The Girl in the Red Coat

51

Or perhaps it’s not like that. Perhaps, after all, you can be free and not have to be all alone. I think of Mum and Dad. Melody. Nico. Gramps. I don’t want to have to die to be free — I could stay alone here and turn into an icy statue, or I could start walking. So that’s what I do.

I start walking back.

On the highway the cars are driving slowly, crushing the ice and sending it up in a great spray. I walk on the grass at the edge because there’s no sidewalk. The light has started to fade.

I wrap my jacket closer around me and wonder where I’m going. It’s going to be dark soon — I think of the ditch I spent the night in with Gramps. But I can’t see any ditches by the side of this road. And the idea of sleeping in a ditch again is bad, but not as bad as the thought that Munroe might be cruising round looking for me in his SUV to catch me. This could be my chance, I think. Take it, take it.

I turn a corner and there’s a house. It’s set back from the road and it looks like it was there before the highway and everything else got built around it and that’s why it’s on its own. There’s light at a downstairs window.

I stand in the front yard. The window is open a crack and the height of it is about the same as my head. I hear dishes clattering inside and water running. I tap on the window.

‘Who’s that?’ It’s a woman’s voice.

‘Please. Please help me,’ I call through the crack.

A figure appears at the window and looks down. It’s a woman with grey hair and a large face. She looks startled, angry even.

‘Can you help me?’ I say again. But I’m not sure if she’s hearing me, my voice is like a squeak in my mouth.

‘Get away.’ Her voice is fearful.

‘Please,’ I say it louder, ‘if I could just use your phone. I need to try to call my dad. If you know how to find numbers …’

‘Get away. Get out of my yard. Go, or I’ll call the police.’ The window slams shut.

I walk away and rejoin the highway. It’s getting proper dark now and the traffic flows past me, chucking up melted ice.

Then, lit up like Christmas, a diner — ‘Last Stop’ — the name in neon pink and the words shining upside down on wet ground. I’m so weary now I have to stop.

Inside is red Formica everywhere and I’m the only customer. A man stands behind the counter looking out. There’s a big clock on the wall above him. He stands there like he’s been waiting for me.

I go to the counter and fumble with frozen fingers in my breast pocket for the few dollars there. ‘Pie, please,’ I say.

‘What was that?’ My voice has gone so small again he has to lean over to hear.

‘Pie, please.’

‘Cherry or apple?’

‘Cherry.’

‘Cream or ice cream?’

‘Cream, please.’

He cuts me a slice of pie and spoons cream on and I take it and climb up on a high stool and start to eat, each mouthful warm and sweet. I look down and see the white lace at the bottom of my dress hanging down over my jeans black with dirt, and wet. I touch my face and feel a bruise coming where I got hit with Maxine’s wheelchair. I think about writing my name on a napkin and feel about in my pocket but my pen has gone. All the times I’ve written it: in salt from little packets on diner tables; on the walls of restrooms; at the bottom of menus; in the dust on the sides of trucks. There must be nets of it criss-crossing this huge land by now.

I turn away to eat my pie so the man won’t see my face all broken and scared and it’s so quiet the clock above us fills the room with its tick.

When I finish I turn back again and the man behind the counter hasn’t moved. He stands, his face yellow in the light, watching me.