The Passenger (21 page)

As soon as I boarded the train, I began stretching my legs through the cars, noting all of the female passengers in my age range. Then I narrowed them down to the ones I bore some physical resemblance to. I had three promising choices. It would have been nice to take my time, to carefully study their bone structure, verify their height, maybe even be so bold as to engage in a brief conversation, learn her age, place of birth, point of departure, destination, before I made any more decisions. But opportunity knocked, and I answered.

A woman with long brown hair, whom I could definitely pass for after a cancer scare, left her purse in a virtually empty car as she went to use the restroom. I quickly reached inside, swiped her wallet, and shoved it into my bag. I found a restroom in another car and pulled her driver's license, several bills, and a credit card, with barely a glance. Then I casually walked back through her car. She hadn't returned to her seat, and she was less likely to notice a theft if her wallet remained in her bag, so I returned most of the stolen goods. Then I moved on to the next car. Every step went so fast I didn't even see the name on the ID.

My imprudent almost-lookalike got off the train in Syracuse, New York. It was only then I dared scrutinize my new identity. I plucked the driver's license from my bag with heady anticipation.

Sonia Lubovich from Bloomington, Indiana. Lubovich. Was that Polish, Russian? Maybe it was a name I'd acquired through a brief marriage to a man who never spoke much about his family. Lack of communication would certainly be a key ingredient in a failed marriage—although it might have been the ingredient that kept me and Frank together for so long.

I decided the ID could work. She was only two years older and one inch taller than I was, and we looked enough alike. The photo had been taken a few years ago, and the way I looked now could easily be explained away by life and illness taking their toll. I no longer had great expectations for my lives, but I figured I'd have a longer run as Sonia Lubovich than I did as Emma Lark.

April 17, 2015

To: Jo

From: Ryan

Jo,

Why did you call him, ask for his help? You could have called me.

I would have helped you.

R

June 22, 2015

To: Jo

From: Ryan

Jo,

It's been ten years since you left. People are talking about you again. Your face—god, I wish I knew what you looked like now—has been in the papers. It made me miss you all over again.

Be careful. Jason Lyons has come back to town. He's a prosecutor now. He doesn't care that you've been declared dead. He thinks you're still out there.

R

I
DIDN'T
know where I was going when I left Recluse. I don't know when the precise plan took shape. Perhaps it was always there, lost in pieces at the bottom of my luggage like a puzzle that I had to put together. My mother lived in Manhattan as a child, in a one-bedroom apartment with her mother. She had a paternal grandmother who didn't chip in much for the bare essentials but every summer paid for camp in upstate New York. For eight weeks my mom was shipped away from the steam box of that concrete island to run free among pine, maple, oak, cypress, and willow trees. She swam in lakes, canoed in rivers, engaged in leisure activities that were rarely afforded to her schoolmates back home.

These places sounded like such an adventure to my ear, I often asked my mother why I wasn't sent to camp. She pointed in the direction of the Waki Reservoir, where I swam every season except winter, and suggested I pitch a tent on the shore. It was only a partial joke. Our house was so small, I'm sure she wouldn't have minded the extra space.

Still, these majestic camps from her memory held court in my mind and on occasion I'd ask her questions about her time there. Did she have her very own canoe? How many hours a day was she allowed to swim? Was anyone attacked by a bear? Did she stay in contact with any of her old cabin mates?

“No. We lost touch,” my mother said as she took a sip of her third gin and tonic of the afternoon.

“Did anyone ever drown in the lake?”

“What's your obsession with drowning?” she asked.

I don't think I ever answered the question. In retrospect, it was a mild preoccupation of mine before it became an obsession.

“Did you have any boyfriends there?” I asked.

“Sure.”

It was easy to tell when my mother was done talking. Her eyes would turn skyward, even if there was no sky worth seeing. I would always try to get one more morsel out of her.

“What would happen to the camp after summer ended?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It was like Brigadoon until the children turned up the next year.”

