The Girl at the Rest Area
The sun was just beginning to set when architect Maureen Gannett walked out of her client's office and got behind the wheel of her late model Mercedes. The meeting took longer than she had anticipated, and her stomach grumbled with hunger. Her husband, Nolan, was a well-known chef who owned one of the finest restaurants in the Pittsburgh area. In the seven years the Gannetts were married, she never once had to prepare dinner. Delicious and nutritious meals were an ancillary benefit of their marriage. There were, however, times when the busy career woman was forced to eat on the road. With a two-hour drive ahead of her, Maureen decided this was to be one of those times. She took her phone out of her Gucci bag and texted her husband to let him know not to expect her home until at least nine o'clock.
As she merged with the heavy traffic on I-76, better known as the Pennsylvania Turnpike, she anticipated her dinner out, debating whether to get pepperoni pizza, chili dogs or a burger. Normally, she ate only chicken breast, fish and lean meat, coupled with fresh, organic vegetables and her husband's delicate sauces. However, she sometimes longed for a juicy hamburger with a slice of raw onion and a side order of salty, well-cooked French fries doused with ketchup. A gourmet from an early age, Nolan could never understand his wife's occasional cravings for junk food.
At the halfway point of her trip home, Maureen Gannett saw a blue sign for a rest area up ahead. It was not the basic variety rest stop that had only restrooms and coin-operated vending machines. It was what was commonly referred to as a service plaza: a large complex located adjacent to the interstate that included several commercially owned restaurants, a gift shop and gas pumps. This one was the North Midway Service Plaza and was only accessible from the westbound lanes of the turnpike.
Nolan would rather chew off his leg than eat in a fast-food restaurant, she thought with a smile as she put on her turn signal and pulled off the highway.
After a quick stop at the ladies' room, Maureen followed her nose toward the smell of food. Her eyes immediately went to the order line for Betty's All-Beef Burgers.
"Excuse me."
The architect turned and saw a pretty, petite teenage girl dressed in jeans and a Steelers T-shirt. She looked to be around sixteen, perhaps a year or two younger.
"Yes?" the older woman replied.
"Could you give me a ride?"
Maureen was surprised by the girl's request. Surely parents these days discouraged their daughters from hitchhiking and taking rides from strangers. But then, teenagers did not always follow their parents' rules.
"I'm sorry. I'm not ready to leave yet. I was just about to get something to eat."
"That's okay. I can wait until you're done."
"It's not just that. I ... uh ... I'm not in the habit of giving rides to strangers."
"Please. I have no way of getting home."
Maureen hesitated. Could this innocent-looking young girl present a danger to her? Maybe, maybe not, but she did not want to take the risk.
"I'm really sorry," she repeated. "You can borrow my phone to call your parents, though."
"I can't call them. They think I'm spending the night at my girlfriend's house. They don't know I snuck out to go to a concert with my boyfriend."
An alarm bell went off in Maureen's head. A boyfriend! She would most definitely not give the girl a ride if there was a teenage boy lurking around the rest area somewhere.
"And where is he now?"
"He lives east of here, toward Philly. He got on a bus after the concert ended. I was supposed to take the westbound bus, but I missed it. Someone gave me a ride part of the way, but she got off at the Bedford exit. Rather than hitchhike along the road in the dark, I walked to the rest area. I figured I'd have a better chance of getting a ride here."
Maureen looked longingly at the Betty's All-Beef Burgers counter.
All I want to do is eat and get back on the road, she thought, uneasy at being put in such an uncomfortable situation.
"Please, Ma'am," the girl pleaded. "My parents will have a fit if they learned I lied to them. I'll be grounded for a year!"
One did not get anywhere in life without making decisions, the architect reminded herself. As much as she hated to leave a young girl open to the vagaries of fate, she had her own safety to consider.
"I'll tell you what. I'll call a cab, and I'll pay him to take you home."
"I can't ask you to do that! Cabs are expensive."
"Don't worry about it," Maureen said, reaching into her bag for her iPhone.
As the Good Samaritan searched the Internet for the phone number of a local taxi service, the young girl idly looked around at the people in the service plaza. Her eyes spotted a familiar face, and she smiled.
"Never mind. I won't need that taxi after all," she announced. "I see someone I know. He'll give me a ride home."
"Are you sure?" Maureen asked, making no attempt to keep the sound of relief out of her voice.
"Yeah. Thanks for the offer."
No sooner did the young girl walk away than the hungry architect turned and headed toward Betty's All-Beef Burgers, her mouth watering for her much-anticipated meal.
