God Bless the Broken Road

by Jennifer Dornbush

  Patti can remember only faint details about the days following. Receiving Darren’s body. Funeral arrangements. Memorial services. Paperwork. Interviews. People popping in at all times. Her freezer swelling with ready-made meals from friends and customers. And then silence. Everyone retreated back to their workaday lives. Amber succumbed to a dark place and took Bree with her. Patti found that dark place, too. She shut herself up for a week in her bedroom until Kim dragged her out of the house and back to Sunday brunch. Patti went, but she wore sunglasses to hide her swollen eyes. She donned a black dress and spent the first half hour of brunch in the bathroom. When Kim coaxed her to the table, she saw that her friends had shown up in black, too. And she decided to stay. They were gentle and gracious throughout the whole two-hour meal. Patti didn’t remember any of their conversation. Only their kindness.

  The next week, Kim picked her up again. And the next week. And the next. By week four, the sunglasses came off. Patti’s appetite returned. She started to work again. She owned a successful MyWay cosmetics business that kept her busy during the week.

  It was weekends, especially Saturdays, that were too hard to take. To compensate, the brunch ladies started a bowling team so she would have something to look forward to on Saturdays. Her life started to have a familiar flow. Business. Bowling. Brunch. Business. Bowling. Brunch. Weeks turned into months. At Christmas the bowling team disbanded. They didn’t regroup after the holidays, but Patti didn’t mind. By now she was stronger. Almost herself. And although she would never admit it to the girls, she never really enjoyed bowling that much to begin with.

  Patti is surprised how hard the second anniversary is hitting her. The grief reaches deep into her gut and throbs. She needs to lie down. She’ll call Kim from home. As she puts the car into drive, Kim rings in.

  Patti assures Kim that she’s on her way. She pulls the car up to the valet. Kim is waiting for her in the foyer.

  After juice and coffee are poured, Bethany, married thirty-six years, three kids, two grandkids, brings it up. “We know this is a hard week for you, Patti. And we just want you to know that we love you and we haven’t forgotten Darren.”

  Patti looks around the table. Her gut has stopped clenching. She is grateful for these strong, beautiful women.

  “We know you don’t like to dwell on the negative. But we also know you, Patti Hill. We know your heart is still breaking inside,” says Kim, longtime divorcée, mother of one, and one of Patti’s MyWay associates. Kim is, hands down, Patti’s closest confidant. That stubborn lump returns, and Patti is near tears. Kim reaches for her hand. “It’s been long and hard, but we’re glad to see you living your life. Darren would have wanted that.” Patti manages a nod.

  “George and I made a sizable donation to Disabled American Veterans in Darren’s memory,” says Joanne, cancer survivor and mom of four.

  “Thank you, Jo. That means the world to me,” Patti says.

  “We thought it would be a good idea to dedicate this brunch to Darren. Maybe share some memories of him together,” says Gayle, widowed attorney, no kids, two dogs. “What do you think?”

  “Only if you want to,” adds Karen, mid-divorce, three kids, five grandkids.

  Patti looks around the table. “I don’t know if I’m up for it, but I think it’ll probably be good for me.”

  They fill their plates at the buffet and spend the next hour recalling things about Darren, from his double broken arms when he jumped off the roof to his high school wrestling championship to the day Bree was born.

  By the third round of coffee, stomachs are sore from laughing and eyes are dried out from crying. Bethany, Karen, and Joanne announce they have to leave for family duties. Patti sends them off with a round of hugs, assuring them that today’s brunch has healed another little piece of her heart.

  After they’ve gone, Gayle asks, “So how are things between you and Amber? Any changes?”

  “It’s still a lot of excuses. She works a lot. Frankly, I think she’s in a bit of financial trouble. That house is going to shambles. I don’t know how she can keep up with such a big place.”

  “You ever get to see Bree?”

  “No. It’s always Bree’s busy. Bree’s busy? With what? What kind of social calendar does a child have?”

  “She never even calls for you to babysit?” asks Gayle.

  “She did once or twice right after it happened. But no. Nothing now.”

