Free Through the Windshield Glass by Kristen Day

same boat."
    The woman
glanced up at me without really seeing me. There was something about her face
that seemed familiar. It wasn't until she said her name that I understood why.
    "I'm
Rebecca," she said.
    I gasped
Rebecca! James' wife! She hadn't recognized me yet, maybe she wouldn’t, and
that would probably be for the best. It seemed I had gotten away with my
deception, then, recognition dawned in Rebecca's eyes. She looked at me again,
took in every detail of my face and slowly recognition dawned.
    "Alice?"
Rebecca said slowly, "Alice Patterson?"
    I didn't
answer; I had turned around to see if I could find the woman who had promised
me soup.
    "You
killed my husband," Rebecca whispered, "You killed him!" this
time her words came out sounding akin to a banshee shriek.
    Everyone in the
kitchen was looking in our direction now.
    "I didn't
kill your husband, Rebecca," I whispered to her. Why was she in a soup
kitchen? Why hadn’t my parents taken her in after James died?
    "You might
as well have!" Rebecca was on her feet now, the lentil soup lay completely
forgotten on the table.
    The old woman
came out with my soup, "What's going on?" she demanded.
    "She
killed my husband!" Rebecca yelled, pointing an accusing finger at my
face.
    "No, I
didn't," I pleaded desperately, “Why are you here, Rebecca? Why aren’t you
with your parents or mine?”
    The old woman
walked up to me and handed me the soup, "I think you should leave, dear,
you can take the soup. This young lady has been through a lot. Her husband
died, and she's very pregnant."
    "I'm
pregnant too!" I wanted to yell, but didn't, I still didn't believe it
myself so why would they? I mumbled a 'thank you', and hurried out of the
kitchen. Rebecca's screams followed me out into the cold night.
    I sank down on
the curb outside the soup kitchen. I hadn't noticed until the cold air hit it,
but, as I had been rushing out of the kitchen some of the scalding soup had
sloshed over the side of the Styrofoam bowl and burnt my right hand, which was
now throbbing painfully.
    Sighing, I
awkwardly used my left hand to hold the bowl to my mouth while I drank. I
nearly spat out the soup on the first sip. It was creamy potato soup, my least
favorite food in the entire world. I was tempted to set the bowl aside and see
what I could dig out of the dumpsters behind the kitchen, but my growling
stomach told me that wouldn't be wise. There was no guarantee I'd find
something edible, and I had more than just me riding on this bowl of potato
soup.
    I used my
stinging right hand to plug my nose, and drank the hot soup as quickly as I
could, leaving a trail of burnt taste buds in its place. I had to work to keep
the soup down, but eventually I was satisfied it wasn't going to come back up.
I decided to leave before Rebecca came out and found me.
    I tucked my
left hand safely in my jacket pocket and let my right dangle out in the cool
air, if I was lucky, it wouldn't swell up too bad and I wouldn't get an
infection. I did feel a little better though, I wasn't full but my stomach had
stopped protesting at every step I took. Now all I had to do was find a decent
place to sleep. I had an idea of how to get one, but I didn't want to have to
resort to it if I didn't have to.
    There was still
one place I could check before I went with plan B. There were a lot of factors
though. Would she even be here? Were we still friends? There was only one way
to find out. I turned back in the direction I had come from and started
walking. Maria and I had lived less than a block away from each other when I
was alive.
    The trip back
to my neighborhood went much faster than the trip from it. Maybe because I had
food in my stomach, or maybe because I was doing what I was supposed to now,
either way, I was actually making progress. It took me less than ten minutes of
trudging through the cold to find Maria's house. I was so glad to see it there,
still standing and with lights on, that I nearly cried. Surely, she