Meredith jerked awake, sharply aware that the bus lumbered along a city street.
     “Excuse me,” a man said. Lights reflected off his priest’s collar onto his face. “You were having a terrible dream. I probably made it worse by sitting here.”
     Had she screamed? She had been dreaming of the man with the red tie hurtling toward the pavement. The thud, the hideous bursting of his body, had jolted her awake, rigid with terror. She forced a courteous smile, slipped fingers beneath the tortoise rim of her glasses, wiped tears, and scooted over to offer space for the priest. The chill of the metal strip under the window made her shudder. Her arm ached, felt as if it were stiffening; maybe the burns were weeping through the bandage. “Where are we?”
     “Baltimore. This was the only empty seat. The buses headed south are all packed after the horror of the plane attacks.”

                                                                                                * * *

     The blast hit outside her window like a sonic boom. Her corner of the building shook; the floor shuddered and began to tilt. She gripped her desk, disoriented. Her office door slammed against the wall as screams, like shrieks on a carnival ride, changed to guttural urgency. Ceiling tiles rained down in pieces whiting her computer screen. Shelves buckled, slamming heavy files across her desk. She seemed to glide in slow motion as she grabbed for the tumbled mass of gold and orange mums––a gift from the staff in her old office. A shard of glass stabbed the photo of Harvey triumphantly waving his golf trophy over his head, as he sat in his wheelchair at his Westchester club. Water from the vase streaked his cocky grin.
     “Could this be it? My chance?” The sound of her voice made her throat convulse. Her hands trembled. She drove her feet into her lunchtime jogging shoes, shoved her glasses into her mahogany leather satchel––her ticket to freedom. Pulling its strap over her head, she clutched its supple smoothness against her chest. Since the ’93 bombing she had kept it with her––contoured to her body like a backpack even when she jogged––certain the time would come. Certain that she would see an opening into which she could vanish.

                                                                                               * * * 

     She turned around at the bridge, and looked back at the trail that the sun was beginning to define. The gulf breeze skimmed the river, cooling the sweat that tingled her face and clung to her clothing.
     Movement drew her attention to sunlit weeds, golden along the bank. Had she heard a sound, a voice? She stopped, scanned the edge of the river where the water sloshed into a tangle of brush. A head raised up. Freightened eyes stared from swollen slits.
     “Please,” it was a whisper. “Please, Señorita.” A woman raised a hand like a wave.
     Meredith squatted,  gripped the tiny body under her arms, and tried to pull her onto the bank. The cry of pain made her stop. She was naked; her hands crossed her breasts in a covering motion. “Don’t be afraid.” Meredith switched to Spanish. “I’m going to help you.”
     The woman whispered––again––a plea that slipped unformed from lips so badly bruised and split that trickles of blood oozed between her teeth.
     Meredith looked across the river. Were they watching? The trees on the Mexican side formed a thicket so dense that the morning sun did not penetrate.
     “My son . . .” The words, barely audible, were in English.
     Meredith stroked the black hair away from her swollen cheek. “I’m going to yell for help Auxilio. Ayudame.”
     She kept screaming until two of the workers appeared out of the orange grove, bent as if they were unsure what they were seeing. “La profesora.“
     They ran toward her. When they saw the woman, both men stopped, pulled off their shirts. “Dios mío!” They crossed themselves and knelt––a gentleness reserved for the sacraments––to wrap the woman.
     Every man who emerged from the trees crossed himself. Their eyes shifted to the far side of the river. They whispered, “La compañia. Turn your back. Don’t show your face.”
      They formed a gurney of shirts, lifted her, and followed Meredith’s lead to the clinic.

​    

Reviews:

A Long Way Home by Myra McIlvain
Imagine your husband will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair because you chose to drive drunk. Your now disabled husband makes you pay for that mistake every day through verbal and emotional abuse. You’ve been trying for years to think of a guilt-free escape from the marriage. Now imagine you are in the World Trade Center on 9/11, and as the Trade Center collapses, you spontaneously decide to fake your death, knowing your husband will receive the benefits of your life-insurance. That’s how the central character in McIlvain’s book, A Long Way Home, begins her journey – not to the new life she imagined, but rather to a life even further complicated by deception.

McIlvain, a master story-teller, plausibly twines this tasty tale about, Meredith Haggerty, a corporate executive in NYC who uses 9/11 to escape to Mexico. But as so often happens in real life, fate intercedes when Meredith meets a priest and ends up teaching English in a small American border community fraught with the complexities and dangers of poverty and illegal immigration.   

A Long Way Home intrigues us with forbidden romance, danger, and a whopper of an ending. Does Meredith really escape her obsessed husband. Is she caught and convicted of insurance fraud. Has she simply traded one brand of sorrow for another? These are all questions answered beautifully in A Long Way Home. 
​
Knowing that this novel was not in following with the stories of historic Texas that I have enjoyed by this author before, I was anxious to see whether I found this one as intriguing. The answer is a definite “Yes”! This tale migrates to the Texas area but begins as a mystery story which begins in New York on 9/11. The characters are so well crafted and the story is unpredictable and interesting throughout. McIlvain’s descriptive talents are found throughout this book and there is always a bit of humor. Still a story about Texas life but with a little added salsa on this one.

Grabs you from the start, and makes you wonder how many this could have happened to. You’ll root for Meredith all the way.

Finished the book yesterday and am still immersed in the drama. You really draw the reader in…..one is compelled to keep reading even though chores beckon. The plot was so intriguing, you have to wonder how many people really found a new identity after 9/11. As always your characters are relatable, one cares what happens to them which is so important in storytelling.
Thank you again for hours of pleasurable reading. You never disappoint.  

Having loved reading Myra McIlvain’s previous three historic novels (i.e., Stein House, The Doctor’s Wife, and Waters Plantation), I did not hesitate to buy her latest book, A Long Way Home. Myra doesn’t disappoint!
This suspense story is also about survival and growth, and is a little different from her other novels; more suspense based and less history based. Her descriptive narrative style still flows seamlessly through the text without being disruptive, even during the unexpected twist near the end of the story. You will feel like you know the characters and understand their motives. You’ll also understand their pain, their happiness, their failures and their successes. The historic elements have been thoroughly researched as usual.
I recommend this book to anyone who enjoys a good suspense story along with great character development and a bit of historical background included as a bonus.