* * *
Three days later Maureen Gannett was sitting at her drafting table, which was located in the home office on the third floor of her house. She had been diligently working for more than six hours, and felt the need for a break.
A cup of tea would be nice about now, she thought and went downstairs to the kitchen to brew a pot of Casablanca.
Wanting to catch up with what was going on in the world, she turned on the television. She was taking a tin of shortbread cookies out of one of the cabinets when she heard the local news anchor introduce a story about a missing teenager. Maureen glanced at the screen, and felt a spasm of surprise in her stomach.
"Fifteen-year-old Heather Jerome has been missing since Tuesday night," the newsman said. "After telling her parents she planned to spend the night at a friend's house, Heather attended a rock concert in Carlisle with her boyfriend. Afterward, Ms. Jerome was supposed to take a bus to the friend's house. A passing motorist told police the girl claimed to have missed the bus. The woman then gave her a ride to the Bedford exit. That was the last reported sighting of the teenager. If anyone has any information as to the whereabouts of Heather Jerome, they are urged to phone the Pennsylvania State Police."
The girl told me she walked from the Bedford exit to the rest area. That means I was one of the last people to see her. If I had given her a ride ....
The shrill whistle of the teapot derailed Maureen's train of thought. She turned off the burner, picked up the phone and called the police. In little over an hour, two state troopers showed up at her door. After she told them of her encounter with the missing girl, they bombarded her with questions.
"Did you notice what she was wearing?"
"Yes, I did. She had on jeans and a Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt, a black one with the team logo on the front."
"That agrees with what the boyfriend told us she wore to the concert."
Clearly, the question was a test to see if Maureen was being honest about having seen the girl.
"What about the person who she said was going to give her a ride? Did she give you any details that might lead to our discovering that person's identity?"
"No, but I assume it was a man since she said, 'he'll give me a ride home.'"
"She didn't tell you his name?"
"No."
"When she walked away, did you see her speak to anyone?"
"I'm afraid not. I was hungry, you see, and I just wanted to grab something to eat and get back on the road right away."
"So, you have no idea if Heather got a ride from someone or not?"
"No."
That simple one-syllable answer could not begin to convey the guilt Maureen felt at having refused to give the teenager a ride.
"I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you, but I only spoke to her for a few minutes."
"I understand, Mrs. Gannett. If you do remember anything else, no matter how trivial it may seem, be sure to let us know."
"Of course."
* * *
Nolan Gannett walked into his house that evening, bringing with him a foil pan of veal marsala, a loaf of freshly baked Italian bread and two tossed salads from his restaurant. After placing the food on the dining room table, he pressed the button on the intercom and told his wife he was home.
"I see you had company today," he observed when Maureen came down the stairs. Seeing a look of confusion on her face, he added, "There are three dirty cups in the sink."
"I'd hardly call it company. Two state troopers came to see me."
"Why?"
"When I stopped for something to eat on my way home the other night, a teenage girl came up to me and asked for a ride. I didn't feel comfortable having a stranger in my car, especially at night, so I offered to call her a cab. While I was searching for one on my phone, she claimed to have seen someone she knew in the crowd. She told me to forget about that cab, that she would get a ride from him."
"And what does any of this have to do with the police?" Nolan prompted when his wife suddenly fell silent.
"I saw on the news this afternoon that the girl has been missing since that night. I phoned the state police barracks to tell them that I had seen her at the rest area, and two troopers came here to question me."
Seeing the guilt on his wife's face, he leaned forward and took her hand.
"You couldn't have known something would happen to her," he said.
"Who said something happened to her?" Maureen cried, pulling her hand away. "Why do people always assume the worst?"
"You're right. Perhaps she simply ran away. Maybe she's got a boyfriend ...."
"She does, but the police have been in contact with him. He hasn't seen her since they attended a concert together that night."
"Maybe he's lying."
Although Nolan thought the girl had most likely been either kidnapped or killed, he tried not to let his pessimism show.
"Who knows what could have happened to her!" his wife cried. "She was such a tiny, little thing. Some pervert might be holding her captive, or she could have been taken and sold into the white slavery market."
"Don't go jumping to wild conclusions."
Despair overwhelmed Maureen, and she pushed her plate of food away.
"I can't eat. I'm too upset."
"I'll wrap your dinner up and put it in the refrigerator," her husband offered. "You can heat it in the microwave if you get hungry later on."
"I'm going upstairs to take a hot bath," she announced.
"Want me to bring you up a glass of wine?"
"That sounds good."
As his wife headed toward the stairs, Nolan heard her mumble, "If only I'd given her a ride."
