The Things We Do for Love

Page 8

She opened the door, got out.
The night closed around her, chilled her. She smelled autumn. A bloated gray cloud floated overhead, started spitting rain on the sidewalk.
She hurried up the walk and knocked on the front door.
Mira answered almost instantly. She stood in the entry, smiling sadly, wearing an old football jersey and Grinch slippers. Her long hair was unbound; it cascaded down her sides in an unruly mass. "I wondered how long you were going to sit out there."
"You knew?"
"Are you kidding? Kim Fisk called the minute you parked. Andrea Schmidt called five seconds later. You forget what it's like to live in a neighborhood."
Angie felt like an idiot. "Oh."
"Come on in. I figured you'd be by." She led the way down a linoleum-floored hallway and turned in to the family room, where a huge brown sectional framed a big-screen television. Two glasses of red wine waited on the oak coffee table.
Angie couldn't help smiling. She sat down on the sofa and reached for the wineglass. "Where is everyone?"
"The little ones are asleep, the big ones are doing homework, and tonight is Vince's league night." Mira stretched out on the sofa, looking at Angie. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"You were just driving around in the dark?"
"Something like that."
"Come on, Ange. Livvy quit. Mama threw down the lasagna gauntlet and the restaurant is bleeding."
Angie looked up, trying to smile. "And don't forget that I'm learning to live alone."
"By the looks of it, that isn't going well."
"No." She took a sip of wine. Maybe more than a sip. She didn't really want to talk about her life. All it did was wound her. "I need to convince Livvy to come back."
Mira sighed, obviously disappointed by Angie's change in subject. "We probably should have told you that she's wanted to quit for months."
"Yeah. That would have been good to know."
"Look on the bright side. There's one less of us to piss off when you start making changes."
For some reason, the word changes hit Angie hard. She put down the wineglass and stood up; then she moved to the window, staring out, as if her location had been the problem.
"Angie?"
"I don't know what the hell is wrong with me lately."
Mira came up beside her, touched her shoulder. "You need to slow down."
"What do you mean?"
"Ever since you were a girl, you've been running for what you wanted. You couldn't get out of West End quickly enough. Poor Tommy Matucci asked about you for two years after you left, but you never called him. Then you rushed through college and blistered up the food chain in advertising." Her voice softened. "And when you and Conlan decided to start your family, you immediately started tracking your ovulation and working at it."
"A lot of good it did me."
"The point is, now you're lost, but you're still running full speed. Away from Seattle and your ruined marriage, toward West End and the failing restaurant. How will you ever figure out what you want when everything is a blur?"
Angie stared at her reflection in the window. Her skin looked parchment pale, her eyes seemed bruised by darkness, and her mouth was barely a strip. "What do you know about wanting?" she said, hearing the ache in her voice.
"I have four kids and a husband who loves his bowling league almost as much as he loves me, and I've never had a boss who wasn't related to me. While you were sending me postcards from New York and London and Los Angeles, I was trying to save enough money to get my hair cut. Believe me, I know about wanting."
Angie wanted to turn and face her sister but she didn't dare. "I would have traded it all--the trips, the lifestyle, the career--for just one of those babies upstairs."
Mira touched her shoulder. "I know."
Angie finally turned and knew instantly it was a mistake.
Mira's eyes were full of tears.
"I need to go," Angie said, hearing the thickness of her voice.
"Don't--"
She pushed past Mira and ran for the front door. Outside, rain slashed at her, blurred her vision. Not caring, she raced for the car. Mira's Come back echoed behind her.
"I can't," she said, too softly for her sister to hear.
She climbed into the car and slammed the door, starting the engine and backing out before Mira could follow her.
She drove up one street and down another, barely aware of where she was. The radio volume was turned high. Right now Cher was singing at her to "Believe."
At last she found herself in the Safeway parking lot, drawn like a moth to the bright lights.
There she sat beneath the glaring streetlamp, staring out at the rain hammering her windshield.
I would have traded it all.
She closed her eyes. Just saying those words aloud had hurt.
No.
She wouldn't sit here and stew about it. Enough was enough. This was definitely the last time she'd vow to forget what couldn't be changed.
She'd go into the store, buy some over-the-counter sleeping pills, and take just enough to get her through the night.
She got out of her car and went into the sprawling white-lit store. None of her family would be here, she knew. They patronized the locals.
She went straight to the aspirin aisle and found what she was looking for.
She was halfway to the checkout aisle when she saw them.
A bird-thin woman in dirty clothes carrying three cartons of cigarettes and a twelve-pack of beer. Four raggedly dressed children buzzed around her. One of them--the smallest--asked for a doughnut, and the mother cuffed him.
The children's hair and faces were filthy; their tennis shoes were pocked with holes.
Angie stopped; her breathing felt heavy. The pain welled up again. If it would have done any good, she would have looked up at God and begged, Why?
