A Borrowed Life

by Kerry Anne King

  Memory drops me back to a school counselor’s office.

  I’ve been called in for something. What? Why?

  The counselor’s elbows are on her desk, her chin resting on open palms. She’s smiling. I’m not in trouble. I feel like—I feel like the first day of summer vacation, the time I spent it with my cousin in the country. Like possibilities and freedom.

  The rest of the memory is missing, and I want it back. I focus in. It was high school. Senior year. Before or after I met Thomas? It would have to have been before. My stomach feels like unraveling knitting as the rest of the memory comes clear.

  I’m sitting in an algebra class, head bent over a math book, alternately wrestling with equations, which are not my thing, and daydreaming about a theater production I plan to audition for.

  A knock at the classroom door. A head pokes in.

  “Elizabeth Lundgren? May I see you in my office for a moment?”

  Heads swivel in my direction. Some curious, some hostile. My stomach drops and twists as I pack up my books. What have I done, said, left undone? My father’s philosophy is “Trouble at school, double at home.” It wouldn’t be the first time his belt came off and connected with the tender skin on the backs of my thighs and behind my knees because I’ve missed homework or smart-mouthed a teacher. He pays little attention to me as long as I don’t cause him trouble, but a note from school is always a catalyst for what he calls “correction.”

  I follow the woman down the hallway, my anxiety ratcheting up a notch when we veer left into the counseling services office rather than right into the principal’s domain.

  “What did I do?” I ask as soon as I’m perched on the edge of the folding chair on the student side of her desk.

  “What did . . .” The woman’s well-shaped eyebrows rise in an expression of bewilderment. “I was just wondering what your plans are for college.”

  “I don’t—humanities, probably. Teaching? Social work, maybe.” Really, I have no idea. I love drama, but that’s not something I can make a career out of. It’s not like I’d ever be movie star material. I can see my life to the end of high school and then nothing, as though everything ends then. Probably I’ll get a job at McDonald’s or some other fast-food place. My parents didn’t go to college. My stepbrother, eleven years older than me, worked at the lumber mill for a few years after high school, and eventually went into real estate.

  “You do plan to go to college.” The woman’s eyes are warm and quizzical.

  She makes it feel safe to be myself, my real self, the one I conceal below the surface. “Honestly, I don’t know. My family isn’t going to pay for it.”

  “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Your teachers tell me you are very bright. Your grades are excellent. Mrs. Valen says your thinking and writing skills go well beyond the usual high school vapidness—those are her words, not mine.”

  I return her smile, amused. I can hear Mrs. Valen using that word, “vapid,” to describe most of the students in English. I agree with her, in secret. It’s amazing how so many of them complain about reading books I find amazing, how they miss the point of things that seem so clear and obvious to me.

  “And Mr. D says you’re one of the best drama students he’s ever had. But here’s the thing. You’ve never taken the SATs, or availed yourself of any of our services. If you start now, it’s not too late to get some good scholarships. They are a lot of work, but they could put you through college. I really do think you ought to go to college, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” My voice comes out small and squeaky. It annoys me. I sit up straighter, meet those kind eyes directly, and say, louder this time, “Yes!”

  “Good! I’m glad to hear that. Let’s get you set up to take the SAT test. I’ll give you a study guide. And I’ll find some good scholarship applications, all right?”

  “All right.” When I walk out of her office, I feel different, like I take up more space in the world.

  Myself, I think, with a little awe and wonder. This is the real me, this smart girl who is going to college.

  Now, so many years later, I find that I’m weeping for the girl I was. What happened to her?

  I did take the SAT, and I got a good score. Started working on the scholarships and then . . . what happened next?

  Thomas, that’s what happened.

  Thomas, and God, and the ubiquitous apostle Paul.

  “Oh, you foolish, foolish girl,” I whisper to myself.

  I chose Thomas and did my best to live up to his expectations. Now here I am. Widowed. Perpetually at war with my only child, with nothing to show for any of it but guilt and regret.

