by Tia Lewis
I shrugged, sliding my hands into my pockets. “Yes, ma’am, but I also know how this goes. The getting-shit-together phase. And it sucks. It takes longer than you think it’s gonna take, too. It’s heavy.”
“You speak like you know.”
“Maybe I do.” Those days were never very far from my memory, just waiting to be called up every time I passed the old house. Understanding dawned in her eyes and sympathy.
She looked down at the pie and grinned. “You might as well come in. This is heavy, too. Another thing I’ll need help taking care of.” Her eyes swept the street. “Besides, I’m sure we’ve already attracted enough attention to keep gossip going at the beauty parlor tomorrow.”
7
Amanda
He always had a way of getting through to me. I could never hold him at arm’s length for long. Back when we were kids together, our friends used to take bets on how long I’d stay mad when we fought. Both of us were hard headed and never the type to enjoy saying we were wrong. So fights would go on for days, weeks sometimes. He’d be over it long before I was. And that would piss me off even more. How could he not care that I was mad? How could he not want to talk to me? Didn’t it rip him apart the way it ripped me apart?
But it never lasted. I couldn’t be away from him for too long or else I’d die. It was as simple as that. It was always as simple as that for a hormone-crazed teenager. I had gone twenty years without him and survived just fine, hadn’t I? I hadn’t died, and I wouldn’t die just because he was dredging all that old stuff up for me.
I took the pie to the kitchen and pulled out two plates. I heard him moving things around in the living room and left him to it for the moment while I got my head together. How did he always make me do what he wanted me to do? When I was determined not to give in. Pride already kept me away for too long; I reminded myself. I couldn’t let it screw me over when I needed help.
The house was tidy and free of obvious clutter, but there was a good forty years of life stored inside. Craig was always a sentimentalist. He got rid of only some of the things his parents had collected over the years—he’d replaced the cookware, given away the clothes that didn’t hold any emotional value. But there was so much left. The basement, the attic. I’d already had a good cry after a short temper tantrum when the enormity of it hit me.
“Do you want coffee?” I called out to Dawson as I sliced.
“Oh, God, yes.” He sounded just about as overwhelmed as I’d felt earlier.
“So you started looking through the boxes,” I smirked. I had pulled a few up from the basement in a futile attempt to start organizing.
“I never took him to be a packrat,” he said. “Maybe we should just take out storage space and put it all there and be done with it.” I walked out to the living room with a tray and saw him standing there with hands on hips, shaking his head.
“Like shoving everything under the bed instead of cleaning your room.” I set the coffee and pie on the coffee table and sat next to him.
“I never did that.”
“Yes, you did. I checked once or twice when you left me alone in there. You have a bad habit of shoving things away, don’t you?”
A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he took a bite of pie. I couldn’t help watching as his tongue darted out to catch a crumb before it fell from his lips. I swallowed hard.
“So what do you think we should do?” he asked, looking around. “Do you really think we’ll get through this?”
“Let’s be realistic. We’ll get it done. We just have to do it and not waste time. No reminiscing. No Memory Lane. Let’s just get through it.” And that would help avoid arguments and misunderstandings, too. Not to mention making it easier for me to leave when I needed to.
To my surprise, he got right to work, deciding which sections of the living room would contain boxes of garbage and boxes of things to donate. I followed his lead and started making a list of what had to go. “What do you think about the TV and stuff? Could we sell it?”
He shrugged. “For what? I mean, to what purpose?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe the clinic could use the money? I’m sure he would like it if there was a fund, maybe, for people who can’t pay their bills.”
“That’s not a bad idea. We could sell the big items—but clothes and stuff? They’ll do just as much good for people who can’t afford to buy off the rack.”
“That’s true, too.” I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Did he tell you anything about a Will?”
Dawson shook his head. “We didn’t talk about post…death.” He lowered his eyes. “He didn’t want to talk about what would happen after he was gone.”
I sat crossed legged in front of a box and started going through it. “I guess it would be a weird thing to talk about. The world going on after you’re gone.”
“I guess so. But some people do it, you know. They manage to talk about what they want their loved ones to do once they’re gone.”
I looked up at him. “Who?”
“People.”
It didn’t take long for me to figure out what he meant. “Oh, no. Your mom. I didn’t think.”
He shrugged it off. “There was nobody else here to help her through that, so…”
My chest tightened. I could’ve been there. I could’ve helped him through that. But no. And that wasn’t my fault. I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory of that last night together. We weren’t there to rehash old hurts, though I had just opened one up for him. I hadn’t thought about what happened to her or how he dealt with it. I had done everything possible to push him out of my heart after he pushed me out of his.
To change the subject, I asked, “Who stuck around? After school, I mean? Are you friendly with a lot of the people we used to know?”
“Yeah, lots of people stuck around. Jake and Shana got married. They have three kids now.”
I swallowed down the ache that popped up when he mentioned children. “That’s right; they were going to get married right after graduation.” At least one couple had managed to make it. I was glad it was them if it couldn’t be us.
