“What if—” Sylvia said, and stopped.
“What if what?”
“What if it’s not you who runs? But me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re their investment, Kathy. They care about keeping you on the hook to do them favors. They don’t care about me. What if I take the baby somewhere? You stay behind like nothing happened. Do their bidding, bide your time. And visit in secret while we figure out a better plan.”
“Well, first off, they’d find out about the baby anyway, because there’s the rest of the pregnancy and then the birth, which I won’t be able to hide. Second, they’d notice that you’re gone. Charlie? Ray? They’d put two and two together and figure out you ran with the baby. They’d come looking for you. The baby would still be in danger, but now so would you.”
“Not if they never know about the baby, and they think I’m dead.”
“I don’t understand. How?”
“Women hide pregnancies, and people fake cancer. They do it all the time, as a grift. In my case, it would be easy, because I was sick before. They’d believe it for sure. Say I lose a few pounds. Put on a turban like I lost my hair. We take a picture for the Facebook with an IV in my arm, tubes in my nose, a little contour on my cheeks so I’m gaunt. You take a leave of absence from work to care for me. Say you’re bringing me somewhere for treatment. Then disappear till after the baby comes. Nobody will suspect. Your husband just got killed, and now your mother’s dying? Who’s gonna begrudge you, or think to check your story?”
“Wow. That could actually work.”
“It will work. I’m a good actress when I want to be.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“For you. And for my grandchild.”
“His name is Ollie.”
“No,” Sylvia said, eyeing Kathryn’s waistline. “You’re carrying thick in the middle like I did with you. That’s a girl in there, for sure.”
33
Kathryn had thought it would take an effort to cry at Sylvia’s memorial service, since her mother wasn’t actually dead. But she broke down repeatedly. She’d given birth just two weeks earlier. The bleeding had stopped, but her breasts were still engorged, and her hormones haywire. She longed for that red-faced, scrunchy little baby with a physical craving. Grace. Her downy head, her perfect fingers and toes and ears. She understood that they couldn’t be together. But the separation hurt worse than anything she’d ever felt. When Matthew died, he was gone forever. It was final. There was nothing to do but accept, and plot revenge. Grace was still here on this earth. She could be touched and held and kissed and cuddled. Just not by Kathryn. Ten minutes after being discharged from the anonymous Midwestern hospital where she’d given birth, she’d waved goodbye under cover of darkness. Her stitches hurt. There was a heavy pad between her legs. But it was her heart that felt like it would explode. If there had been any other way … but there wasn’t. Sylvia’s death certificate was ready. It was time to call Ray, notify him of her passing, and announce Kathryn’s imminent return, along with the date of the memorial service.
And that’s what she did, because she’d learned the hard way that delay could be deadly.
That night, she watched the people she loved most in the world drive off in a used Volvo, registered in Sylvia’s new name of Marie Allen. The Volvo had an infant seat in the back and a portable crib and stroller in the trunk. Also, two cases of formula, three boxes of newborn Huggies, and piles of tiny clothes. Onesies, footie pajamas, little hats and booties and blankies and a shopping bag full of stuffed animals. Things that Kathryn had lovingly collected during the months of Sylvia’s fake illness to gift to her daughter. Things that would touch her velvet skin when Kathryn couldn’t, comfort her in the night when her mother wasn’t there. Though, if she was honest with herself, Grace wouldn’t miss her. How could you miss someone you didn’t know?
The Volvo’s navigation system was programmed with the address of a small house on a lake in remote northern New Hampshire, purchased with the down payment money intended for her family home with Matthew. She’d drained the account to pay for the house in cash, because monthly mortgage payments could be traced. Sylvia complained about the destination. Why pick a place with such brutal winters? Why not Arizona, or better yet, Miami Beach? There was a reason. The house backed onto woods full of hiking trails, less than a mile from the Canadian border. You could step out the back door, walk for fifteen minutes, and cross into Canada without being seen. Besides, it was close enough for Kathryn to visit, if she ever decided that was safe to do. And it was only for a while. They’d live there until she could join them permanently, which hopefully wouldn’t be long.