She thought of doing that. She did.

But where would she have gone? She had no plan, no college tuition, let alone money to live on campus. She’d always thought she might want to become a writer, but that was an impossible dream.

That’s what her high school English teacher told her.

A frustrated novelist himself, he said, “Don’t waste your time on anything frivolous when you have bills to pay. Get a real job and save your money, and when you’re rich, you can write all you want . . . or win the lottery. Those are your choices.”

On some level, Kay respected his blunt honesty.

On another, she hated him.

But she listened. And she stayed put.

Got a customer service job and worked her way through college at night, majoring in computer science. She was hired at the federal prison in Terre Haute right after she got her degree—hoping for an IT position, but offered one as a guard instead.

Her mother scoffed at that, scoffed at everything.

And still, Kay didn’t leave.

What was I waiting for?

Sometimes she wonders.

Other times she knows: she was waiting for her mother to have a change of heart. To apologize, maybe. To realize that the only person who’d ever been loyal to her and deserving of her love had been right there under her nose all along.

Kay stayed, and she waited, and she nursed her mother through every stage of a brutal terminal illness. But on her deathbed, as Kay moistened those cracked lips with ice chips, they still refused to utter the words she longed to hear.

Mother’s final words were for the man who had walked out on her when she found herself pregnant all those years ago.

It was his name she called with her very last breath; it was his face she saw, though Kay was right there in front of her.

She remembers the eerie sensation of her mother looking through her, as if at something—someone—over her shoulder.

“You’re here!” she said, squeezing Kay’s hand with more strength than she’d had in weeks.

“Yes, Mother, don’t worry . . .”

“You left me! Why did you leave me?”

“I didn’t leave you, Mother! I’ve been right here by your bed!”

“Why?” Tears were rolling down her mother’s cheeks now. “Why? I needed you so, and you left . . .”

“But I didn’t! I didn’t, and I won’t!” Kay was crying, too.

The hospice volunteer who had come to stand beside Kay rested a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “She’s not talking to you, dear. It’s all right.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s common. I’ve seen this happen many times. At the end . . . sometimes, they see . . . loved ones.”

“She’s hallucinating?”

The woman hesitated, then shrugged and said again, “It’s common.”

Kay nodded, lips pressed together to keep them from trembling. She felt her mother holding her hand, squeezing it. Stared at her mother, who was looking right at her, but not seeing her. Saw her mother’s eyes squint a little.

“You came back for me, Paul! I knew you would . . . yes, I’m ready. I’m ready. What is that light? . . . Oh . . . Oh, yes. Yes, let’s go.”

Those were her last words.

Kay held her hand until it grew cold.

“All right, here we are . . .” The waitress is back with her coffee and orange juice, plus biscuits.

With real butter.

Meredith would approve.

Kay’s phone buzzes in her pocket as she breaks open a biscuit.

She pulls it out and sees that there’s a text from Landry.

Boarding flight to Cincy now. Delayed. Will call when I get to hotel.

Kay quickly texts back, OK, safe flight.

Replacing her phone in her pocket, she feels relieved. That just bought her a little more time before they have to meet. Maybe by the time Landry arrives, she’ll feel ready.

If she doesn’t . . .

There’s no turning back now.

Jaycee steps out of the elevator in the marble lobby of her building wearing a sleeveless black summer dress, large hat, and dark sunglasses, carrying the kind of oversized designer purse the women in this neighborhood use to carry as little as a cell phone and lipstick or as much as a change of clothes, a small dog, laptop, and umbrella.

Mike the doorman is at his post, leaning on the security desk with a newspaper open in front of him. Either it’s not the Post, or he hasn’t yet read his way to page eight, or he really doesn’t know her true identity after all. The apartment isn’t listed in her name—in any of her names. Discretion is the name of the game in a building like this. That’s why she lives here.

Whatever the case, Mike doesn’t bat an eye when he spots Jaycee.

“ ’Morning,” he says, going to open the door for her. “Need a cab?”

“No, thanks.” She steps out onto the sidewalk, noting that the sky is starting to cloud over.

But she leaves the hat and sunglasses on, as always.

“Have a nice day,” Mike calls after her, and she gives a little wave as she walks toward Fifth.

She turns a corner, another corner, and another, leaving her neighborhood behind. Despite the threat of rain, the streets are crowded as always: dog walkers, tourists headed for the Metropolitan museum, young families bound for the park with strollers, trikes, and training wheels. No one gives her a second glance.

Fellow New Yorkers rarely do; too caught up in the daily tribulations of maneuvering through their own daily lives in this challenging city. Naturally, she stays away from tourist haunts where gawkers might be more prevalent; stays away from public places in general. For years she rarely even left her apartment. But that’s become harder and harder to do lately, thanks to Cory.

He insists that he has her best interests in mind, and she supposes that’s true. She can’t stay hidden away forever. It’s why, for the past eighteen months or so, she’s been laying the groundwork for—

In her bag, her phone buzzes, vibrates. She ignores it.

Probably Cory. He left half an hour ago, on his way to the gym.

“Just lay low. I’ll check in this afternoon,” he told her.

“No need. I’ll be fine.”

“You,” he said, “are never really fine when it comes to this stuff. And I know you well enough to know that is especially true today.”

She didn’t argue with that. It is true, but even if it wasn’t . . .

It’s just easier, she’s discovered, to let Cory think he knows her better than anyone.

“Better than you know yourself,” he once had the audacity to claim.

Not true at all.

If he really knew her, he’d realized she wasn’t about to lay low, trapped in her high rise for a day, a weekend, or God knows how long until the latest storm blows over.

If he really knew her, he’d expect her to escape.

Yes. When the going gets tough, the tough get going . . . literally. She’s been doing it all her life.

On Lexington Avenue in the Sixties, Jaycee steps to the curb, turns to face oncoming traffic, and raises her arm to hail a cab.

A yellow taxi promptly pulls over.

She opens the door and climbs in.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks as he starts the meter.

“JFK.” She leans back in the seat, clutching her bag on her lap.

Reaching Out

The first time my blog went live, I remember feeling totally alone, envisioning the void beyond my laptop. I was writing extremely personal stuff, things I might never mention to anyone in real life, face-to-face, yet there it was, heading out to . . . where?

Somewhere.

I guess deep down I was hoping someone might find it. But I doubted it, and knowing no one was reading made it easier to keep going. It was very liberating, writing about the day cancer changed my life or how exposed I felt at the hands (literally) of my surgeons or the difficulties keeping my job at the prison a priority.