“They did. Who else? Scott works with Frank over at the garage. Billy and Christa are teachers over at the high school now; Billy coaches the football team. I could name a dozen more, maybe two dozen.”
“I guess you see a lot of them at the diner,” I offered.
“Yeah, it’s like a reunion, especially on the weekends when everybody comes in after church.” He stacked two boxes in the “trash” section of the room. “Old papers and magazines,” he explained. “His mama saved everything. Lots of recipes in there.”
“The days before Pinterest,” I chuckled. “I remember making scrapbooks and folders full of things I pulled out of magazines.”
That memory brought up even more. “Is Miss Connie still running the beauty parlor?” I asked with a smile. So much for not going down Memory Lane. It was impossible to stay away.
“She handed the management over to her granddaughter, but she’s still booking appointments and sitting at the cash register.” He grinned. “She comes in every Saturday morning for the same breakfast. Rye toast, almost burnt, sliced strawberries and a mixture of cranberry and orange juice.”
“She’s such a character,” I said, smiling fondly. She was one of the many people who gave the town its charm, a charm even I could admit existed. A charm that hadn’t meant much to me when I was in the middle of it, a kid desperate to get the hell out and see more of the world, but one which had grown on me over time when I looked back with the sort of maturity time helped develop. Continuity was one thing I’d missed like hell in my adult life. Things moved so fast; work consumed so much of my time. It was nice to know some things hadn’t changed, and that some high school romances—like Jake and Shanna’s—could go on for decades.
I took the chance to ask him something that had been on my mind since walking into the diner that afternoon. “What made you decide to manage the diner?”
He opened a box labeled “Misc”—there were a lot of boxes with that label, I noticed to my chagrin—and talked while he sorted through. “It wasn’t a decision to manage the diner,” he murmured after a long pause.
“What do you mean?” I was only making conversation.
“I mean I didn’t wake up one morning and decide that was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.” His tone was sharp, and I recoiled behind his back like he had slapped me. I’d hit a sore spot. But how? It was an innocent question.
His voice was tight when he continued. “When I got home, there wasn’t much else for me to do. I had to find a job. Things didn’t go the way they were supposed to.”
“Things?”
“In the Navy.”
A lightbulb went on in my head. The close-cropped hair, the ridiculous body, the ink peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his t-shirt. His posture and bearing, both of which had changed dramatically in twenty years. I could just make out the outline of dog tags between his barrel chest and his shirt—he must’ve gotten in the habit of wearing them that way when he started working in a busy kitchen.
“You were in the military,” I breathed as it all came together. “I would’ve figured that out sooner if I were thinking clearer.”
“I joined on 9/13,” he said, and I didn’t need to ask which September thirteenth that was. I had just started law school at Columbia. “And I was in for five years. When I came home, I needed something to do.”
“You could’ve gone anywhere,” I reasoned.
“I like where I ended up just fine. I’m sorry it’s not good enough for you.” He brushed past me just a little harder than he needed to when he moved another box from one place to another. He slammed it down a little too hard, too.
“I never once said it wasn’t good enough. Why are you putting words in my mouth and getting mad?” He said he was happy, but how could he jump to the wrong conclusion? Was I the problem?
“I’m not mad.”
“You are. I still know what it looks like when you’re mad.” I sighed. How did it always end up that way?
He turned to me, and his jaw was tight. “You wanted more. You got more. When will you stop trying to get other people to want what you want?”
“Did I just step into an alternative universe? I wasn’t trying to get you to want anything!” It was all a mess. I never intended for things to go off the rails—and that, I reminded myself, was why Memory Lane was a dangerous place.
“No, but you’re letting me know that my life isn’t good enough for you. I should’ve gone to school. I should’ve made something of myself. Don’t forget, I know you, too. Say what you want, but I know what you mean.”
I was starting to wonder if he wasn’t a little insane. Where did he get that idea from? Yes, I was probably a little snobby when we were kids—more than a little—but that was a long time ago. He knew nothing about me anymore. He didn’t know anything I’d been through.
He took a step toward me, then another. The enormity of him was overwhelming—not just his size, but the size of everything between us. I wished I had the guts to say what I was feeling. He was dead wrong about me thinking he wasn’t good enough. He was being a little too selective when he thought about the old days. It was easy for him to remember things his way, not the way I did. The night he told me to leave him alone, for good, when I was under the illusion that we would be together forever. Pretty convenient, leaving that part out. But I couldn’t throw that back in his face, not just then, anyway. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough not to dissolve into tears. I had cried enough over that night.
Instead, I said, “You only think you know. You’re talking to a girl who existed twenty years ago, not to the person I am now. I can’t say it more simply than that. If this is what makes you happy, I’m happy for you.” It was easier for him to see things his way. If that made him happy, so be it. I wouldn’t disrupt his life when I wasn’t going to be part of it for much longer.
“It is. I’m actually, genuinely happy. I like my life.” He shrugged, palms up. “I like going into work. I like seeing my friends and neighbors every day. I like watching their kids grow up. I like feeling like I run a place that brings people together, corny as it might sound. It’s not exciting, but it’s real. And one day, when I get the money together, I’m buying the place.”