O
NLY TWO HOURS
were left in my journey when I sat down, looked out the window, and saw a glorious world passing me by. I realized that I'd found the perfect metaphor for my life. The color of the trees reminded me it was fall, now the middle of October. The leaves had changed and were starting to die, but the colors in the landscape were as extraordinary as anything I'd ever seen. For a little while I could forget all of the lives I was running from and gaze in awe at how beautiful this incredibly cruel world could be.

Before I knew what was happening, tears were running down my cheeks. I threw on my sunglasses and hoped no one had seen me. But the sunglasses dimmed the magic colors and I thought,
Fuck it, I want to see this
, because I wasn't sure how many more autumns I'd have left in my life, or how many I'd get to see as a free woman. I took the sunglasses off. I didn't care who saw me cry.

I got off the train in Albany sometime before three p.m. I purchased a ticket on the Empire Service, one stop to Hudson. I walked along Warren Street until I spotted in my peripheral vision the kind of motel to which I'd grown accustomed. I took a detour and checked into the Roosevelt Inn. I needed to clean up after being on the road, but I knew it was a luxury I couldn't afford much longer.

I paid cash so nothing would show up on her credit card, but I used the name Sonia Lubovich so I'd get used to it. I was surprised how easily the eastern European consonants rolled off my tongue. The clerk didn't give my pronunciation a second glance. Sonia and I were going to get along just fine.

“How long will you be staying?” the motel clerk said. He was heavily tattooed and looked like his ambitions far outreached his current station. Our exchange bored him immeasurably.

“Just one night.”

I checked into my four-hundred-square-foot stopover, removed those stinging blue contact lenses, and took a long, hot shower. I changed into my other set of clothes and left the Roosevelt Inn to stretch my legs, enjoying a feeling that I could only describe as freedom. I picked up some practical items from a thrift store, washed my new and old hand-me-downs at the Laundromat, bought a couple of disposable cell phones, and checked the pockets of my new ten-dollar wool coat. It was a shabby, oversized checkered number, but one that looked like it might keep you invisible. I found a quarter in the pocket.

I located the library, which was closed for the day. I stopped in at an old-style diner, ordered a burger, and returned to the Roosevelt for my last night in a real bed.

In the morning, I took a hot shower and checked out of the motel, carrying all of my worldly possessions over my shoulder, and returned to the Hudson Area Library. Despite a gripping curiosity, I didn't check up on any of my past lives. Instead, I collected a list of summer camps in a thirty-mile radius and perused the classifieds for a used car.

After three hours, I had a list of five camps and three possible cars that were just a short stroll or cab ride away. After a few calls, I found an old lady who was selling her 1982 Jeep Wagoneer for $1,000. The price was steep considering my finances but a steal otherwise. I figured I'd be needing a vehicle with four-wheel drive and decent clearance on these country roads.

I made an appointment to meet with Mrs. Mildred Hensen at eleven a.m. I double-checked my finances, hoping that money had mysteriously appeared in my wallet, but things were as dismal as ever. After I purchased the car, I'd be down to just over five hundred dollars, and that wasn't much to live on without any source of income. I took a taxi to the seller's house in Red Hook.

Mrs. Hensen was a lovely old lady. Hard of hearing, which somehow facilitated our communications. She didn't bat an eye when she saw Sonia's Pennsylvania license, and she swatted her hand dismissively when I tried to explain that I needed to take the car registration papers and fill them out myself
after
I got my New York State driver's license sorted out. I'd contrived a whole long-winded story about an ex who was hanging on to my passport, but it was all unnecessary.

I took the Wagoneer for a spin. The shocks needed some work; it had the bounce of a horseback ride. The engine rattled more than it purred. But it worked and it was the right price and I wouldn't last long without a mode of transportation, so we made the deal over a cup of strong tea and homemade jam cookies.

When I left her house I drove through the windy, arborous roads trying to find my way to these camps that had no real landmarks or addresses one could discern under the thick awning of foliage. Eventually I came upon a maple sign adorned with the unremarkable name Camp Rodney. I followed an overgrown private drive past the
NO TRESPASSING
sign to a clearing with several cabins, painted white, evenly spaced apart, with one main building: white with blue trim, in the colonial style, but the structure appeared to be new.