  Even genuine grief eludes me. I keep trying to summon up sorrow, remembering all of the years Thomas and I spent together. I feel his absence keenly, keep running my mind over it, the way my tongue kept poking at the place a tooth used to be when I had one extracted. Missing Thomas is like missing a tooth, but a tooth that ached.

  If I’m honest, what I feel is more relief than loss.

  And when I think of Abigail, my beautiful, brilliant, misguided Abigail, plunging into the same mistakes I made, sacrificing her own dreams for what she sees as duty, I feel anger that borders on rage. Some of it is directed toward Thomas; more of it at myself. I taught her all too well how to go along with her father’s wishes instead of asserting her own. And now she’s coming home to martyr herself and make sure both of us stay in this familiar trap.

  My always-vivid imagination shows us twenty years down the road, empty and bitter. Polite on the surface, loving and hating each other underneath. I’ll be just like Earlene. The walls press in on me, and I flee the house and Thomas and my impending future, taking refuge in the backyard.

  Screened by hedges, tucked into a green and rather overgrown world, I can breathe again. Stripping off my shoes and then my socks, I focus on the grass cool and damp beneath my bare feet. It needs to be mowed, but I like it this way. Dandelions have dared to intrude now that Thomas isn’t here to poison them, and my heart lightens at the sight of their bright-yellow heads. A squirrel cusses at me from up in the big maple.

  One hand on the tree trunk, peering upward, I catch sight of him, his red tail jerking with every unholy exclamation he utters. “You and me, buddy,” I tell him. “We have got to watch our language or we are both of us going to the bad place.”

  The squirrel scolds louder, disappearing higher up the tree in a flurry of waving branches.

  I envy him that, his freedom to climb so easily, to leap from limb to limb. I want to climb after him, to disappear up into the branches and look down on the world below, unseen. But this tree isn’t climbable. All the branches are out of reach. I put my arms around it, lean my cheek against the cool bark, breathe in the scent of pitch and leaves.

  Moses meows and flops down not far from my feet, stretching luxuriously. His fur looks healthier since he’s moved into the house, and his bones are less obvious. The vet gave me some deworming pills and some drops for mites in his ears. He’s tamer, but still wary and easily startled, so I lower myself slowly into the grass.

  “Here, kitty, kitty.” He slouches toward me like a street hoodlum, climbs into my lap as if he owns it, and begins a loud, rattling purr. I touch two fingers to the top of his head. He purrs louder and I stroke his cheek. He presses his face into my palm, leaning into the caress. I have a weird sensation of the world breathing along with me, as if I can hear the grass roots growing down into the earth. The bright dandelions all around me that have taken root in the hostile environment of Thomas’s lawn glow like brands of courage. The squirrel starts up another harangue, such a tiny creature, so courageous, really, to be shouting down at a human and a cat.

  And an idea comes to me. Daring. Preposterous. Inspiring.

  What if it’s not too late to get a degree? There’s a community college in Colville. I feel an expansion in my rib cage, as if there’s more room to breathe. I’m not dead yet. I don’t have to be an Earlene. The world is full of po
ssibilities.

  Thomas edges back into my head.

  “Go ahead, take an evening class to keep your brain from rapid aging, if you must. But it’s too late to do anything else. You’ll look ridiculous taking classes with a bunch of teenagers.”

  Maybe an online university, then. I could take writing classes. Maybe I could write a novel. Or a play. Doubt sneaks back in, not bothering with a Thomas voice this time. Who do you think you’re kidding, Liz? What would be the point?

  And then I touch my wrist, the place where I imagine a WWLD tattoo, and smile. I can say yes to one class, at least. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tara and Bernie arrive first, rattling up the street in a battered pickup that looks like a tree fell on the box at some point. Between them, they lug a cooler into the yard, full of ice and drinks, mostly beer. Bill shows up next, eager to show off his new wife, twenty years younger and clearly adoring. Geoff brings chips and dip and a slow cooker full of tiny wienies in some sort of spicy sauce. Val has ordered pizza.

