on a highly polished wooden bench, long enough to seat at least a dozen or more. As soon as she settled on the bench, she heard hissing, a squeal, and a slow grind as the brakes from the bus came to a complete stop in front of the station. She couldn’t wait to get on the bus and on the way to a brand-new life. As soon as they allowed her and the six other passengers to board, she chose a seat in the middle of the bus. If she sat in the back, she’d stick out like a sore thumb, the same if she was in the front. Laying her IGA bag on the aisle seat, hoping to deter anyone from sitting beside her even though the bus had plenty of seats, she waited. No one got off in Middletown. She didn’t pay much attention to her fellow passengers, as she was trying her best to appear normal and go unnoticed while waiting to depart.
Feeling safe for the first time since she left the Robertsons, she leaned her head against the window, then jerked away. The cut on the left side of her temple still hurt, and her left arm was useless. Knowing she needed medical care—and soon—if she hoped to use her arm again, she’d have to see a doctor. Searching through the ticket booklet, she saw several stops. If she could make it to an emergency room during one of the stops, she’d get the bone set, a cast or something, then hurry back to the bus station and continue on to Atlanta. Once in a new town, she hoped the hospital wouldn’t ask too many questions. Right now, all she wanted to do was sleep, but pain and fear kept her alert. She wished she had a book or a magazine. Never in a million years did she imagine that the day after high school graduation, she’d be on her own, heading to parts unknown.