I walked down the driveway, suitcase in one hand, purse in the other. It was four-thirty in the afternoon and the neighborhood was quiet. Mrs. Chen next door was bringing in her garbage cans. She waved. I waved back.
I did not cry.
I did not look back at the house.
I walked six blocks to the East Side Motel on Route 119.
The man at the desk did not ask questions. Sixty-seven dollars a night, paid in cash. He gave me a key to Room 12 on the second floor.
The room smelled like cigarettes and disinfectant. The carpet was brown and stained. There was a double bed with an orange bedspread, a television bolted to the dresser, and a window overlooking the parking lot. I could hear the people next door arguing through the wall.
I sat on the bed and set my purse beside me.
I did not unpack.
I just sat there staring at the wall, my hand resting on the brass key in my pocket.
Vanessa thought she had won.
Linda thought I was pathetic.
Robert thought I would disappear quietly, maybe move into some subsidized senior apartment, fade into the background the way older women are apparently supposed to.