  And Lance—well, Lance isn’t here.

  I tell myself maybe he’s working. It’s a Saturday, after all, and it’s spring. Farmwork must be busy this time of year. When my phone rings and I see his name on the caller ID, a completely inappropriate thrill runs through me, and I step away from the group happily drinking pre-moving beers on my front lawn.

  “Hey,” I say into the phone.

  “Hey. You may have noticed my absence.”

  “I may have.”

  “I’d like to be there.”

  “Well, then. Come on over. The party is just getting started.”

  He laughs. “Let me guess. Bernie and Tara brought the booze. And Geoff brought the snacks.”

  “You sound like you know these people.”

  “How is your daughter likely to take to this gathering?” he asks.

  “Not well.” I shiver a little.

  “Given our last interaction,” he says, “I thought maybe it was better if I don’t pour gasoline on the fire.”

  “Abigail can be terrifying.” I try to say it lightly, even though I feel suddenly about a hundred pounds heavier. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to—”

  “Actually, I was thinking about her. This has all got to be extremely difficult for her. I figured the shock value of the others would be more than enough.”

  “The more the better. We will catapult her free of her prejudices. Come join the fun. If you’re available.”

  There’s a pause, during which I hate the phone. I can’t see his face, can’t see what he’s thinking. And in that space, I decide to tell him the truth.

  “She’s moving home because she thinks it’s her duty.”

  “Take care of Mom?”

  “Yes, only it’s not her idea, really. It’s her father’s voice talking to her from the grave. And it’s not so much to take care of me as to keep me—contained.”

  “Well, that’s a clusterfuck,” he says.

  Part of my brain does its usual defensive, screeching language-alert maneuver. Bad word. Straight to hell. The other part delights in the sound of this word, and the perfection of two words coming together with the end sum of this perfect description.

  “If you’d rather not face her, I totally get that, or if you have better things to do—”

  “Me big strong man,” he says in a caveman voice. “I can take it. On my way.” The call ends, and I stand there with the phone in my hand, smiling at nothing.

  Lance and Abigail arrive simultaneously from opposite directions. He parks in front of Earlene’s house. Abigail’s got a U-Haul trailer hitched to her car, and she stops right in the middle of the street. Either she’s considering the problem of how to back the trailer into the driveway, or she’s seen the welcoming committee and is contemplating an escape.

  “You made it,” I call out, walking toward her car. An inane thing to say, as I’m sure she’ll point out to me later. “Do you need some help backing in?”

  She doesn’t even look at me, too busy glaring at Lance and the rest of the welcoming committee. “I can do it.”

  Lance parks and walks over to me as she begins her first attempt, the trailer clearly not going where she intended it to.

  “I don’t suppose she’d like some help with that,” he says.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Geoff gets up off the lawn and ambles over to the car, beer in hand. “Hey,” he says into the open window. “Turn the wheel right if you want the trailer to go left.”

  Even from a distance, I see the unmistakable jutting of her chin, and I feel a sudden rush of empathy. If I were her, I wouldn’t want anybody telling me how to drive, either. And I’d be overwhelmed and put off by this cloud of strangers watching, criticizing, offering advice.

  Abigail is on trial number three when Earlene’s front door opens and she stalks across the street with all the dignity of an offended heron.

  “What’s the matter?” Lance asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Worse,” I mutter. And then gasp in horror as a convoy of familiar cars comes into view. Kimber. Annie. And Felicity and Pastor Steve.

  “You know that word you used?” I ask Lance. “The swear. Is there a term for a whole group of clusterfucks? Like how there’s an unkindness of ravens? A murder of crows?”

  “A tornado of clusterfucks?” he suggests. “What’s up?”

  “A collision of worlds. The Church of Thomas is about to meet the Theater.”

  “That bad?” he asks.

  “Worse. Hide me.” Lance does the absolutely worst possible thing he could do and puts a supporting arm around my shoulders. He means it in a friendly way, but my body wakes to his touch. I want to melt into him even as I want to cringe away, knowing how my church crew and Abigail will take it.