  “Where does Bree go when Amber’s working?” says Kim.

  “I don’t know. Friends’ homes, I’m guessing. I really don’t know. When I call, I get voice mail. Once in a blue moon Amber will text me a two-word response. At work. Talk later. Bree’s good.”

  “It’s time for you to step up the game. You need to arrange a face-to-face,” says Gayle.

  “That’s what I’ve been telling her,” says Kim.

  “Yes, but what exactly do you see this arrangement entailing?” says Patti.

  “Go to the diner. Ask to be seated in her section. Check in on her.”

  “I promised myself I wouldn’t be that meddling mother-in-law. I want to give her the space and time she needs.”

  “Patti Hill, I’m calling you out on this one. It’s been two years. You have a right to see that grandbaby of yours,” says Kim. “And Amber needs to know she still has you to lean on.”

  Patti finds herself at a bit of a loss when it comes to relating to her daughter-in-law. “Amber never seemed to need me, even when Darren was alive.”

  “She does. She just doesn’t know it yet,” says Gayle.

  Patti pulls a MyWay lipstick tube from her purse, Copper Penny, a perfect complement to the brassy tones in her hair. “Here’s the God’s honest truth, ladies. I’m not sure how to handle this. I don’t know how to get through to that girl.” She presses her lips together, spreading the color across them. “There. I said it.”

  Gayle and Kim exchange looks, as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Patti, just do what you do best,” says Gayle.

  “I don’t understand.” Patti returns Copper Penny to her purse.

  “You were named last year’s top-rated MyWay saleswoman for a reason,” says Gayle.

  “Yeah, because I poured all my grief into my work.”

  “Because you know how to lift people up,” says Kim as she takes Patti’s hands, squeezing confidence into them.

  “Believe in beauty. Believe in you.” Patti flippantly quotes the MyWay motto.

  “And that’s exactly what Amber needs,” Kim says.

  “You’ve got to sell her on the idea that her life will be better with you in it,” says Gayle.

  “Sell?” Patti’s lips part in an illuminated smile. “That, I can do.”

  chapter four

  Just Another Sunday

  INSIDE THE HOUSE, the master bedroom remains unkempt, and Amber lies wide-awake, staring out the window. Her face reflects the burden she should never have had to bear.

  The alarm goes off on her nightstand. It’s after 9:00 a.m. Even ten hours of sleep leaves her groggy. She hits the snooze button for a sixth time, knowing that if she doesn’t get going in the next five minutes, she’ll be late for her midmorning shift.

  Her eyes are drawn to her guitar case, forgotten, dusty, and leaning in the cobwebbed corner. She rolls over, and her look settles on Darren’s framed flag and 101st Airborne mug shot. Next to that, their wedding photo. They were too young, according to most. But blissfully happy. So unaware of the road that lay before them. And next to that is another picture, taken just ten months later, when Bree arrived at Clarksville Memorial Hospital. Amber had been worried Darren would be a nervous daddy. Far from it. His eyes glisten with pride and confidence as he cradles his tiny daughter in one arm and wraps the other around his new bride. Instant contentment as a family unit.

  With great exertion Amber sits up in bed and shakes off a chill. The alarm sounds again, and this time she reaches over and smacks it. No more snoozing. H
er gaze turns to a dusty Bible on the nightstand. Sticking out from the middle is the corner of an unopened envelope addressed to her from Darren and postmarked in the United States. Ten days after she received the news he was gone.

  Amber tugs at the corner and slides it out. For a brief second she considers opening it.

  But not today. There’s no time. And she’s still not ready.

  She steps over to the window and gazes down at the flower bed along the front stoop. Its fallow soil is still barren from the winter. Spring feels hopelessly far away. A saggy, faded yellow ribbon on a tree in the front yard flutters in tatters in the rainy breeze. She should have replaced it, or torn it down. Another dreary day. Without Darren.

  “Mom. It’s my turn to bring the Sunday school snack,” says Bree, sticking her sleepy head into the doorway.

  “What? It is? You sort of failed to mention this.”