Why did some women make babies so easily, while others ...
She dropped the box of sleeping pills and walked out of the store. Outside, rain hit her hard, mingled with her tears.
In the car, she sat perfectly still, staring through the beaded windshield. In time, the family came out of the store. They piled into a shabby car and drove off. None of the kids put on a seat belt.
Angie closed her eyes. She knew that if she sat here long enough, it would pass. Grief was like a rain cloud; sooner or later, if you were patient, it moved on. All she had to do was keep breathing....
Something smacked on her windshield.
Her eyes opened.
A pink flyer was on her windshield. It read: Work Wanted. Steady. Reliable.
Before she could read any more, the rain pummeled the flyer, ruined the ink.
Angie leaned toward the passenger seat and rolled down the window.
A girl with red hair was planting the flyers. She moved stoically from car to car, heedless of the rain, wearing a threadbare coat and faded jeans.
Angie didn't think. She reacted. Getting out of the car, she yelled, "Hey, you!"
The girl looked up.
Angie ran toward her. "Can I help you?"
"No." The girl started to move away.
Angie reached into her coat pocket and pulled out money. "Here," she said, pressing the wad of bills into the girl's cold, wet hand.
"I can't take that," the girl whispered, shaking her head.
"Please. For me," Angie said.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Finally, the girl nodded. Tears filled her eyes. "Thanks." Then she turned and ran into the night.
LAUREN CLIMBED THE DARK, SHADOWY STAIRS TOWARD the apartment building. Every step seemed to draw something out of her, until, by the time she reached Mrs. Mauk's front door, Lauren was certain she'd grown smaller somehow. She was so tired of feeling vulnerable and alone.
She paused, staring down at the damp wad of bills in her hand. One hundred twenty-five dollars.
For me, the woman in the parking lot had said, as if she were the one in need.
Yeah, right. Lauren knew charity when she saw it. She'd wanted to turn it down, maybe laugh lightly and say You've got me all wrong. Instead, she'd run all the way home.
She wiped the leftover tears from her eyes and knocked on the door.
Mrs. Mauk answered. When she saw Lauren, her smile faded. "You're soaking wet."
"I'm fine," Lauren said. "Here."
Mrs. Mauk took the money, counted it. There was a small pause, then the woman said, "I'll just take one hundred of it, okay? You go buy yourself something decent to eat."
Lauren almost started to cry again. Before the tears could fill her eyes, she turned away and ran for the stairway.
In her apartment, she called out for her mother.
Silence answered her.
With a sigh, she tossed her backpack onto the sofa and went to the refrigerator. It was practically empty. She was just reaching for a half-eaten sandwich when someone knocked.
She crossed the small, messy apartment and opened the door.
David stood there, holding a big cardboard box. "Hey, Trix," he said.
"What--"
"I called the pharmacy. They said you didn't work there anymore."
"Oh." She bit her lip. The softness of his voice and the understanding in his eyes was almost more than she could take right now.
"So I cleaned out the fridge at home. Mom had a dinner party last night and there were killer leftovers." He reached into the box and pulled out a videotape. "And I brought my Speed Racer tapes."
She forced a smile. "Did you bring the one where Trixie saves his ass?"
He gazed down at her. In that single look, she saw everything. Love. Understanding. Caring. "Of course."
"Thank you" was all she could say.
"You should have called me, you know. When you lost your job."
He didn't know how it felt, to lose something you needed so desperately. But he was right. She should have called him. Even at seventeen, as young and immature as he could sometimes be, he was the steadiest person in her life. When she was with him, her future--their future--seemed as pure and shimmering as a pearl. "I know."
"Now, come on, let's get something to eat and watch a movie. I have to be home by midnight."
FIVE
MR. LUNDBERG DRONED ON AND ON, FLITTERING from one contemporary social issue to another like a child chasing soap bubbles.
Lauren tried to pay attention; she really did. But she was more than exhausted.
"Lauren. Lauren?"
She blinked awake, realizing a second too late that she'd fallen asleep.
Mr. Lundberg was staring at her. He did not look happy.
She felt her cheeks grow hot. That was the problem with being a redhead. Pale skin blushed easily. "Yes, Mr. Lundberg?"
"I asked you for your position on capital punishment."
"Prone," someone called out. Everyone laughed.
Lauren tried to suppress a giggle. "I'm against the death penalty. At least until we can ensure that it's being fairly and uniformly carried out. No. Wait. I'm against it anyway. The state should not be in the business of killing people to preserve the notion that killing is morally wrong."
Mr. Lundberg nodded, then turned back to the television he'd set up in the middle of the room. "In the past weeks we've discussed justice--or its lack--in America. I think sometimes we forget how fortunate we are to be able to have such discussions. Things are very different in other parts of the world. In Sierra Leone, for example ..."