by Laura Miller
I smile and nod, but I don’t waste any time. “Was the daughter’s name Brooke?”
He chuckles some more. “Oh, son, I wish I could remember that—for your sake. But I don’t have the slightest idea. As strange as it is that your brain entrusts some things to memory, it’s just as strange that it doesn’t entrust other things.”
I lower my head. “Yes, I understand.”
He doesn’t say anything, so eventually I lift my head again and watch him readjust his glasses on his nose for a moment. “Do you know where they were moving to?” I ask.
“Oh, gosh,” the old man says, bringing his finger to his lips and lifting his eyes to the sky. He’s quiet for a long moment. “No,” he eventually says. “I don’t recall.”
My heart sinks. But then all of a sudden, his finger springs forward, startling the hell out of me.
“Memphis,” he says, pointing at me. “Now that I think about it, it was Memphis. At the time, my son was finishing up a doctorate at the University of Memphis. That’s how I remember. I remember thinkin’ he and this guy’s daughter would just miss each other.”
“Memphis? You sure?” I ask him.
“Positive,” the old man says. “Took me a second, but I’m positive.”
“Thank you,” I say, extending my arm out toward the man.
He meets my hand and shakes it even though there’s a questioning look on his face. “Is that all you wanted, son?”
“Yes, thanks for your time,” I say, heading hastily back down the walkway.
“Son,” I hear the old man call out to me. I’m already halfway down the walk when I stop and turn around.
“You seem like a nice young man.”
I lower my eyes to the concrete. For all he knows, I could be a criminal.
“I hope you find her,” he adds.
I look back up at him. His eyes are glossed over behind his glasses, but he looks as if maybe he could be a better judge of character than I gave him credit for. “Me too,” I say, nodding my head. “Me too.”
Chapter Thirty
Memphis
We get to Memphis, and I pull into a gas station.
“Didn’t we just get gas?” Blake asks.
“Yeah, we’re not getting gas,” I say, jumping out of the truck.
“Aah, food, good idea.” He gets out and follows me into the little convenient store.
But once inside, I don’t go to the food. I go straight to the pay phone hanging on the wall in the back of the store. As I’m flipping through the phone book, Blake comes up behind me.
“What in the hell is this?”
I stop and look up at him. His eyes are on the phone. “It’s a pay phone. You put money in it, and you call people.”
“They still make these things?” He pulls on the silver, snake-like cord. “And what in the hell is that?”
His eyes trail to my hands.
“Phone book,” I say.
“Now, I thought for sure those didn’t exist anymore.”
I smile and just keep flipping through the pages.
“Dude, how do you even know how to use that thing?” he asks.
I laugh and freeze as soon as my finger stops on Sommerfield. There are so many of them. I keep scanning for their names, and suddenly Blake and everyone else in the store just become muffled background noise as my finger stops on an entry. Gene and Angela. I start to draw shallow breaths. I might not know what they look like, but I do know their names. Brooke told me once, and the names just stuck. And there’s only one Gene and Angela Sommerfield in this phone book. It’s got to be them. I run my finger along the page, following the tiny dotted line until I get to the address: 1624 Valley Park Dr.
I grab the pen attached to the phone somehow and try to scribble the number and address onto my hand, but the pen doesn’t work.
“I need a pen,” I say, keeping my finger pressed to the name.
Blake looks at me and then at the phone book.
“Here,” he says, grabbing the book.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He tears the page out and hands it to me. “Nobody uses these things anyway,” he says. “Now, I’m gonna go get some peanuts.”
He disappears into an aisle. We’re the only ones in the store now, and when I look up at the cashier, she’s staring right at me. She’s a thinner, older woman with curly red hair, and she’s got this questioning look plastered to her face. I smile and quickly fold up the white page. She watches me do it but then goes back to reading her magazine. I’m guessing a page of the phone book isn’t worth her time. I shove the folded piece of paper into my back pocket and go to find Blake.
He meets me halfway down the aisle, holds up his bag of peanuts and continues to the cashier.
Within a minute, we’re back in the truck, and I’m programming the address from the stolen white page into the GPS.
“Wait, we’re just gonna show up there?” he asks.
I keep punching in the letters. “Yeah.”
“Don’t you think we should call or something? Isn’t there a number or something on there?”
“It’ll probably go to their answering machine. I won’t know what to say. They won’t call back. I’ve just got to show up.”
“You’ve thought about this?” he asks.
I look at him and feign a smile.
“What if they’re not there?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“All right,” he says in a surrendering kind of way. Then he sits back in his seat, and I hear him opening up his peanuts. In the meantime, I wait for the GPS to find the address. It takes about thirty seconds, and then the voice from the little box is telling me to turn left onto the main road.
“Well, all right then,” Blake says, giving me a big, shit-eating grin. “Let’s go stalk some parents.”
I just laugh and throw the truck into reverse.
***
We pull along the street and stop right in front of the house that the GPS told us is Brooke’s parents—or at least two people who have the same names as Brooke’s parents in the latest phone book, which could have been printed in 1992 for all I know.
“What if they don’t answer the door? What if they think you’re robbing them, or worse, trying to sell them something?” Blake asks.
