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SEVEN
JULIA
Conrad and I set out on the twenty-two-hour trip with Columbia, South Carolina the destination entered in my Maps app. The drive is exhausting for both of us. I drink enough caffeine to stay awake without having to pee every hour. Conrad has multiple temper tantrums, screaming and kicking his car seat and crying himself to sleep. I feel like the worst mother ever for torturing him like this, but the sooner we get where we’re going, the less danger we’ll be in. When we stop for food and restroom breaks, I choose restaurants in congested areas. We pull our baseball caps low to hide our faces and try our best to blend in with the crowds. When I get a flat tire near Kansas City, a kind service station attendant helps me plug it. Later, failing to check the gas gauge, we coast on fumes to a St. Louis convenience store. After filling up with gas, we drive to a nearby motel where we spend our first night.
The long hours on the lonely highway give me too much time to obsess about our predicament. But it’s too late to turn back now. Grady destroyed our lives, and I’m doing the best I can to make the best of what’s left.
I breathe a loud sigh of relief when we pull into the parking lot of a seedy motel on the outskirts of Columbia.
“How long until we get to Adventure, Mommy?” Conrad asks as I unbuckle him from his car seat.
“We’re getting close. We have a two-hour drive to get to the coast in the morning, and then we’ll start searching for Adventure. What do you think about living near the ocean?”
“I’ve never been to the ocean. Why can’t we live on our farm?”
“You know why, son.” The farm and his father will eventually fade from his memory. I’m sad he won’t remember our good times at the farm as a family, but forgetting the past is in Conrad’s best interests.
The shady-looking man at the front desk in the motel’s office gives me the creeps. I’m reaching for the door, preparing to bolt, when he asks, “Are you interested in a room, miss?”
Dropping my hand, I approach the check-in desk. “Yes, please.”
He looks past me at the parking lot. “Is it just the two of you? No husband?”
Without thinking, a yes slips from my lips. Why didn’t I tell him my husband was at the burger place next door ordering takeout? I’m not used to lying. I need to think faster on my feet.
He strokes his straggly beard with one hand as he studies the computer screen. “Kings are all I have left.”
“That’s fine. We can share a bed.”
I feel his steely gaze on me as I rummage in my purse for my wallet, like a predator eyeing its prey. I slip out one of the prepaid cards Eleanor gave me, but I feel certain he saw the others lined up in the wallet.
Once the registration is complete, the desk clerk hands me a folder with two key cards, and I hurry out of the office. We order dinner from the Burger Shack next door, and I drive around to our room at the back of the building. We appear to be the only guests booked in this remote section of the hotel. The seclusion is a good thing when you’re hiding. But I have a sick feeling the desk clerk put us here for a reason. I tell myself I’m being paranoid and unload our meager belongings from the car.
We eat our dinner at the small table beside the window with the heavy curtains open and the sheers pulled tight. Conrad plants his elbow on the table with his head resting in his hand, staring down at his food without taking a bite.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? I know you’re tired. This has been a difficult trip. But I promise we’re close to finding our new home. Then you can start school and make new friends.”
Conrad drags a french fry through a puddle of ketchup. “Do my new friends have to call me Conrad?”
“Yes, son. That’s your name now,” I say, biting into my cheeseburger.
He sticks out his lower lip. “But I don’t like that name. I want to be Levi again.”
I’m running out of patience. We have this same argument nearly every day. “What if we think of a nickname for you? Conny has a nice ring to it.”
“Yuck. That sounds stupid. What about Buddy?”
I stare up at the water-stained ceiling as I consider the name. “That could work. But why Buddy?”
“That’s what Daddy always called me.”
I tap my chin. “Come to think of it, I call you Buddy sometimes too. But when people ask for your name, you tell them Conrad, but you prefer to go by your nickname, Buddy. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says and stuffs the ketchup-soaked fry into his mouth.
After dinner, I help Conrad brush his teeth and change into his pajamas. He selects two books from his small library, and I tuck him into bed. Most kids sleep with a stuffed animal. My son sleeps with the beloved baseball bat and glove his father gave him. We only make it through one bedtime story before he falls fast asleep.
After putting the books away, I pause to peek out the window. Street lights illuminate the deserted parking lot. It’s almost ten o’clock, and we are the only guests staying at the back of the motel. I have an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is very wrong. I close the heavy drapes and turn my back on the window.
