Page 131 of The Five Year Lie

“Thank you,” I repeat, but I’m too embarrassed to look the guy in the eye. Buzz gobbles down the fries inside of three minutes, while I try not to cry anymore. I pull a wet wipe out of the bag to mop my face, and then degrease his fingers. The wipes are lavender-scented, from an organic shop my mother loves. Last month, my most pressing worry was germs from the playground equipment.

I tuck the empty bag and the spent wipe into the seat pocket. Then I start whispering to Buzz again about Frog and Toad. Mylittle boy lolls against me, falling asleep with his head in my lap. I try to slow my breathing, but fear crashes through me like waves on a rocky beach at high tide.

The bus grows very quiet as we ride on through the night. And then the man across the aisle speaks so softly that I almost miss it. “Is there someone who will help you after you get off this bus?”

I turn my chin a fraction and consider my answer. “I hope so. I’ve bet everything on it.”

The bus rolls on as I leak silent tears. I’m practically drowning in them. It’s the first time I’ve cried in years.

I keep picturing Zain’s lopsided smile, and his caterpillar eyebrows.

He’sgone. And I know it’s partly my fault.

My breathing is ragged, and my cheeks become chapped from repeated swipes from the back of my hand. The man across the aisle shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I don’t blame him. I’m like a broken dam. If I were him, I’d steer clear, too.

At some point I drift off, waking only when the driver calls out a stop.Howard City. Morley. Stanwood.

When we hit Reed City I wake up for good, because we’re almost there. The bus is lit by gray morning light that washes the color from everything, like a Chime Co. video. My eyes are swollen and tender, and my nose is clogged.

The bus is emptier now. And the man across the aisle is gone. I never heard him leave.

Careful not to wake Buzz, I shift my stiff legs. Something scratchy rubs my ankle. And when I look down, there’s a white thing sticking out of the mesh water bottle pocket of my backpack. A piece of paper.

I pluck it out. It’s a sheet torn from a magazine that’s been folded several times to conceal a small window envelope—the kind you’d use to pay a bill. I gasp when I find a hundred dollars in twenties inside.

There’s also a note in chicken-scratch handwriting on the envelope.

Be well and use this to get a nice meal for yourself and your boy. My sister works in social services at the hospital in Cedar Springs. If you are in real trouble call this number and ask for Kelsy. Take care and God bless.

My eyes fill.No no no,I can’t start crying all over again. I breathe slowly and focus on the spindly pines passing by out the window. At least I can pay that man back. When this is all over, I’ll find him through his sister and send him a fat check.

He needs to know how much I appreciate it.

I breathe deeply until the urge to cry passes. Buzz stirs, and I tell him the glorious truth. “We’re almost there, buddy,” I say, stroking his back. “We’re finally getting off this bus.”

47

The first thing I do after we stagger off the bus is lead Buzz across the street to a diner. The place is a little shabby, with worn linoleum floors and faded vinyl booths.

But we’re shabbier. And so hungry. I have never been happier to be anywhere.

Breathing in the scent of coffee and bacon, I feel almost optimistic. “Let’s eat a big breakfast,” I say to Buzz as we slide into a booth. “Want a booster seat?”

He shakes his head. “I want pancakes. And bacon?”

“You got it.”

Buzz smiles at me, his face barely visible above the table, and my heart breaks a little more.

After a good breakfast, I lead Buzz for a lengthy walk toward the heart of Cadillac. It’s an ugly little town on the shore of a lake. But I find a house with a hand-lettered sign in the yard readingFURNISHED APARTMENT FOR RENT.

I knock on the door, and an old woman answers. “Help you?” she demands.

“Hello, ma’am.” I hold Buzz’s hand and try to appear harmless. “We just got off a long bus ride, and I haven’t found a motel yet. Is there any way we could pay for a few hours’ use of your furnished apartment to get a little rest before we meet up with my cousin? I have twenty-five dollars. It would really help me out.”

She squints at me, and I can already hear her refusal forming. And Buzz is looking up at me like I must be crazy.

“Sure, honey,” she says. “Just this once.”