about it,” she replied sharply.
“Do you want to file a report? I can take you to a police station.”
She shook her head vehemently and looked at him with terrified, pleading eyes.
“It’s okay, whatever you want to do,” he said. “Where are you heading?”
Billie shrugged. She hadn’t thought about it. Where was she heading? It didn’t really matter. She had no idea where to go. She had no money, no papers, nothing, and Quiroga had warned her that the police would detain her and nobody would believe her story. All she wanted was to get away from here.
The woman from the bathroom passed by them and shot her a furtive look. Billie ignored her.
“Where are you going?”
“To Barcelona,” he replied, surprised.
“Barcelona is fine,” she said.
The young man said nothing. He simply nodded, and paid the check. On the way to the car, he wondered whether he was getting himself involved in a mess by helping this strange woman. But she had such an innocent, helpless look about her that he felt it was his duty to help her.
“If we’re going to take such a long trip together, I’d at least like to know your name,” he said with a smile.
“Billie,” she said, not looking up. “My name is Billie.”
“I guess you hear all the time that that’s kind of a weird name for a girl,” he tried to joke.
“Yes,” she replied plainly.
“Okay, Billie,” the young man sighed. “My name is Mario.”
They got into the car and hit the road.
CHAPTER 16
They spent the whole day on the highway. Mario drove calmly, chatting animatedly and managing, whether he meant to or not, to clear the ghosts from Billie’s head.
Mario told her that he made this trip all the time for work, and he always drove because he was afraid of planes. He was thirty-four years old, married, and the father of a three-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy. Billie listened with interest and a sliver of envy, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a family like his—a home, a job, a calm life among his own people. That was the life she had dreamed of when she married Orlando. But her dreams had been destroyed—and in a more brutal way than she ever could have imagined. She was starting to think she was cursed, that tragedy would always follow her, and she would never be happy. Why? She wondered. What had she done wrong?
Mario didn’t ask her any more questions or pry further into her life, despite his curiosity and his desire to help her. But it was obvious that she didn’t want to—or couldn’t—speak about it. In fact, she barely opened her mouth the entire way except to respond politely from time to time. She seemed to relax a bit when he told her stories about his children and when he spoke about places he had visited, his job, the things he liked to do. She smiled slightly and nodded every once in a while, inviting him to keep talking. In her frightened eyes and sad smile, Mario could read a mute plea—“Please don’t ask”—as well as a shadow of gratitude for respecting her silence. When she seemed absent, Mario kept talking, watching her out of the corner of his eye even when he knew she wasn’t listening to him. Occasionally, her face darkened and her eyes shone as if they were brimming with tears, but Billie clenched her jaw, breathed deeply, and swallowed the tears, turning her face to the window until she had contained her emotions. When he saw this, Mario wanted to tell her to cry, to scream, to explode, that talking would help her feel better, but he was afraid to upset her further and so just tried to distract her with his chatter.
They stopped to eat halfway through the trip, and when they got back on the road again, Billie fell asleep. She didn’t open her eyes again until they got to Barcelona. Then she startled awake, as if she had intuited that the sweet truce had come to an end. She would soon have to go her own way, leaving the only person of clean mind and good heart she had crossed paths with
“Do you want to file a report? I can take you to a police station.”
She shook her head vehemently and looked at him with terrified, pleading eyes.
“It’s okay, whatever you want to do,” he said. “Where are you heading?”
Billie shrugged. She hadn’t thought about it. Where was she heading? It didn’t really matter. She had no idea where to go. She had no money, no papers, nothing, and Quiroga had warned her that the police would detain her and nobody would believe her story. All she wanted was to get away from here.
The woman from the bathroom passed by them and shot her a furtive look. Billie ignored her.
“Where are you going?”
“To Barcelona,” he replied, surprised.
“Barcelona is fine,” she said.
The young man said nothing. He simply nodded, and paid the check. On the way to the car, he wondered whether he was getting himself involved in a mess by helping this strange woman. But she had such an innocent, helpless look about her that he felt it was his duty to help her.
“If we’re going to take such a long trip together, I’d at least like to know your name,” he said with a smile.
“Billie,” she said, not looking up. “My name is Billie.”
“I guess you hear all the time that that’s kind of a weird name for a girl,” he tried to joke.
“Yes,” she replied plainly.
“Okay, Billie,” the young man sighed. “My name is Mario.”
They got into the car and hit the road.
CHAPTER 16
They spent the whole day on the highway. Mario drove calmly, chatting animatedly and managing, whether he meant to or not, to clear the ghosts from Billie’s head.
Mario told her that he made this trip all the time for work, and he always drove because he was afraid of planes. He was thirty-four years old, married, and the father of a three-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy. Billie listened with interest and a sliver of envy, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a family like his—a home, a job, a calm life among his own people. That was the life she had dreamed of when she married Orlando. But her dreams had been destroyed—and in a more brutal way than she ever could have imagined. She was starting to think she was cursed, that tragedy would always follow her, and she would never be happy. Why? She wondered. What had she done wrong?
Mario didn’t ask her any more questions or pry further into her life, despite his curiosity and his desire to help her. But it was obvious that she didn’t want to—or couldn’t—speak about it. In fact, she barely opened her mouth the entire way except to respond politely from time to time. She seemed to relax a bit when he told her stories about his children and when he spoke about places he had visited, his job, the things he liked to do. She smiled slightly and nodded every once in a while, inviting him to keep talking. In her frightened eyes and sad smile, Mario could read a mute plea—“Please don’t ask”—as well as a shadow of gratitude for respecting her silence. When she seemed absent, Mario kept talking, watching her out of the corner of his eye even when he knew she wasn’t listening to him. Occasionally, her face darkened and her eyes shone as if they were brimming with tears, but Billie clenched her jaw, breathed deeply, and swallowed the tears, turning her face to the window until she had contained her emotions. When he saw this, Mario wanted to tell her to cry, to scream, to explode, that talking would help her feel better, but he was afraid to upset her further and so just tried to distract her with his chatter.
They stopped to eat halfway through the trip, and when they got back on the road again, Billie fell asleep. She didn’t open her eyes again until they got to Barcelona. Then she startled awake, as if she had intuited that the sweet truce had come to an end. She would soon have to go her own way, leaving the only person of clean mind and good heart she had crossed paths with
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