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“Take the damn money and at least get a decent room,” Preston said.
“Damn,” Max repeated. “Can I say shit and damn when I get big?”
“No,” she snapped. “And you can’t do anything else like Mr. Holman, either. If I have my way, your heart will never be three sizes too small. Say goodbye to Mr. Scrooge.”
“Mr. Scrooge?” Max echoed.
Preston didn’t hear Emma’s response because she’d already slammed the door. He watched her grab her son’s hand and stomp into the office. She didn’t even have any luggage. She carried only a backpack and a purse, a purse with apparently little money.
Dropping his head into his hands, Preston massaged his temples. She’d alluded to The Grinch, not A Christmas Carol. She had her Christmas stories screwed up, after all. But it didn’t matter. His heart was three sizes too small.
He hesitated a moment longer but, ultimately, the gun pressing into his back reminded him that she’d be better off making other plans, plans that didn’t include him.
CHAPTER SIX
MAX GIGGLED at a Tom and Jerry cartoon while Emma lay down across from him on one of the beds in their moldy-smelling motel room. They’d already walked to Elmer’s Drive-In next door, where she’d bought her son a hamburger and fries and given him what she hoped would be his final injection for the day. Happy to be out of the car, he was momentarily entertained, which came as a much-needed relief to Emma.
But she was getting hungry. In order to save money, she’d nibbled on a few of Max’s fries instead of buying herself dinner. Preston had scoffed at a mere ten bucks, but to Emma, every dollar counted. She had only twenty-five hundred to her name. If she and Max didn’t want to be out on the street when they reached the midwest, they’d need first and last month’s rent and deposit, and enough money to support them until she could find a job.
Twenty-five hundred wasn’t much to begin a new life with, especially a life filled with so many unknowns. She’d never used her degree. Would she be able to find work as a teacher? If not, would there be something else? Would they even be able to make it to Iowa? And without a car, how would they get around after they settled down?
She knew Preston had been her best bet for immediate transportation, but she didn’t regret what she’d said to him. She couldn’t ride with him anymore. The stress of trying to keep Max quiet for miles on end was making her crazy. And she couldn’t tolerate feeling like such a burden. She’d tried to be nice. She’d helped Preston drive and offered him money for gas. He’d refused, but she couldn’t spare him any kind feelings for that. Nothing seemed to make a difference. He just didn’t want them around. Period.
So what was she going to do?
No brilliant ideas came to mind. Emma knew she and Max could languish in Ely for days, even weeks, if she couldn’t find someone else to give them a ride. They couldn’t take a bus, even if Ely had service. Manuel—and maybe the authorities, if they bothered to search for car thieves anymore—would be keeping too close an eye on such an obvious alternative.
She’d figure something out, she told herself. Later. First, she’d get some sleep so she wouldn’t have to feel the hunger pangs. In the morning, she’d think of an answer.
Please, God, let there be an answer.
“Mommy, can we go swimming?”
Emma realized her eyes had drifted shut and forced them open. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t go to sleep right now. After napping so long in the van, Max wouldn’t be tired for a while yet. She needed to bathe him and test his blood one last time. Then she had to set the motel’s alarm clock to get her up at three and test him again.
She rolled onto her side, dragging one of the pillows with her. “This motel doesn’t have a pool, sweetheart.”
“But I’m hot.”
So was she. The Feel Good Motel didn’t have any air-conditioning, either—at least of the effective variety. A window unit rattled and hummed and managed to stir the air, but certainly wasn’t pumping out anything cool. “It’ll get better after dark. We’ll open the windows.”
“Can’t we find a swimming pool?”
“I don’t know where to look.”
“Mr. Holman has one at his motel.”
Leave it to Max to notice. Emma had been too preoccupied with Preston himself. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I saw it. We could go over there.”
“No, honey. Mommy’s tired.”
“Please? Just for a little while?”
Emma thought of their suitcases sitting in the trunk of the Taurus, which had, no doubt, been impounded by the police. “We don’t have our swimsuits.”
“Yes, we do.” Max hopped up and dashed over to the backpack where she stored his diabetes supplies. The moment he touched it, Emma remembered stuffing their swimwear in a side pocket the night before they left. Exercise made a real difference with Max’s diabetes, and compared to a bat and ball, swimsuits took up no room at all.
Pulling out her black bikini, along with his red, white and blue swimming trunks, he grinned broadly as he waved them at her. “See?”
“The pool is for patrons,” she said.
“What’s a patron?”
“Someone who’s paid to stay at that particular motel.”
“Mr. Holman is paying for a room there. Can’t we ask him if he’ll let us swim in his pool?”
No! After the way they’d parted, Emma refused to ask Mr. Holman for anything. But how could it hurt to sneak in and take a quick dip? If they got caught, the Starlight Motel wouldn’t do anything worse than kick them out. And the exercise would be good for Max. She could probably use some herself.
“Okay,” she said. “As soon as I call Juanita’s sister, we’ll go over there and see if we can get in.”
“Can Juanita come, too?”
“She’s too far away.”
“Why are you calling her sister?”
“Just to check in, see how Juanita’s doing.” And to get a message to her. Emma wanted to find out where Manuel was right now, so she’d know if she and Max were safe for the moment. She also had to figure out the significance of that document Juanita had placed in the glove box of the Taurus.
Sitting up, she dragged the phone closer, dug Juanita’s slip of paper out of her purse and dialed Rosa’s number. She’d paid for the room with cash, but the motel manager had insisted she leave a credit card on file for incidentals, which meant telephone calls. In this motel, there wouldn’t be a minibar or workout room or any other amenities. Fortunately, she’d been able to use one of the prepaid cards Carlos had bought for her. A phone call to California wouldn’t cost much—and Manuel couldn’t trace the charge because this card was in her new name.
