Every Waking Moment

Emma watched Preston Whoever-He-Was walk away. Maude’s eyes lingered on him, too.

“Poor guy,” she said. “From what I can gather, he’s really been through the wringer.” She adjusted the plastic cap she wore to keep her hair from getting mussed while sleeping. “Anyway, you’d like a room. Let’s see what we can do….”

Because of her sleeping son, Emma waited outside while Maude handled the paperwork. Ten minutes later, she unloaded her suitcases from the car and returned for Max. He was difficult for her to carry, and she wasn’t sure how she’d get him into the motel without pulling a muscle, but she certainly didn’t want to wake him. She needed him to remain asleep so she could get some rest, too.

“Boy, you’re getting big,” she muttered.

“Are we home yet?” he asked, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t want to upset him by saying no, which turned out to be a good decision because he was asleep again as soon as his head landed on her shoulder.

Just a few more steps, she told herself. Almost there…here we are… But her door was shut; the chair she’d used to prop it open had slid out of the way.

She hoisted Max farther up on her shoulder and tried the handle. Locked. Damn.

Bending one knee to help support her son’s weight, she leaned against the side of the building so she could get the key out of her pocket.

“You have a son?”

The voice startled her. The man Preston was standing in the shadows holding an ice bucket, but until he spoke, she hadn’t noticed him.

“Yes.” She thought he might ask Max’s age, his name, maybe a few other details—typical small talk when confronted with someone’s child—but he didn’t. He stared at her and Max through his longish streaky-blond hair, his expression unreadable. Then he came forward, took the key she’d just pulled out of her pocket and opened her door.

“Thanks.” She deposited Max on the bed and pivoted to find Preston looking in at them, key still in the lock, his hand on her door so it wouldn’t swing shut.

“Good night,” she said, a little disconcerted that she and Max had suddenly claimed so much of his attention when he’d been completely uninterested in her before.

He didn’t answer. Unless Emma imagined it, which could have been the case, a raw, almost savage expression crossed his face. An expression he quickly masked before tossing her the key and letting the door close with a quiet click.

CHAPTER THREE

ALTHOUGH IT WAS nearly midnight, Emma couldn’t sleep. She’d expected to drop off immediately and wake only once during the night—when the alarm rang at three and she had to get up to test Max’s blood. But her mind wouldn’t release the worries that kept her one-hundred-percent conscious. She kept reminding herself of their new names, frightened at the thought of forgetting. And, as if her preoccupation wasn’t enough, she could hear the television going in Preston’s room next door. Had he fallen asleep with it on? Probably.

She sighed. It didn’t matter; she couldn’t relax anyway.

Climbing out of bed, she pulled a sweatshirt over her T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and crossed the room to stare out the window. After putting Max to bed, she’d moved the Taurus to the far end of the lot, where it sat in almost total darkness, well hidden from the road. She probably should’ve asked Carlos if it was stolen, so she’d know whether or not to fear the police as well as Manuel. But Carlos had been so sweet about helping her, she didn’t want to offend him. Besides, she was desperate. She would’ve taken it regardless.

Maybe in a few weeks she’d be living in a small town somewhere in the midwest, where Manuel would never think to look for her, and she could park the Taurus in her garage and walk to work.

She smiled at the thought of owning a little yellow house with flowers in front, of teaching first grade at the local elementary school. She’d have her son, a new name, a new life.

Another chance….

Suddenly remembering the envelope in her glove box, Emma checked to be sure Max was still sleeping peacefully. Then she grabbed her can of mace, put on a pair of flip-flops so the rocks wouldn’t cut her feet, and slipped out of the room. The envelope had to be from Juanita. Or maybe Carlos. She hadn’t told anyone else her new name.

The night had cooled quite a bit. A chill wind swayed the trees lining the property, making her shiver. Normally she would have liked the creaking of the branches, the low rustling of the leaves, but tonight those sounds seemed stark and lonely, almost eerie. So did the gurgle of the water flowing through the canal not far away. Maybe that was because, crazy as it seemed, she felt as if Manuel might show up at any moment.

Imagining him lunging out of the dark, laughing at her puny efforts to get away from him, made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She froze for several seconds, her hands sweating on the mace as she turned in circles, squinting into the shadows near the motel.

Nothing. She couldn’t see or hear anything unusual. Except for the sound of her neighbor’s TV, which filtered out through his open window, the wind and the canal made the only noise.

