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Momma put the car in reverse and backed slowly out of the parking space. I took one last survey of the building we had inhabited for a few years and bit my bottom lip when I spotted the lawn chairs out in front of Mrs. Cowan’s apartment. I was going to miss her so much. I wondered what she would think once she realized we had picked up and left town. I was sure Josh would ask her what she knew about our disappearance. I hoped he wouldn’t be too hard on her. I got the feeling she wouldn’t take much, if any, of his disrespectful nonsense anyway.
Momma and I barely said a word to each other the hundred or so miles to D.C. Since the radio in the LeMans had been busted for years, I hummed songs like “Amazing Grace” and “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” most of the way. The same songs Grandma used to hum to me.
When we got to the 14th Street Bridge, I reached over the seat to get the piece of paper out of my duffel bag with the directions to Union Station scribbled on it and then proceeded to direct Momma the rest of the way there. We parked in the indoor garage, just like Irene had instructed us, grabbed our bags, locked the car, and caught the escalator down two levels to the terminal.
My eyes had a hard time adjusting to the bright lights as Momma and I searched for Irene. Union Station was packed. I remember thinking I had never seen so many people in one
place in my entire life.
“Momma, I don’t see Irene. Do you?” I asked in a panic. The huge clock in the center of the terminal said five minutes after twelve. I was hoping she hadn’t left because we weren’t there exactly on time.
“Isn’t that her over there?” Momma pointed toward a tall brunette in a gray trench coat. I thought she was right until the woman turned around and didn’t look a day over twenty.
“No, that’s not her.” We walked hand in hand past hordes of people rushing to catch this train or that train. “She has to be here someplace. She just has to be,” I whined.
Then I heard it, a faint but distinct cry. Someone was calling out my name. I swung around in the general direction of the voice and spotted Irene half-running toward us. She had these deep-set gray eyes that were so piercing you could see them a mile away.
Momma let out a heavy sigh. She wasn’t the only one relieved. “There she is. Our angel,” Momma remarked.
Irene caught up to us and hugged us both simultaneously. “It’s so great to see you,” she cheerily stated. “I was beginning to be afraid you wouldn’t show.” Momma and I ogled at each other for a few seconds. If Irene only knew how close she was to hitting the nail on the head. “I see you only have one bag each. That’s great! We have to travel light.”
“That is what you said, one bag apiece,” Momma replied, shifting her weight to her other foot and pulling the thick strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder. “The last thing we’re trying to do is impose.”
“Nina, it’s my pleasure to help you and Kandace out,” Irene quickly retorted. “There was a time when someone helped me and I feel it’s my duty to continue freeing women from their oppressive situations.” She glanced down at her watch. “I hate to rush you, but we better hurry to the gate. The train is already boarding.”
The curiosity was killing me. “Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you once we’re on board.”
“What about my car?” Momma asked.
“The car, the home, even the names are part of your past life.” Irene took Momma’s hand and held it tight. “The members of the Safe Haven are going to help you start anew.” Momma managed a smile, albeit fake. “Let’s hurry! We’re leaving from Gate 8.”
When we got to the gate, Irene flashed three tickets at the uniformed agent who waved us on. Within minutes, we were seated comfortably on the train in two double seats facing each other: Momma and me on one side, Irene on the other. She handed each of us a ticket. “Hang on to these. The conductor will collect them a little later.”
I was likely to faint when I read the name on my ticket. “Rhonda?” What kind of name is Rhonda, I thought to myself. I leaned over, trying to see Momma’s ticket. “What does yours say?”
“Gladys.” She chuckled. “Gladys Stevenson.”
“That’s right,” Irene confirmed, letting out a slight giggle of her own. “From this moment on, you are Gladys and Rhonda Stevenson from San Antonio, Texas.”
“Texas?” I fell out laughing at the mere thought of it. “Shouldn’t we have accents or something?”
“Not necessarily.” Irene started eyeing Momma’s purse. She held out her palm. “Hand over your wallet. Any identification that has your old name on it.”
Momma hesitated for a brief moment and then complied, taking her driver’s license and our insurance cards out and placing them in Irene’s hand. “I can keep the pictures, can’t I? They’re all the memories I have.”
“Do they have names written on the back?”
“No. No names.”
“Then you can keep them.” Irene stood up and headed toward the door of the car, swinging it open and stepping out on the platform separating it from the next car. The platform was surrounded by an air-tight rubber seal. Momma and I both gasped as we watched her fling Momma’s things out of a slightly ajar window. She came back inside, sealed the door, and took her seat. “There, it’s done. Now off to Maine we go.”
I looked down at my ticket again. The destination was Portland, Maine. That seemed fifty million miles away to me. It was a place I had only read about in books. I glanced back up at Irene. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
I hesitated, not sure whether or not I should mind my own business. “Irene isn’t your real name, is it?”