  “No. I told you. You just weren’t paying attention.”

  That seemed to be a common theme in her life lately.

  “Can you make something?” Bree asks.

  Amber sets the envelope down on the Bible and swings her legs out of bed. Her feet hit the cool wooden floor, and she quickly searches for her slippers.

  “We’re already running late.”

  She sees disappointment cross Bree’s face.

  “I don’t know what I have in the house, but I’ll see what I can do. Now scoot. You gotta get ready for church.”

  Bree dashes off. Amber puts it into high gear, grabbing yesterday’s soiled waitress smock. She rummages through her dresser drawer for a pair of socks and realizes how desperately she needs to do the laundry. She grabs a mismatched pair and rushes into the bathroom.

  Amber opens the medicine cabinet and glosses over Darren’s toiletries—unmoved and collecting a thin film of bathroom grime. She reaches around them for her things. Like she has every day since he left.

  * * *

  WHEN AMBER ARRIVES in the kitchen, Bree is already at the counter eating cereal straight from the box.

  “Don’t you want that in a bowl with some milk?”

  “I didn’t see any in the fridge.”

  Amber opens the fridge. Sure enough, an empty milk container is shoved all the way toward the back, behind several Styrofoam take-out containers from Rosie’s. Amber grabs the empty milk jug and a quarter-full box of orange juice.

  “Want some juice?”

  “Sure.”

  She checks the expiration date—“Never mind”—and dumps the contents into the sink. Bree crunches away at her breakfast, engrossed by pictures in her children’s Bible.

  Amber heads to the cupboard hoping to find a box of brownie mix she can quickly whip up. A quick check of the pantry paints a bleak inventory. A can of black beans. A package of French onion soup. Noodles. A box of crackers with a single cracker stale at the bottom. An old bag of stiff mini marshmallows. A half-eaten box of Froot Loops. And a bottle of gummy vitamins. She tosses one to Bree.

  “Here. Eat this.”

  Bree gobbles it up.

  Necessity being the mother of invention, an idea springs into Amber’s head. She grabs the marshmallows and Froot Loops.

  “Are you done with that?”

  “I guess so.”

  Amber takes the box of puffed-rice cereal from Bree’s hands. “Head upstairs and brush your teeth and hair.”

  “What are you making?” Amber ignores Bree’s skeptical look as she slips off her chair and joins Amber at the counter.

  “New recipe . . .” She thinks fast. “Um . . . They’re called . . . crazy crispies.”

  Amber empties the contents from both cereal boxes into a large mixing bowl. She heats up the marshmallows in the microwave and pours them over the cornucopia of cereal, stirring until they’re all coated. She then presses the concoction into a pan and smooths it out to the sides.

  Bree gives the mixture a strange look.

  “That looks gross.”

  “Bree, it’s the best I can do right now.”

  “Lemme taste it.”

  Amber hands Bree the spoon to lick. Spoon in mouth, Bree nods. It’ll do. Amber takes the spoon from Bree’s mouth.

  “Okay, kiddo. Teeth and hair. Let’s go.” Bree trudges out of the kitchen.

  Amber slaps a layer of foil over the top. Hunger pains prick at the sides of her stomach. She really needs to get a few bites in before heading off to her shift. She checks the to-go containers in the fridge. Limp salad. Moldy scrambled eggs. Shriveled french fries. Trash. Trash. Trash. She finds a soft apple crammed into the corner of the crisper drawer and snatches it.

  Bree pops into the kitchen and grabs her Bible from the table. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “Okay. Meet you in the car.”

  Bree rushes out of the house.

  Amber tucks the crazy crispies under her arm and finds her purse and keys hanging in the foyer. Through the window of the front door she can see Bree at the end of the sidewalk talking with a strange man dressed in a suit and tie. Stranger danger!

  Amber hurries out the door as she hears the man ask Bree, “Your mom home?”

  “Hi. Can I help you?” Amber is halfway down the front step. The man looks up.

  “Are you Mrs. Amber Hill?”

  “Yes, I’m Amber.” She reaches out and takes Bree by the shoulder.