* * *
In the weeks that followed the visit from the state police, Maureen watched every morning, evening and late-night news program for any mention of Heather Jerome. Since there were no further developments to report, the missing girl vanished from the broadcasts. There was no mention of her in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette either.
"Why haven't they found her yet?" the architect wondered, reaching for the remote when the news program ended and the late-night talk show began.
"I know how you must feel," Nolan said, his patience with his wife's preoccupation with the missing teenager beginning to wear thin, "but you have to face facts. That poor girl may never be found."
"How can you say such a thing?"
"Because it's true. Despite all our advanced technology, literally hundreds of thousands of people go missing every year, many of them minors. If she's been abducted, it could be years before she escapes or someone finds her. And if she's dead ...."
"Stop it! I don't want to hear another word."
"If she's dead," he continued despite her objections, "her body may never be found."
Maureen broke down, sobbing.
"She can't be dead!"
Nolan then broached a subject he had for several days tried to avoid.
"Maybe you ought to talk to someone about what you're going through."
His wife acted as though she had been slapped across the face.
"You think I'm going crazy!"
"No. But I do think you're riddled with guilt because you didn't give that girl a ride home. You can't feel that way! You did the sensible thing at the time. After all, it's dangerous to pick up hitchhikers, especially for a woman, driving alone at night."
"Dangerous? Heather Jerome was just a kid. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet."
"I can only imagine how you must feel, but you did nothing to intentionally hurt that girl. On the contrary, you were willing to pay for a taxi to take her home."
"It's just so unfair!"
Her mother's oft-spoken words came to her: life isn't fair. Although hardly an inspiring adage, the simple three-word sentence gave Maureen the strength to persevere. She wiped the tears from her eyes, turned off the television and went to bed.
To a casual observer, it might appear as though Maureen managed to pull herself together and get on with her life. Nolan, however, noticed several disturbing changes in his wife from that point on. For one thing, while she had always been a hard worker, she became a classic workaholic, putting in as many as twelve to fourteen hours a day. For another, she developed an aversion to driving alone at night, and she visibly cringed whenever she saw a hitchhiker walking alongside the road. Oddest of all, she lost her taste for junk food, even though it was absurd to think Betty's hamburgers and fries might have played any role in Heather Jerome's disappearance.
Eventually, however, the architect was able to send thoughts about the missing girl to the back of her mind. The years passed, and life went on. Nolan opened a second and even more successful restaurant, and his wife continued to design creative yet functional buildings for clients in central and western Pennsylvania. Yet just as the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers rushed to meet at the point where Fort Pitt once stood, Maureen Gannett's life had been preset on an unstoppable course with destiny, one that would eventually lead her back to the North Midway Service Plaza on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
* * *
"I really wish I could go with you," Nolan apologized as his wife packed her favorite cocktail dress into an overnight bag.
"It's okay," Maureen assured him. "I know you have to be at the restaurant since the leading Democratic presidential candidate is holding a fundraiser there tonight."
"But it isn't every day you win the architectural excellence design award."
"Nor is it every day you get the chance to feed the man who might be our next president."
"That's true. Still, I wish you would take the train to Harrisburg instead of driving."
"Stop worrying. I'll be fine."
In the twenty-five years that had passed since Heather Jerome's disappearance, Maureen deliberately avoided driving long distances. In view of the great honor that was being accorded to her, however, she decided to make an exception. Despite the heavy traffic, the drive to Harrisburg was mostly uneventful. The only anxiety she felt was when she passed the South Midway Service Plaza—the eastbound lanes' counterpart to the North Midway location.
It was in this area, on the other side of the highway ....
Maureen forced herself to think of something else. For more than two decades, she had succeeded in keeping Heather Jerome's disappearance somewhere in the background of her mind; now was not the time to let that particular memory take center stage. In an attempt to banish thoughts of the missing teenager, she resorted to the tried-and-true method of reliving the happy times of her life. She recalled key moments of her childhood, her college years, her early career achievements and her romance with Nolan. Smiling, she recalled his proposal on the Duquesne Incline and their wedding at the Phipps Conservatory.
That wasn't so bad, she thought when she finally arrived at the hotel in Harrisburg.
After texting Nolan, letting him know of her safe arrival, she went to lunch with a potential client, hoping to impress him with her recent design of an urgent care center. Throughout the afternoon, it was business as usual: emails, phone calls and revisions to the evening's acceptance speech. At five o'clock, she showered and dressed for the awards dinner. Thankfully, it was being held in the hotel ballroom. She could have a few drinks without having to worry about being pulled over for a DUI.