I smile. It’s a nervous smile, but it’s a smile all the same. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”
He sits back in his seat. “Okay, I’m stayin’ here. I wouldn’t answer the door if I saw two guys that looked like us at my door.”
I nod my head. He’s got a point.
I get out of the truck and walk slowly to the sidewalk that leads to a nice, big door. The house looks old but in a stately kind of way. I swallow the lump growing in my throat and try to control my hands from shaking so much. I’m fully prepared for whoever answers the door to slam it right back in my face—but not before I figure out where she is.
I step up onto the little concrete porch and look back at Blake. He’s ducking down in the truck. He’s got the hood from his hooded sweatshirt pulled up over his head, and he’s peeking out of it. What the hell is he doing? Is he trying to make it look as if we’re trying to rob somebody? I pray whoever comes to the door doesn’t see him first.
All of a sudden, I notice his hand waving me on, and it startles me and forces me back to my mission. I go to knock on the door, but before I do, I force out all the air in my lungs. What if these aren’t her parents? I swallow the thought and force my knuckles to the door, giving it three hard knocks. Then I wait. And I wait. And I wait, until I can’t wait anymore and I knock again—this time a little harder. And still, I wait. I stuff my hands into my pockets and feel the sweat collecting in my palms. I rock back and forth on my heels. Then I force out a sigh and start to turn back down the concrete path. I’ll wait. I’ll come back. I’ll try again.
“River?”
It’s funny; I didn’t even notice the door opening behind me.
&n
bsp; I turn fast and catch a slender woman standing in the door frame. It’s Brooke’s mom. It’s got to be her. She’s an older version of Brooke.
“Mrs. Sommerfield?”
“Yes,” she simply says. Her short brown hair bounces as she nods her head.
I’m pretty much speechless. I hadn’t thought of what I would say if someone actually did answer the door—much less her mom.
She looks me up and down once. “Come,” she says, motioning for me to come inside. I wonder how she knew it was me, but I don’t hesitate to follow her inside. And right before I close the door behind me, I find Blake, and I think I try to smile, but I’m terrified so it probably doesn’t look anything like a smile. He just grins back, and I notice him reclining in his seat. His hood is still up over his head. He looks as suspicious as hell. And right there, I thank my lucky stars Brooke’s mom didn’t notice him.
Mrs. Sommerfield walks to what looks as if it’s the living room and takes a seat on a big leather couch. “Sit,” she says in a sweet, calm voice, gesturing toward a chair opposite the couch.
I sit down and pull off my baseball cap.
“Now,” she says, with a warm smile. “What brings you to Memphis?”
I fiddle with my cap a little, bending the bill. “I was in the area, and I heard that Brooke might be here, and I... I just wanted to stop by and say hi, I guess.”
Her eyes narrow into a questioning kind of look—as if she’s thinking. The way her emotions show on her face reminds me of Brooke. And the way she disguises them even when they’re in plain view—so I can’t even figure out what those emotions are exactly—reminds me of Brooke too.
“Ma’am?”
She cocks her head to the side.
“How did you know who I was?” I ask.
She smiles a wide smile. “You haven’t changed so much that I don’t recognize you from that photo Brooke always carried around.”
I laugh once to myself. She carried my picture around?
“When was the last time you guys saw each other?” she asks.
“Oh, uh...we were...thirteen, I guess.” I swallow that damn lump in my throat again and catch a framed photo of Brooke on the wall. Oh my God. There she is. She’s grown up, but she’s still Brooke. She looks about eighteen in the photo. It’s probably her senior picture. She’s so beautiful. Her hair is still long, and her eyes are still that pretty shade of green and gray.
“River?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am, sorry,” I stutter. I quickly return my attention to Mrs. Sommerfield.
“Have you talked to her since then?” she asks.
I instinctively lower my head. “Uh, no, ma’am. I haven’t.”
She smiles. Her smile is like warm honey. “Well, you might want to call her first.”
Hot damn! Is she going to give me Brooke’s number? My heart races at the thought of hearing her voice again and also at the thought of having to come up with something to say to her that erases nine years of silence.
I watch Mrs. Sommerfield get up and make her way to some other room. I don’t know what to do, so I just sit there and continue bending the bill of my cap until it looks like a folded piece of paper. And soon, my eyes land back on the photo of Brooke. I just can’t believe I’m looking at the same girl from that summer so long ago. I’m near dumbstruck just looking at a photo of her. I can’t imagine what state I’m going to be in if I ever do get the chance to see her in person again.
“Here.” I look up. All of a sudden, Mrs. Sommerfield is next to me again, and she’s handing me a torn-off piece of notebook paper. “That’s her number. And that’s her address,” she says, giving me a knowing smile.
I wonder if she gives me the address because she knows that if I had to wait another second to see her, I might go crazy. Or maybe the address is because she knows Brooke might not return my call. I push out an uneasy breath.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the piece of paper. “This means a lot.”
She smiles at me. It’s an even smile, so I can’t tell if it’s a good one or a bad one. I can’t tell if she wishes me well or she pities me. But I guess it doesn’t matter now. Now, all that matters is that I finally know where to find her.
