Page 86 of Gone Tonight
Ruth Sterling sounded like a young woman who was Ava’s opposite: a sturdy, stoic individual who worked hard and didn’t complain. Those were qualities I desperately needed. I wanted to become Ruth Sterling in more ways than one.
I became Ruth shortly before Catherine was born, when I’d saved up enough money for a professional-grade ID—something better than the fake driver’s license with the name Joan Smith I’d bought for forty bucks. That first ID had been good enough to get me a waitressing job and a rental room in an apartment sublet by another single mom. But I didn’t go to a college boy to create Ruth’s Social Security card and birth certificate.
I knew I had to pass for eighteen when I gave birth to Catherine for a few reasons. If I was an adult in the eyes of the authorities, no one would take my baby away from me. And as long as my ID held up and no one questioned it, I could give birth in a hospital and Catherine would receive her own Social Security card with a last name that matched mine.
It would be the first, vital step in building her identity.
One of the other waitresses at work knew someone who could do it. She gave me concise instructions: I was to wait on a certain street corner with five hundred dollars in cash in an envelope. I was to pass it to a man wearing an Eagles jersey. I could not ask a single question.
The next week, I stood on the same corner at the appointed time and almost before I knew what was happening, a different man walked past me and thrust a manila envelope into my hands, then continued down the street without missing a step.
My transformation was complete.
Sometimes I think about the real Ruth, who died at twelve, years before I took over her name. Our lives would never have intersected under ordinary circumstances. Ruth was born with a rare heart defect and lived with her big family in Wisconsin on a dairy farm. The names of all of her brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles were listed, along with Ruth’s parents, in the obituary that ran in her local newspaper, the one I read on microfilm at the library when I was searching for a solid new identity, one I could permanently keep.
Being Ruth meant I could get food stamps and WIC vouchers for eggs and cereal during one terrible stretch when I was between jobs and Catherine was hungry. Because I’m Ruth in the eyes of the government, I can pay taxes, which means when I’m old enough I’ll be able to collect Social Security.
Nowadays it’s much harder to take an identity than it was twenty-five years ago. There’s a slim chance I could be caught, but that risk seems to diminish with every passing year.
Sometimes I wish I could bring flowers to the real Ruth’s grave in Kewaskum and ask for her forgiveness. If I could tell her anything, I would say I’m so sorry she lost her life far too soon, but I hope she knows she saved mine.
I lean back against the Bonneville, feeling the heat the metal has absorbed radiating against my back as I stare at the entrance of Sunrise. My hand rises in a salute to shade my eyes as the sun dips toward the horizon.
I’ve been here all day long, waiting and watching. Every thirtyminutes or so, I patrol the parking lot, both to stretch my legs and to check my surroundings.
The low rumble of an engine catches my attention. I watch as a FedEx truck glides up in front of Sunrise and the driver jumps out. He opens the back of the truck and I glimpse rows of brown boxes with the familiar purple logo. He selects a small one and shuts the doors, then disappears into the building.
I push away from the Bonneville and begin to patrol the lot again. Catherine will emerge from the building soon. I’ll be here when she does.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONECATHERINE
I force myself to smile as I tap my knuckles against the door. George Campbell opens it a moment later, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that show off his still-fit physique. At seventy-six, he plays golf every Saturday, lifts light weights every other day, and drives wherever he needs to go.
That last bit is key.
“June! It’s Catherine!”
He’s delighted to see me, which makes me feel guilty.
I offer up the foil-wrapped plate I made from the leftovers in the break room.
“We had extra pizza, and I thought you might enjoy some.”
George and June act like I’m offering them a three-course meal. They’re so kind and gracious that it makes what I’m about to do even harder.
“Can you sit with us for a while?” George asks. “We just opened a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.”
I glance back toward the front door. I’ve already checked to make sure the little green bowl is still on their console, but I can’t see what’s inside it. If I take George up on his offer and sip a glass of wine, I’ll have more time to check things out.
But I don’t know when Pizza Piazzo closes, and it’s far more important that I get there tonight.
People typically stick to their routines, I reassure myself. There’s no reason George would have changed his.
“Thank you, but I need to run. Rain check?” As I say this, I let my purse strap slip down on my shoulder. My bag is unzipped, and a few small, loose objects are near the top.
George sees me to the door, as I knew he would, and as I go to hug him goodbye, I let my purse fall to the ground. The lipstick and cylinder of mascara and loose coins I’ve strategically positioned scatter across the wood floor.
George immediately bends down to pick everything up and I reach over him to feel around in the round bowl. I touch a sharp metal edge and pull out the keys to his Cadillac.
