Two suitcases lay open and partially filled on her bed. She had no idea of how long she'd be gone, only that she had to be gone. She packed everything she remotely thought she'd need. Books, music, three pair of slip on shoes (laces were temporarily impossible), and every pair of stretchy pants and oversized T-shirt that she owned. Most of these had been Randy's. 

Twins...? Bed rest...? Child birth classes with her cousin? She was hardly over Randy's funeral yet! There wasn't much more she could handle. She needed time to think. 

Though it was way past season, she planned to open the cabin in Maine. Ten days, two weeks, maybe. She didn't care about missing the OB appointments, didn't care about what anybody thought. If she didn't get away from everything, she'd go crazy. Six weeks from now she'd have two babies. She might never get a chance to be alone again. She had to take it.

She'd leave a message on her telephone, informing the dozen or so people who constantly checked up on her now, that she was fine, but unavailable.

Zipping up the last of the bags, she wondered, momentarily, how'd she'd manage them on her own. She could barely carry her own weight very far these days, never mind half her worldly possessions. Never mind, she'd manage.

Picking up the lighter one, she half dragged, half carried it down the stairs, letting it bump and rest on each landing while she caught her breath. She lay it by the door and went up to repeat the effort with the next one.

She didn't know how she'd feel about being alone at the cabin. She'd only ever been there with Randy. They'd bought it the year after they were married. A small, ramshackle four room get-away half a mile to the nearest beach. There were rose bushes out front she'd planted herself, and shutters that Randy painted a soft sky blue. They had talked excitedly, just last month, about taking the baby there next summer. She'd talked recently with her father about selling it.

Her bags finally in the car, she went back into the house to retrieve the cat carrier and Ophelia. The old cat went quietly and easily into the familiar box, turned once, curled up and yawned.

Odd, Maggie thought, considering the last time the cat had been in the carrier was the day of the car accident. She would have thought the very sight of it would be frightening to the cat now.

She loaded sixteen cans of food and a box of Friskees in a bag, picked up the weight of the cat in her other hand, and headed for the door.

She buckled Ophelia's box securely into the front seat. Randy never took the cat anywhere without the seatbelt, and had once made her promise to do the same. Again, the irony hit her. Ophelia had survived the crash. Randy had been killed instantly. His own seatbelt had done no good.

Maggie wasn't halfway out of the driveway before she saw the car pull up in front of the house.

Oh God, she remembered. Charles. She'd entirely forgotten she'd promised to have dinner with him.

She put her foot on the brake, put her head down on the steering wheel, and sighed. This escape, she realized, would have to wait until after pizza.