medicines and sleeping pills, but the more items I bring to the counter, the less likely the pharmacist might be to question why a teenage girl needs such a weird combination of over-the-counter medications. I pull a hat and a pair of mittens off the rack, tucking my old ones into my pockets. I slip the mittens on. They’re warm and fuzzy. I grab a couple pairs of each: one for Mom and one for Dad, just in case the attendant asks.
I walk down one of the aisles and nab a pair of sunglasses, large and black. I put them on and look in the mirror. I look like a bug. I like it.
In the next aisle, I find the cold medicines and sleeping pills. I pull down the bottles needed for the specific combination I researched online. I walk toward the pharmacist and place all of my items on the counter. He rings me up, and I hand him cash.
“Thank you, dear. Come again.”
He hands me a bag with my “medicine” and a separate bag with my new sunglasses and the extra mittens and hat. I put on my glasses and drop the drug bag into my travel bag. I walk to the door and disappear onto the street.
I check the time. It is twelve forty-five. Fifteen minutes to spare. Three hours and fifteen minutes until takeoff.
Chapter 7
“Did you find what you were looking for?” May greets me as I return to the corner. She must have been concerned that I might run or get lost. I don’t like that she has me on her mind. Play it cool, Jane.
“No, but I found mittens and stuff for my mom and dad.”
I open the bag and show her the mittens and hat.
“Those are cute-you got them at Dowden’s?”
I look down at the white paper bag and notice the little Dowden’s logo on it. Damn it, Jane. You want to blow this. That’s becoming clear.
“I didn’t like what Lila’s had. It all smelled of mothballs.”
The attendant smiles and says, “I’m not much of a vintage gal myself. You know, Dowden’s isn’t on the list, Jane.”
“Can that be our secret?” I say, with the deftness of a lifetime liar at the peak of her game. “I wasn’t thinking about that when I went in; it was just close by and I wanted to get back here in time.” I pause for a minute, searching her face, which is unreadable.
“I’m not a substance abuser, you know,” I add in a rush. “That’s not my bag; you could check my records. Really. I know it’s important not to be late, too.”
She smiles, nods, and winks at me.
We make small talk after that and exchange our family Christmas rituals. She’s from a don’t-open-presents- until-morning family and we are a blow-your-brains-out-before-morning family, so we didn’t have a lot in common. I lie, of course, and say we are also never-before-morning present openers. Blah blah blah.
Before I get on the bus, I give her an impromptu hug, which she returns. It makes her feel special and, hopefully, that will seal her silence. She likes me now and we have a secret; she’ll never turn me in, right?
It’s only five after one when the bus pulls out of Powder River. I sit in the back, which looks weird because I’m one of only three people on the bus. Be normal, Jane. Just do normal things.
My heart starts to pound fast, my lungs seize up a bit, and I wonder if the woman five rows ahead of me can hear it and if she suspects why I’m here. Nobody knows about the Plan, I tell myself. I’m just a girl flying home to New Jersey. I’m not from Life House. How could they tell? I look myself up and down. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing at all.
The bus rolls through town and then hits the highway to the airport. I see a rabbit dash across the snow, and I wonder how big the world must seem through those eyes. Or if the landscape is seriously abbreviated because he’s so low to the ground. Or maybe the rabbit can’t see very far at all and therefore nothing matters. I’ll never know; I can’t look it up at home. My mind races a million miles per hour. I am driving myself bonkers, so I close my eyes, steady my breath, and imagine the deep, blue-black horizon I’ll be seeing through the airplane window. Slowly, I feel a sense of relief and quiet wash through me. I am so close now, I tell myself over and over.
Twenty minutes more and we are at the airport. It’s one fifty-eight, two minutes ahead of schedule. My heartbeat slows. My mind clears. I can taste oblivion.
I walk off the bus with determination and more confidence than I’ve felt in years. It is a kind of euphoria, and I remind myself to ignore its siren-it is not a feeling I can hold on to. It only exists because I am preparing to execute the Plan. Nothing more complicated than that-don’t let your mind play tricks on you, Jane. I felt this feeling before my first “incident.” Don’t believe for a second this is a feeling you can sustain. This is your body trying to trick your mind into giving up the Plan.
Chapter 8
The Boise Airport is tiny, with just a handful of runways, a totally different species compared with Newark or Kennedy. Holiday travelers bustle from ticketing over to the main gate, and arrivals move from the main gate to ground transportation. It’s a little beehive of activity and a lot busier than I imagined. Somehow that’s comforting; it makes me feel invisible.
I head directly to West Air. As I walk, I feel a buzzing in my bag. I look in and pull out the Life House cell phone. It’s lit up with the general number to Life House. I debate for a second about answering it, but then decide against it. If they’re trying to reach me, it can’t be good. Why did you have to show off to the attendant, Jane? I pinch my leg hard, just to give myself a reminder about screwing up anymore.
I look up at the departure board and I see a long list of canceled departures, beginning at 5 p.m. My flight’s status is still on time. There must be a storm coming through. Damn it. Damn it. My heart starts to race and I swear to myself about how much I hate life and the unexpected and how if God will just get me on a plane, I promise I won’t go through with the Plan. I’m lying, of course, but frankly, if I thought God paid attention to the details, I probably wouldn’t be here in the first place. I put my mother’s credit card into the ticketing machine and it prints my boarding pass. Boarding at 3:30 p.m. Thank you, God!
Before I can go to gate 12, I have to pass through security. They have two scanners for the whole airport, and the thought of missing my flight makes me break into a sweat. I check my watch; it’s still only two twenty. I’ll be fine, I tell myself.
There’s a line of about ten people waiting to be processed. A young guy with a punkish haircut and a snowboard is having trouble passing through the right-side scanner. He probably has a metal plate in his head from falling off a ramp. I could just kill him. He looks at me as if to say, “Sorry-it isn’t me.” He’s cute, but really annoying right now.
Behind him, there is a group of rock climbers who all wear T-shirts that say Matternaught: Avalanche Valley, Grand Tetons. They are surrounded by a massive amount of baggage and gear.
They are loud and boisterous, like they are not used to congregating in crowded public places. They simply prove to me what I’ve always thought: there isn’t a group of people in the world that doesn’t bug me, given the right time and circumstances.
I check my watch again. It’s already two thirty. My anxiety is causing me to bite down on the inside of my cheek to avoid screaming right now.
A newlywed couple stands directly in front of me, waiting to go through the left scanner. Their names are Margaret and Eddie, two of the many facts I’ve gleaned from their unusually loud conversation. I never had any particular issues with the newly married, but now I begin to radiate contempt in their direction. Their incessant, narcissistic conversation about themselves is enough to make me vomit. I bite down harder on my cheek and I taste the salty metallic flavors in my own blood.
Margaret is complaining about her wedding ring; “Eddie, it’s just so heavy, it makes my wrist tired.” Eddie