Despite Nolan's absence, she had a good time. There were friends and business associates in attendance she had not seen in years, even some she knew back in college. Given the three-course meal she ate and the four glasses of wine she drank, Maureen fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. When she woke the following morning, she was in no rush to begin the journey home. She lingered over her breakfast, ordering an additional cup of coffee. As she sat at the restaurant table, reading the newspaper, with a cold half-cup of coffee in front of her, she realized she was avoiding getting back behind the wheel.
You're being ridiculous! she chastised herself. You drove here without any problem. You can drive back home, too.
As she went through the motions of packing her overnight bag and checking out of the hotel, she again resorted to conjuring up pleasant memories to combat her anxiety. One of her favorite recollections was of her first trip to Fallingwater when she was ten years old. Upon seeing Frank Lloyd Wright's iconic house built over a waterfall, she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up: an architect. Over the years, there were many visits after that, most of which were with Nolan. She was able to recall with photographic accuracy the layout of the house and the architectural details of each room as well as the guest house behind the Kaufmann family's residence.
By the time she had concluded her imaginary tour of the house, Maureen was approaching the entrance ramp to the Turnpike.
Here we go, she thought, mentally bracing herself for the ordeal ahead of her.
Taking notice of the green mile markers along the side of the highway, she grew more relaxed the farther west she drove.
Still relying on her treasured memories to bolster her confidence, she mentally journeyed across the Atlantic and viewed with her inner eye snapshots of her favorite sights in London. First, the historic buildings: Kensington Palace, St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace. Then the modern structures that transformed the city skyline: the "Shard," the "Gherkin," the "Cheesegrater" and the London Eye. Finally, her personal favorites: Tower Bridge and the Tower of London.
Maureen was about to continue her imaginary travels through England by heading to Windsor Castle, when the alternator on her car went.
"Oh, great!" she exclaimed, managing to pull the vehicle safely onto the shoulder of the road. "Why couldn't I break down closer to home?"
After an emergency road service call was placed to AAA, a tow truck gave her and her car a lift to the nearest gas station. Luckily, the mechanic on duty had time to replace the alternator later that afternoon. Relieved that Nolan would not have to leave work to pick her up, Maureen sat in the gas station waiting room, drinking cups of coffee from the vending machine and reading outdated issues of People, US Weekly, National Geographic, Woman's Day and Motor Trend.
It was not until nearly five o'clock that the car was finished.
"You're all set," the mechanic announced, wiping the grease from his hands on the remnants of an old bath towel.
After paying the bill and giving the mechanic a sizable tip for his quick service, Maureen headed back to the Turnpike.
Ugh! Look at all the traffic. It'll take me hours to get home.
Her ETA was the least of her problems, however. Darkness of night descended upon her and, much worse, she soon regretted having drunk all those cups of coffee in the mechanic's waiting room. When she saw the sign indicating a rest area up ahead, she quickly moved to the right lane. So relieved was she at having a ladies' room nearby that she did not realize until she pulled into the parking lot, that she had arrived at the North Midway Service Plaza.
Maureen's initial instinct was to drive back onto the Turnpike without stopping, but the pressure in her bladder would soon be unbearable.
You can do this, she told herself as she got out of the car and walked toward the entrance. It's just a building. There's nothing in there that can hurt you.
The inside of the service plaza was not at all like she remembered it. At some point in the last twenty-five years, it had been completely remodeled. As she made her way to the ladies' room, she noticed Betty's All-Beef Burgers was gone, and a Starbucks stood in its place. However, Maureen had no interest in either coffee or food. She wanted only to go to the bathroom, get back on the road and go home.
After washing her hands and briefly running them under the high-powered dryer, she pushed open the ladies' room door and ....
What the ...?
The terrified architect stood staring at her surroundings, unable to move.
"Excuse me."
Maureen forced her eyes to shift from the reincarnated Betty's All-Beef Burgers to the pretty, petite teenage girl dressed in jeans and a Steelers T-shirt.
"Could you give me a ride?"
"It's you."
"I hate to ask, but I can't call my parents. They think I'm at my girlfriend's house, but I went to a concert with my boyfriend. If they find out, I'll be grounded for a year."
As Heather Jerome explained the dire predicament she had put herself in, Maureen tried to come to terms with her own situation. Surprisingly, rather than react to the bizarre turn of events with fear, she saw them as a miraculous opportunity to atone for her past mistake.
"Of course, I'll give you a ride," the architect eagerly agreed. "Come on, my car is parked right outside."
"Thanks so much," Heather said. "I missed the bus .... Oh, wait!"
"What is it?"
"I see someone I know. He'll give me a ride."