  Pastor Steve joins Geoff, both of them offering up advice.

  “We’re going to need more pizza,” Val says as the others get out of their cars.

  “We’re going to need the National Guard,” I tell her, watching the church ladies close ranks. They clump together at the edge of the lawn, shooting hostile looks at the interlopers. Each one of them is armed with a covered casserole dish. Earlene marshals her troops, leading the charge directly to me and Lance. Pastor Steve walks beside Abigail’s open window, giving her directions completely contrary to what Geoff is shouting from behind the trailer.

  “I could have backed it in five times by now,” Lance says.

  “Hush.” I ease out from under his arm and step forward to face the prayer warriors. “Hey, everybody! I had no idea you were coming to help. You can take those dishes right on into the house. The door is open.”

  Felicity shifts her Tupperware to her left arm and gives me a hug. Kimber looks disapproving and says nothing. Annie grins at me, and then turns to assess Lance. “Who is this, then? Are you going to introduce us?”

  “I’m Lance,” he says easily. “Here to help with heavy lifting.”

  “Us, too,” Bernie calls from her seat on the lawn. “Well, we’re mostly here to drink and eat pizza, but also for heavy lifting.”

  “Earlene didn’t tell us you would have . . . company,” Kimber says.

  “Let me introduce you.” I walk over to a midpoint between the two groups.

  “This is Tara.” The tiny woman holds up two fingers in a peace sign. “Yo,” she says. “Good to meet you.”

  “And this is Bernie. You know Val, and you’ve already met Lance. That guy over there is Geoff, and the happy couple is Bill and Tracy.”

  “But who are they, is what we want to know.” Earlene might think she’s whispering, or maybe she wants her voice to carry. Either way, she could offer lessons in voice projection.

  “Friends from community theater.” I project my own voice on purpose, making sure everybody can hear me. “Community theater people, these are members of my husband’s church. Earlene, Kimber, Annie, and Felicity.”
>
  “Anybody want a beer?” Bernie asks. “We brought plenty.”

  Earlene’s mouth sets in a line of disapproval. “Moving and booze do not mix.”

  “Booze is what makes moving tolerable,” Bernie retorts.

  Abigail finally manages to get the trailer into the driveway, crooked, but off the street and with only one wheel on the lawn. “Good enough for government work,” Geoff says, signaling two thumbs-up.

  “Let’s get this show on the road.” Pastor Steve dusts off his hands as if he’s responsible for the parking success. “You want to direct traffic, Abigail?”

  I can guess what Abigail wants. She’d prefer to carry in one box at a time and unpack it before bringing in the next. Everything neat, everything orderly, everything under her control. But surely even she can see that it won’t go down that way with this group of eager box carriers.

  Stiff as an indignant cat, she opens the trailer, revealing rows of identical boxes, neatly and perfectly stacked. Bernie whistles. “You are either one tight-ass packer, or one of those minimalists. Surprised you didn’t just rope it onto the top of your car and forget the trailer.”

  I know she left furniture behind, that she took a few items to Goodwill. Even so, Bernie has a point. Minimalist is great when it’s a philosophical choice, but I suspect Abigail’s restraint in acquiring possessions is more of an ingrained habit.

  “Everything goes into my old room,” Abigail instructs. “The one on the right, just past the bathroom.”

  “Got it, boss.” Tara grabs a box marked “textbooks,” and as she slides it out of the trailer, Abigail hovers, hands outstretched to help. But the tiny woman lifts it easily and heads up the driveway as if she moves boxes full of books every day. Bernie follows, and then the rest kick in, like a line of ants carrying matching box-shaped bread crumbs.

  Which, of course, creates a traffic jam. Geoff and Pastor Steve arrive on the porch just as Tara and Bernie are emerging, with Lance and Annie right behind them. Earlene, who is clearly here in a supervisory capacity only, smooths one hand over her skirt and glances down at her modestly heeled pumps, as if wondering whether she’s expected to participate.