I got out of the car, walked up the front step, and put my hand on the solid oak door. It was locked with a dead bolt that wouldn't budge. Curtains blocked the view through the window, so I walked around and peered through the side. I saw a room with several desks, like in a schoolhouse, and large steel closets in the back with more secure locks. I noticed a chart in the back of the room in binary code.

I took in the rest of my surroundings. One small badminton court, a tiny pond for a few rowboats, a fire pit, and a mess hall. My skills of deduction led me to the conclusion that Camp Rodney was a computer camp. With that kind of equipment on hand, I couldn't trust that they didn't have some kind of routine security. I moved on.

A few miles away, I explored the grounds of Camp Horizon. They had a lovely lake with rowboats, and their cabins were easy to trespass and seemed insulated enough that I could survive through early winter. But a pesky groundskeeper met me immediately, and I had to make up a story about vetting summer sleepaway camps for my finicky son next summer.

Camp Weezil had all of the amenities I required, but its grounds were too visible to the main roads, and I could easily be spotted.

It wasn't until late afternoon that I found Camp Wildacre, just north of Dutchess County and bisected by the Wildacre River. It was hidden one mile down a private drive. I didn't see any tire marks or signs of life. There was a short chain-link fence with a solid lock. I hopped the fence and explored the grounds. It felt like home right away. I just needed bolt cutters and a new padlock. I jumped back over the fence, got into the Jeep, and backed onto the main road. I stopped at a gas station and asked for directions to the closest shopping mall and followed the signs to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. Travel on major roadways was generally something I would have to avoid. Every time I saw a state police cruiser, my heart would lurch. I could barely look at the road ahead of me, my eyes were so focused on keeping my Jeep in the sweet spot on the speedometer. The moment those lights whirled in my rearview mirror, my life would be over.

Perilous driving conditions aside, I made the journey across the bridge without any police interference. I stopped at a gas station to top off the tank and test whether Sonia's credit card had been reported stolen. I figured I had one final shopping spree left and then I was stuck with my minuscule nest egg. I found a collection of strip malls off the Kingston exit. I purchased four hundred dollars' worth of necessities, including a camping stove, carving knife, rope, can opener, padlock, bolt cutters, sleeping bag, nonperishable food items, and enough coffee to see me through the next few months. I tossed Sonia's card in a trash bin on the way out of the store. Maybe one day I'd write her a thank-you note.

I white-knuckled the return trip in the same fashion, my nerves clicking down a notch as I turned onto the dirt driveway of my new home. I felt like an eagle, my eyes so relentlessly darting about. At the hardware store I'd chosen the largest bolt cutters I could find, thirty-six inches.
It's all about the leverage,
I remember Mr. Parsons saying when I was a kid, as he used a wrench the size of six-year-old me to replace a rusted valve under his kitchen sink.

Turns out, fourteen-inch cutters probably would have done the job. I had the fence open and my new lock in place within five minutes. I drove onto Camp Wildacre, gave myself a brief twilit tour of the grounds, found an open carport to park my truck, and began to explore the cabins to choose my new home.

Wildacre, aside from the main building, had twelve satellite structures. As far as I could tell, ten were for the campers and two for the counselors. The main building probably had more amenities for the adults, but I didn't see any point in breaching security further than I already had.

What appealed to me about staying in these camps was living in a place that was there for the taking. The cabin doors had no locks. I wasn't hurting anyone. I was making use of something that wasn't being used. Kind of like recycling.

The cabins were all exactly the same. A-framed, wood-paneled, with green trim on the walls. Twelve built-in beds with plastic-covered mattresses remained in every cabin. Cubby spaces beneath the beds provided ample room for storage. The only thing that differentiated the cabins was the names graffitied on the rafters. I chose the structure with the girls' names and dropped my sleeping bag on the bed that was farthest from the door. I unpacked a few of my belongings inside a modest closet and stepped outside to check out the other amenities. There were two divided bathrooms and shower houses with running water, but cold only. I wished I had known that morning's hot shower would be my last for some time.