I thank Mrs. Sommerfield again before refitting my cap over my head and turning back down that concrete walk for the second time. My hands are shaking more now than they were when I first got here. I think I just have to get to her. I have to find her. I have to tell her that I think I’m still in love with her—no matter how crazy that makes me sound.
Chapter Thirty-One
I’m Sorry, Buddy
“Is this it?”
“This is it,” I say, putting the truck into park on the street. We’re at the address that her mom gave me. I didn’t call. I couldn’t call. I just had to see her.
In front of us is a little brick townhouse on a street of little brick townhouses. There are cars parked out front, but I wouldn’t even know which one she drove, so I have no idea if she’s home.
“Well, buddy, you ready?” Blake asks.
I draw in a quick breath. I’m scared shitless. I don’t know how she’s gonna react. I don’t even know how I’m gonna react...or what I’m gonna say. I just know I have to say something.
I reach for the door handle but stop when a truck pulls up in the parking lot in front of the door that marks her address. There’s a guy driving the truck, and there’s a pretty brunette in the passenger’s seat. I swear my heart about stops there. It’s her. But somehow, she’s even more beautiful than I remember. I watch her long brown hair sweep over her shoulders and fall behind her as she tilts her head and laughs. She’s laughing. But she’s laughing with the guy in the truck. My hand slowly falls from the door handle, but I keep my eyes trained on that pretty girl as she gets out of the truck and reaches for something in the bed. We’re far enough away that they wouldn’t think to notice us but close enough that I can still see the colorful bands on her wrist. I watch as the guy comes back into the picture. He’s not a huge guy, but he’s not small either, I guess. He is wearing flip flops, though. What kind of a man wears flip flops? I watch them, simply because I can’t tear my eyes away from her, and he’s next to her. He leans into Brooke and kisses her on the back of her neck. Then she swings her arms around his neck and kisses him back, and that’s all I can stand to watch. My eyes cast down to the steering wheel in front of me. I can tell Blake notices. I know he just saw the same thing I did—my world crashing in on me.
“Damn it,” I curse under my breath. I slam my palm hard against the steering wheel, while my heart stabs the wall of my chest.
Blake sits back in the passenger’s seat. “I’m sorry, buddy.”
I wonder why her mom didn’t warn me. I wonder if she tried. I wonder if her smile was in fact a pity smile, and I just didn’t care to read it that way. I wonder if she really did just think I wanted to say hi. It didn’t matter that all the odds were against me, I never saw it ending this way. It’s been nearly a decade, and it took nearly seven miracles just to find her, and I never even once thought about it ending this way. Why hadn’t I? Of course it was going to end this way. I never even had a chance. She’s a beautiful girl, and she moved on with her life, like I should have. Hell, she might not even remember me. That thought catches me painfully off guard, as I look up just in time to see Brooke and Flip Flops walking into the townhouse together.
“Maybe we should wait,” Blake says. “Maybe he’ll leave, and then you can talk to her then.”
I gnaw on my bottom lip. “Yeah, okay.”
We sit there in silence for about ten or so minutes before her townhouse door opens again. Flip Flops comes out first. I don’t even know him, and I already hate him. But Brooke is behind him. I sit up and grip the steering wheel with both hands. Blake sits up too. And together, we watch as they make their way back to the truck. Flip Flops helps Brooke in first. I hate that he opens her door. At least she doesn’t scoot to the middle. She stays on her side and rests her
arm on the ledge of the open window. It’s the first time I get a really good look at her eyes. I try to read them. Are they happy? Content? Unsettled? I can’t tell.
The truck starts up—with both of them in it. And within seconds, it’s reversing out of the little parking lot. And I damn near lose my breath as it pulls away. I’m not sure why, though. It’s a simple chain of events. I had to have known that if they got in the truck, they would leave in the truck.
“Do we follow them?” Blake asks.
“I don’t...I don’t know....,” I stutter. “To where? I don’t even know where they’re going. And I don’t know what I’d say when I got there.”
“Well, do we wait then?” he asks.
I think I’m on the verge of losing it. I got what I wanted. But it’s almost as if it’s a sick joke. I found her, but she won’t know that I even looked. I saw her, but I couldn’t touch her. Life sucks sometimes. I feel my eyes burning. I look away and drop my head so Blake doesn’t see anything I don’t want him to see. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”
It takes Blake a few seconds to respond. “You sure you don’t want to wait?”
I look at him. “For what? What am I going to say to her even if she does come back here tonight? ‘Hi, Brooke. I haven’t seen you in almost a decade. I tracked you down and got your address from an old letter, then an old man, then your mom. And now I’m here, professing our teenage love. But I see you’ve moved on. Have a good life.’”
Blake takes a sharp breath and then lowers his eyes. “Yeah,” he says and then pauses. “Maybe we should go.”
And maybe we shouldn’t have left or I should have gotten out and just talked to her. I’ll never know what might have been. But the hurt of seeing her with someone else was just too much to bear. I think you follow a dream so long sometimes, you forget that life really does just go on—with or without you.
