Page 27 of Silent Echo

Charlotte started to blame herself again. Had she put Sebastion in further jeopardy by keeping her suspicions to herself?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ipull the blanket up to Sebastion’s chin. He fell asleep after only half an hour. I watch him as he sleeps, thinking again what a beautiful child he is. An image of Charlotte flashes through my mind, unbidden. He looks like her; they have the same beautiful cerulean eyes, ivory skin, and delicate features. It irks me that he resembles Charlotte and not me. I know—I’ll dye my dark hair blond. I could even get blue contact lenses. Then people will look at him and tell me how much he looks like me.

There’s a woman in the aisle across from us with her shoes off, and I wrinkle my nose. I lean over and give her a dirty look.

“It’s unsanitary to remove your shoes. Please put them back on.”

She returns my dirty look and then scoffs. “Mind your own business, lady.”

“Do you want me to tell the driver?” I ask, although I’m not sure I should call attention to us, but hopefully, the threat will be enough.

“Go ahead. Freak.”

I tighten my hands into fists, frustrated. “I will at the next stop,” I say, needing to have the last word.

“Whatever,” she says.

“Jerk,” I mutter, but not loud enough for her to hear me. Why can’t people just follow the rules? It would make life so much better. Selfish, stupid people ruin everything. I take a deep breath and turn toward the window, watching the miles roll by, feeling lighter with every mile we put between us and Florida.My eyes feel heavy, and I close them, allowing myself to drift off. The next thing I know, I’m being poked in the ribs.

“What?” I snap, my eyes flying open.

“My tummy hurts,” Sebastion says.

I reach in my bag and pull out a bag of chips. “Here,” I say, handing it to him. “You’re probably just hungry.”

He shakes his head and puts his hands on his stomach. “No, it hurts.”

I really don’t need this right now. I sigh and force a neutral tone. Why must he be so difficult? “Sebastion, this is no time for your shenanigans. I know this has been stressful, but everything’s going to be fine. I just need you to settle down and try to rest.”

“I’m not tired. I wanna go home!” His voice rises, and other passengers look our way.

I reach into my bag and pull out a bottle of chewable Benadryl. “Keep your voice down,” I say. “Here, this will make your tummy feel better.” I hand him a dose and a half. Hopefully it will knock him out, and I can get some peace.

He takes them from my hand and puts them in his mouth.

“Good, now try to close your eyes and get some sleep, and when you wake up, we’ll be that much closer to California.”

He quiets down and I look out the window, pondering this latest turn of events. I should probably dye his hair black, like mine. Or maybe I should make us both redheads—then we’ll definitely look more alike. I’ve been researching the nomadic lifestyle. At first, I thought it was only weirdos living that way, but I’m learning that many people find it a liberating way to live. It would certainly help us to stay hidden, and it would be educational for Sebastion to travel the country. It could give us a sense of community without the worry of someone getting too nosy. Those folks know how to mind their own business. And my money would definitely last longer that way. The more I thinkabout it, the more sense it makes. I sigh contentedly, glancing over at Sebastion, who’s now knocked out, although moaning a bit in his sleep. I close my eyes and drift off again, dreaming of our new life on the road.

It’s dark when I open my eyes again. Sebastion is crying. What now?

“What’s wrong, Sebastion?” I say, unable to keep the irritation from my voice.

“My tummy hurts!” He doubles over and I notice that his face is white. Before I can say another word, he vomits all over me. I jump up, disgusted.

The lady across the aisle makes a face. “Eww, your kid’s sick.”

I give her a dirty look and pick him up, hurrying to the back of the bus and the bathroom. As soon as we’re in the cramped area, he starts to get sick again. I turn him in front of the commode. “Do it there,” I yell as I wet some paper towels and try to clean my shirt.

When he finishes, I take him back to our seat. “I’ll be right back, honey.” I approach the driver.

“My son is sick. How long until the next stop?”

“We’re twenty minutes from Atlanta. Do you need to call 911 or can he hold off until then?”

“That’s fine, thank you.”

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