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I moved with stately elegance toward the bathrooms. I swung my hips and held my head high. I walked like Penelope fucking Chambers.
Because although he made me weak and meek, he also demanded exacting standards when we were out in public, a wife who wouldn’t ‘embarrass him.’ Mouse in the house but queen on the scene.
He wanted me to be more beautiful, more perfect and elegant and witty than any of his friend’s or business partner’s wives. Oh, he’d undermine me to those self-same wives to ensure I was always isolated, but he wanted their husbands to be envious of him.
And I paid an exacting punishment when I failed.
So I knew how to own a room. And when I walked, heads turned.
It was one last runway for Penelope Chambers.
May she rest in fucking peace.
And then I got to the bathroom and headed for the handicap stall. I was quick about it. Time was of the essence. I felt it counting down, a giant ticking clock hanging over my head like a proverbial sword.
I couldn’t help feeling like I’d wasted too much time as it was. Frustrating, since I’d tried to plan everything to a T. I couldn’t have the cab driver bring me directly here. Or maybe it was foolish, Jeff was going to find out where I was going eventually, but taking every last precaution to throw him off the scent seemed smart at the time. Even though I knew he’d always end up following every bread crumb. I just prayed time was on my side.
There was no point in second-guessing myself now, I could only march full steam ahead. He should still be at work, without even a clue I’d left the house. Everything had been normal. Yes, he’d had me followed for a couple of years after my last escape attempt, and again after the suicide attempt, but I hadn’t noticed anyone tailing me for the last couple of years.
Everything was fine.
It was fine.
Still, I hurried as I shimmied out of the bandage dress one final time and pulled on a ratty pair of jeans. I smoothed my hair down as flat as it would go and nimbly braided the length of it, that I then pinned in a crown around my head. I’d watched this in a YouTube video at the library and practiced in the library bathroom, not daring to try at home.
Once it was pinned as flat as I could get it, I tucked a bit of pantyhose over top to keep it all down, then pulled on a brown chin-length hairpiece that helped change the shape of my face in appearance.
I’d practiced enough times to be able to do all this within five minutes, and a quick glance at my mp3 player showed I was keeping up with my best times. I’d left my phone at home and had picked up the mp3 player at a thrift store. I was so paranoid, I never even hooked it up to our wifi at home. I only charged it at coffeeshops or the library and hid it so Jeff never knew I had it.
I pulled on big, chunky glasses with fake lenses and used a wet wipe to scrub all the makeup off my face. Last, I slipped on what looked like a septum piercing in my nose. A big, baggy flannel shirt completed the look.
My old clothing and blonde wig all went back into a plastic bag, and finally, I pulled a wadded-up denim backpack out of the bottom of my purse. Last but not least were the Converse instead of the high heels. Then I shoved the purse, plastic bag, and all the rest into the backpack and slung it over my shoulders, hopefully completely transformed from the woman who’d walked into the bathroom.
I checked my watch. Okay. The eleven forty-five leaving for Seattle departed in fifteen minutes. I needed to move my ass.
I glanced under the stalls to check that no one was there, then hurried out.
As I came out of the bathroom, I made sure to alter my posture. No more Penelope Chambers, arm candy to the rich and powerful.
I kept my head down, hair swinging in my face, as I slouched out of the bathroom and pretended to be engrossed in a phone that was really just the cheap mp3 player.
Right now I wasn’t listening to anything, it was just a prop. I never saw young people these days without their hands on their devices, and it was all about blending in.
I headed to a different ticketing kiosk.
“Where to?”
“Seattle,” I say, head still down.
The attended looked bored, barely paying attention to me as he rattled off the amount and asked for ID.
Right. Here we go. This was where it could all go into the shitter.
I volunteered at a soup kitchen once a month—one of my few Jeff-approved outings. Charity work looked good for the little wife to be up to and all that.
And there was a girl who came in sometimes, especially towards the end of the month when her paycheck was running out.
She had short cropped brown hair with heavy bangs. Chunky glasses. A septum piercing. She was small in stature.