  “You’ve been served.” Before Amber can respond, the man shoves an envelope in her hand.

  “What? Excuse me?”

  The man turns quickly, heading for his vehicle.

  “Excuse me. Served for what? Hey. Who are you?”

  He doesn’t turn around as he dives into the driver’s side and speeds off.

  “Mom, who was that?”

  Amber tries to put on a brave face as she looks at the return address. The bank. She knew she was late on her payments, but . . . this can’t actually be happening. The shock turns her cold.

  “Mom. You okay?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “What’s ‘served’ mean?”

  “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Get in the car.”

  Bree heads for their rust-bucket minivan and hops in. Amber shoves the envelope into her purse. As she pulls away, Amber surveys their gorgeous Victorian home set against gray skies. She’ll get to the bottom of things first thing tomorrow. She’s not about to lose anything more.

  chapter five

  Welcome to Clarksville

  CLARKSVILLE. 7 MILES.

  “Less than ten minutes till we begin our sentence in purgatory.” Cody addresses an air freshener in the shape of a purple cheetah hanging from his rearview mirror. The scent, Noir Musk, faded two months ago. But the cheetah looks as fearsome as the day it came out of the plastic wrap.

  “And the stock-car world is abuzz this morning after Cody Jackson was pulled from the active-driver roster for next week’s race in Phoenix. Could this be the end of Cody’s career, Bill?” an announcer’s voice crackles from the old-school dial radio rigged into the dash of Cody Jackson’s car.

  The subject of the offending report pounds the steering wheel defensively. “It certainly is not the end of my career, Bill. And shame on you for starting rumors.”

  “Sure looks like it, Gene. His spectacular crash on turn four at last week’s Interstate 500 may have been the last straw for team owner Gibbs.”

  “Spectacular? Got that right. Can’t argue with fifty thousand clicks on YouTube. I’ll take that as a compliment.” Cody tips his head toward the radio in a cocky motion.

  “But I guess Gibbs must see something in this kid if he’s willing to give him a second chance, Bill.”

  “More like a tenth or eleventh chance. But then, Gibbs can afford to blow money on a crash risk like Jackson. Just pray he’s got another hopeful lined up for the seat. I doubt we’ll see Jackson back on the track anytime soon.”

  “Oh, that one hurt. But watch your back. I’m coming to get you. Soon.” Cody snaps the radio dial to the left. “Enough trash talk.�
� He turns the knob to a country music station.

  Cody Jackson flies past the city’s welcome sign in his ’67 Pontiac Firebird, a rusted red (emphasis on rusted), work-on-it-as-I-get-the-dough junker. He revs the engine loud and proud, drawing daggered looks from a couple pushing a sleeping toddler in a stroller.

  The town looks pretty much like it did from Google Earth. Except greener. And with more lawn ornaments. He speeds past a gnome entourage marching across a yard.

  Cody wonders if he can get a decent burger in this town. He zips past Rosie’s Diner, cuts a sharp left—tires burning rubber—and punches it down a tree-lined street of Victorian homes, coasting through stop signs. On the fourth coast, he hears the squeal of sirens behind him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” He slows and sees the squad car’s strobe lights in his rearview.

  “Pull to the right, please,” a megaphoned male voice instructs.

  Cody puts the gearshift in neutral and coasts to a stop. “Bless the Broken Road” plays from his speakers. “Appropriate song for the times we find ourselves in. Right, cheetah? Just not so sure this road’s a blessing, exactly.” The cheetah swings back and forth. Cody reaches into the glove box for his registration card.

  “You wanna turn that off, please?”

  Cody looks up at the officer who now stands at the driver’s-side window.

  “The radio. Turn it off, please, sir.”

  Cody turns down the dial. “Man, you really came outta nowhere.”

  “You plan on getting the muffler checked?”

  Did that couple with the baby call the cops on him?

  “Are you kidding? That muffler cost me cash. Best feature of the car.” Cody sees this does not sit well with the officer.

  “Those were stop signs back there.”

  “Yes. I saw them, sir.”

  “You ran four of them.”