The door to the Taurus groaned as she opened it. She couldn’t see much, especially inside the car. The dome light was broken, but everything else was in pretty good shape, considering that the vehicle had only cost her twenty-five-hundred dollars.

Searching the glove box, she easily located the envelope and took it back to her room, where she shut herself in the bathroom to read it.

At first glance, it looked like a letter from Manuel. She instantly recognized his jagged scrawl. But closer inspection revealed that it was a photocopy of something he’d written and not a letter at all—a list of names, addresses, phone numbers and a few dates.

Someone, presumably Juanita, had jotted a quick note in Spanish at the bottom of the page:

Si él te encuentra…If he finds you.

Perplexed, Emma examined the names. Where had Juanita found this? In Manuel’s office? It was possible. While Manuel typically kept his office locked against Emma and Max, he allowed Juanita to clean in there occasionally.

But Emma had mentioned to Juanita, several times, that she believed Manuel’s business wasn’t quite what it seemed. Juanita had never let on that she agreed.

So who were the people on this list? Several lived in Mexico. Some lived in San Diego. One had no address.

Did she finally have proof of what she’d long suspected?

Juanita’s note was too cryptic to tell. On several occasions, Emma had overheard Manuel’s family talking about shipments and carriers and accidents in the desert. But those few snippets of conversation hardly proved that Manuel was involved in anything illegal. And although she’d been as vigilant as possible, looking for some kind of leverage, she’d never been able to find anything more damning.

Returning the paper to its envelope, Emma tucked it away in her purse. She needed to decide carefully what to do with it. If this paper was what she believed, it could mean her freedom—or maybe her death.

FINALLY, AT ABOUT ONE o’clock, the exhaustion of the day overcame Emma and she slept. But only for two hours. At three, the alarm clock woke her to test Max’s glucose levels.

Almost too tired to move, she hit the button that would stop the ringing, dragged herself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. She’d left his testing kit on the counter so she could find it without rummaging through everything. But her eyes were too grainy to open all the way. Especially once she flipped on the light.

Hunching over the sink, she splashed water onto her face. Then she wiped her hands, inserted a test strip into the glucose meter and retrieved the lancet that would draw blood from the end of Max’s finger. She hated poking him. For her, that was the worst part of his daily care. The three or more injections weren’t half as bad as continually pricking the sensitive pads of his little fingers.

But the ramifications of not testing were even worse. Blood sugar that was too high or too low could kill him, and he could go either way unexpectedly and very quickly. So she did what she had to do.

Moving into the bedroom, she gently pulled her son’s small hand from beneath the blankets, pressed the lancet to the end of his index finger and tripped the spring. He winced but didn’t wake. A moment later, she was able to squeeze out a drop of bright red blood, which was quickly drawn into the edge of the test strip. Then she stood, sleepily scratching her head as she waited for the reading.

When the meter beeped, she held it up to the light coming from the bathroom. Two hundred and eight-four. He was a hundred and eight-four points too high. She hadn’t compensated for his lack of exercise as well as she’d hoped. But he didn’t show any visible symptoms when his glucose levels fell in this range, no sweating or blotchiness, so it was difficult to know.

Fresh worry gnawed at her as she headed back into the bathroom to draw up more insulin. She pictured the blood circulating through her son’s body as a thick sludge that was damaging his eyes and his kidneys—and possibly his nerve endings and heart. Somehow she had to do better in accounting for all the variables. She was his only defense. But just when she thought she’d figured out how his body processed certain foods, he’d grow and everything would change.

Tears sprang to her eyes, tears she fought so she could read the tiny marks on the syringe. She was responding to the effects of stress and exhaustion as much as the daily concern she felt for her son. She knew that—just as she knew crying wouldn’t solve anything.

Max whimpered when she pinched the back of his arm and inserted the needle. But afterward he rolled over and continued to sleep.

She dropped the syringe into her sharps container and sat on the bed, lightly running a hand over his short crew cut. Already interested in copying the older boys he saw in their neighborhood and on TV, he insisted on putting gel in his hair to make it spiky. She smiled as she remembered him coming downstairs wearing a T-shirt he’d cut at the bottom and sleeves to mimic the young man who cleaned their pool.

Max meant everything to her. She wished she could take the finger pricks and injections for him.

Suddenly she realized that the television next door had been turned off. At last. The peace and quiet felt almost profound. Getting up, she crossed the room to check the car again and saw someone outside.

Her heart jumped into her throat. But another look showed her it was only Preston, standing in front of his room.

What was he doing?