All I could do was nod. He looked around with a frown, running a hand through his cropped hair. “I think I’m finished here for the night. I’ll be back tomorrow. It’s been a long day—we both need some rest.” He didn’t look at me. He just left, and the slamming of the door felt more like a slap in the face.
I sank back against the couch cushions with my hands over my face, wondering how it went to hell so quickly.
8
Dawson
Even if I didn’t have to get up before dawn for work, I would have. It was one of the many habits that had stuck with me over time. My eyes would snap open at four-thirty no matter what time I went to sleep or what day of the week. I didn’t need an alarm clock.
I got up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. It was dark, and the world was quiet. Probably my favorite time of day, when life was most peaceful. I went to the bathroom for a quick shower and shave, then dressed in my typical t-shirt and jeans before making my bed. No matter if I was in a hurry, my bed always got made. I wouldn’t feel right if I left the house with the sheets balled up.
I never bothered with coffee or breakfast before leaving, since I made it when I got to the diner. It was only a few minutes’ drive from the little house I rented in the center of town to the diner’s back door. I was always the first person to show up and was always there before five. By the time Al and Mike came in, I already had the grills heated and the coffee going out front. I’d usually fry myself up an egg or two while they pulled their setup together—vegetables for omelets, diced potatoes for home fries, batter for pancakes and waffles. By the time we opened at six, Debbie and whoever was working the tables with her that morning would have their beverage service set up and plenty of hot water ready for tea.
It was always a whirlwind from there. Usually, the old timers came in earliest since they never slept late. The Crosbys and Winklers were two of my favorite couples—both married for more than fifty years, both taking their usual spots every single morning at a booth near the door. They’d catch up, even though I didn’t know what they had to catch up on since they saw each other every morning. The men would pull out their newspapers while the women gossiped and laughed like high school girls.
Working folks came in between seven and eight—teachers, bus drivers, bank tellers, that sort of thing. The place would be full to bursting before long, but we were a well-oiled machine. I could trust Debbie to keep her girls moving on the floor—we could’ve used her back in boot camp. I moved back and forth between keeping things going in the kitchen and ringing up checks.
Time always flew when it got busy like that, and I loved it. I loved every minute. That was one thing Amanda would never understand. She got her excitement from big buildings and flashing lights and fast cars. I got mine from talking about last night’s ball game and making sure coffee cups were always full. I got it from seeing people meet up in my diner and hug and catch up on the news. They were my friends, and they counted on my people and me to keep them fed and happy. That was more than enough for me. I’d had my fill of excitement.
How the hell had I started thinking about her all of a sudden? She crept up in the back of my mind whenever I wasn’t too busy making sure tables were cleared fast enough to seat the people waiting by the door.
Word had started trickling out about Craig. I saw more than a few sad faces that particular morning and heard more than few stories about him. How he had waived the bill more than once for people down on their luck. Mrs. Swenson’s husband had suffered a heart attack after losing his job at the paper mill and had needed a lot of follow-up care, but Craig never accepted a cent. She told me w
ith tears in her eyes about how caring he always was. It seemed like everybody felt the same away about him. That was something Amanda didn’t understand. Craig might not have been a big name in the medical community, but he was a big name in our community. He made people’s lives better. Did she?
Debbie’s hand on my shoulder surprised me. I was too deep in thought to notice that she was trying to get my attention before that. “Where are you today?” she asked. “How are you holding up?”
I shrugged. “All right, I guess. It is what it is.” I had seen a lot of death. Life went on.
That wasn’t enough for her, of course. It was nice that she saw herself as my surrogate mother, but I wasn’t in need of one just then. I was in need of a waitress who could keep tables turning over even when the customers wanted to sit around and talk about Craig. I appreciated their feelings but had to make money, too.
And all morning, all I could do was wonder when she would come in. I looked for that blonde hair, almost brown. I listened for the sound of her voice—no matter how many other people were talking, I could always make out the honey-richness of Amanda’s voice.
Why would she come in? She had to know how pissed I was when I left the house. She wouldn’t want to see me. Damn it—twenty years had passed, but we might as well have been back in high school. We’d get into fights over stupid things that seemed like the end of the world to a teenager, ignore each other for a few days, then get back together and tear each other’s clothes off.
I couldn’t help stiffening a little in my pants when I remembered how hot it would get when we made up after a big fight. It wasn’t like I had lived a monk’s life since she left town. No way was I going twenty years without getting laid. But she was the best, no question. It wasn’t just her body or the crazy teenage passion we felt back then. There was something to be said for being with somebody I loved, even though it was only supposed to be women who felt that way about sex. Weren’t men only supposed to care about getting off? It was just that the difference was obvious to me. There was everybody else, and there was her. And the others were hot, too. Sexy. Fun. Good in a way sex wasn’t when you were a kid—yeah, we had a ton of energy back then, but no experience.