"No! You can't go with him. You have to come with me."
Maureen's insistence made the girl feel uneasy.
"That won't be necessary. He lives near my house. He ...."
"You can't go with him! It's not safe."
Heather's uneasiness turned to fear.
"I'm sorry, but I've gotta go."
Maureen grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the exit.
"Let me go!" the girl cried, trying to get loose of the older woman's grasp.
The teenager managed to pull free and ran outside. Following close behind, Maureen saw Heather get into a Toyota Camry being driven by a bearded man.
"No! Someone stop them. That man is kidnapping that poor child."
When no one attempted to come to the girl's aid, Maureen got into her BMW and tailed the kidnapper's car. Curiously, although it was still the height of the rush hour, there were no cars on the Turnpike. The frantic architect did not even notice. She was too intent on saving Heather's life.
"You're not going to hurt that poor girl," she cried. "Not this time."
But the driver of the Camry sped up, and Maureen was soon falling behind.
"Oh, no you don't!"
Giving no thought to her own safety, she pushed the gas pedal to the floor. A few moments later, she crashed into the rear of the Toyota. With both cars coming to a jarring stop, Maureen jumped out of her car and pulled open the Camry's passenger side door.
"Heather, are you ....?"
The girl was not in the car, nor was there any sign of the bearded man she had previously seen behind the wheel. Instead, a lifeless middle-aged woman sat in the driver's seat. Several minutes later, the blaring siren of an approaching state police car hurtled the perplexed architect back to sthe "real" world.
* * *
Trooper Wilt Lasky could not make sense of the hysterical woman's ravings.
"She was in the back seat of the Camry," Maureen screamed. "You've got to find her before he hurts her. She's fifteen years old, just under five feet tall, roughly one hundred pounds ...."
Trooper Lasky tried to calm down the woman as she rattled off a detailed description of an imaginary victim.
"There's no missing girl," he insisted. "The only person in the Subaru you rear-ended was Mrs. Padgett, a forty-year-old secretary from Dunbar."
"You've got to listen to me. I saw her get into the car at the rest area."
Had he not given the architect a breathalyzer test, Wilt would have sworn she was intoxicated; but her blood alcohol level was normal. Drunk or not, she had caused an accident, and a woman was dead as a result. He took her to the police barracks where she was given the opportunity to phone her husband. Knowing Nolan was on his way calmed Maureen down somewhat.
"I was driving home from Harrisburg," she told the police psychiatrist who was called in to assess her mental state. "I had to go to the bathroom, so I stopped at the North Midway Service Plaza—just like I did last time."
"When was that?" the doctor asked.
"Twenty-five years ago. That's the first time I encountered the girl."
For the next half hour, Maureen told him of her initial meeting with the teenager, the girl's subsequent disappearance and the second, bizarre encounter at the rest area earlier that evening.
"I know it sounds crazy, but it did happen. When I came out of the ladies' room, everything was the same as it was twenty-five years ago, right down to Betty's All-Beef Burgers. This time, however, I was going to give the girl a ride and see that she got home safely."
"But that's not what happened. Is it?"
"No. Despite my warning, she got in the car with him. I went after them, but ...."
"You crashed into the back of a Subaru Forester, killing the driver."
Tears fell down Maureen's face, and she began to tremble.
"I didn't mean to. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I only intended to save Heather Jerome."
Trooper Lasky, who had been observing the interview, suddenly stiffened.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"I didn't mean to hurt Mrs. Padgett."
"No. Who did you say you wanted to save?"
"Heather Jerome, the girl at the rest area."
"Jerome," the psychiatrist echoed, trying to place the name. "Why does that sound so familiar?"
"Twenty-five years ago," Wilt answered, "a fifteen-year-old girl named Heather Jerome did go missing, but she eventually turned up—alive."
"Alive?" Maureen cried. "That's wonderful! All this time, I thought ...."
Unable to bear the look of joy on the architect's face, the trooper turned away and continued, "Yes. She eventually married a man named Arlen Padgett and moved to Dunbar."
"Padgett?" the psychiatrist asked. "You don't mean that ...."
"The former Heather Jerome was driving the Subaru Forester that Mrs. Gannett hit."
Maureen's screams echoed through the hallways of the police barracks. The psychiatrist retrieved a sedative from his medical bag, but did not give the shot to the overwrought woman. After the evening's harrowing events, her fragile mind shut down of its own accord, unable to withstand any further shock—least of all, the knowledge that in an attempt to rectify the greatest mistake of her past and save Heather Jerome's life, she had instead caused her death.
To Salem, ANY area is a rest area.
