“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“I love helping, especially with a baby,” she says, and I peer down at her bag, my heart beating so loudly I think she can hear it. She starts to tell a story about when her daughter was young, but all I hear is my pulse. I keep my eyes steadily on her back as I ever so slowly reach my hand into her bag and pull out her leather clutch.
“That was before we had mommy blogs, you know, so...” she continues. She turns slightly, looking for somewhere to chuck the dirty diaper, and I leap up, concealing the clutch.
“I’ll take that!” I say and take the diaper, then quickly turn my back and pull out a twenty—that’s all she has—and walk the few steps to pull a plastic bag out of the baby bag and stuff the diaper inside. I walk back to her spot, the clutch inside my cardigan, and sit back in her chair. She turns around, picking up Avery.
“Isn’t that better? Yes,” Cora says to her.
I can imagine I look pale as a ghost.Shit, shit, shit.She sits at the edge of the daybed, bouncing Avery on her lap.
“Her booties,” I say, desperately hoping she turns back around and doesn’t just reach down and pick them up off the deck floor where Avery must have kicked them off.
“Booties! Yes, sweetheart, it’s chilly, isn’t it?” She sweeps Avery up in her arms, lays her back down on the daybed, and pulls on her tiny crocheted bunny booties, and I drop the clutch back into her bag and let out the breath I was holding for so long my lungs ached.
I exhale and watch how tender she is with Avery. I think for a second that I have found someone to trust. In a wild, mad moment, I want to ask her if she could possibly watch Avery for a little bit. I’ve only had the camera frozen for about twenty minutes. If I could get there and back in an hour, Lucas might just think we’d taken a longer nap, and it might not raise any red flags. He hasn’t noticed anything amiss yet. It could be my only shot. I could take a cab with the twenty and be much faster than a bus and much faster without Avery. It’s not mad. I have to try.
“She sure likes you,” I say, and Cora’s eyes fill with pride or pleasure or something like that. “There’s no way you’d want to watch her for me, for just a little bit, is there?” I ask, nervously.
“Of course!” she almost shouts, not missing a beat.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” I say, out of obligation.
“I’d be thrilled to,” she says.
“I was gonna make a quick run out now and be back in an hour,” I say. Cora’s face is a mix of something: surprise and disappointment, if that’s possible. I can imagine she thinks I am capable of leaving the house but just don’t want to do it for her, perhaps. But I really don’t have time to worry about that.
“Of course,” she says.
“I should just be an hour, hopefully less.”
I watch Cora cross the street to her house with Avery on her hip and a giant baby bag slung over her shoulder. I hope I can trust her. I have to act fast. I need to go in the clothes I have on. First, I slide my plate with the dealership envelope under it, inside the front door, carefully, with one arm, so I’m not caught by a camera. Then, once I know Cora isn’t within eyeshot, I make my way around the side of the house. I can’t walk down our street and risk being spotted and having it mentioned to Lucas. I head for the small park behind the house, and when I see it’s empty except for a young mom I don’t recognize pushing an infant on a swing, I sprint across the park and keep running until I hit a main road.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I left Avery.It’s okay, I tell myself. Focus. I don’t have a phone to order an Uber, and it’s not the kind of city that is full of passing cabs.I don’t have time for this, I think, as I walk backward down the sidewalk, blocking the sun with my hand and searching for any sort of Lyft, cab, or Uber that might stop, but I don’t see anything, so I put my thumb out. I’ll probably get murdered, but I have no choice. It’s the middle of the day on a busy street, so maybe I’ll just get groped and not murdered.
It doesn’t take long for someone to pull over. Of course it’s a middle-aged man.
“Hey there,” he says, pushing open the passenger door. The car is a Passat from the ’90s, and he brushes empty beer cans off the seat to make room for me. He smiles at me from behind a frightening tangle of unkempt facial hair, and I notice his feet are bare. I weigh my options. Is this my only shot, or will I inevitably waste time fighting him off?
Then I see a taxi, four or five car lengths behind him, coming up to a red light. I run at it, and I throw myself in front of it as it slows. The diver honks at me and waves me out of the way, but when he stops at the light, I open the door just as he tries locking it to keep the crazy lady out, and I throw myself into the back seat.
“What the fuck are you doing, lady? I’m off duty. I’m on my lunch.”
“Please. It’s urgent. It’s only a few miles away. Please. It’s an emergency,” I beg.
“Well, call the cops,” he says.
“It’ll take too long! Please!”
“Jeez,” he says, running his hand through his hair. I look at the address on the envelope. I can’t give him a bank address because he’ll wonder why the bank is an emergency and maybe kick me out. I know it’s at Keller and Sixth, so I ask him to drop me there. He just shakes his head and drives.
“I’m so grateful. Thank you. Thank you so much.” After we drive the short distance, I ask how much.
“The meter is off. Just go,” he says.
“You’re a saint, really,” I say with tears in my eyes and then run through the pharmacy parking lot across to the front of the bank. I try to pause before going in so I don’t give away my desperation and alarm anyone. I take a couple breaths and tuck my hair behind my ears. I try to calm down before going inside. It feels so incredibly strange to be outside of the walls of that house; everything seems to move slowly, in a sort of surreal haze. I feel light-headed with adrenaline as I wait in line to speak to a teller. I. Don’t. Have. Time. For. This. I think about the camera and how long I’ve been gone. I’m still okay, it’s been less than an hour total, but I have to hurry.
When it’s my turn, I approach the bank teller—a woman in her thirties with a slicked back ponytail, large hoop earrings, impractically long nails. I show her the bank statement and ask to withdraw the balance and close the account. She says the usualWe’re sorry to hear thatspiel and then asks why. I say I’m moving, that it’s urgent.
