by Connie Lacy
“And you’ve got the body to prove it,” Meg said, squeezing his bicep playfully.
*
The show was sold out that night with a livewire audience. And we fed off that energy. It was like I actually became Rose when I was on stage. We did two curtain calls afterwards to thunderous applause. I was flying high. So when I made my way through the house afterwards, I was unprepared for who was waiting for me.
“Jenna! You were wonderful!”
It was my teacher’s assistant from school.
“Maria! Oh my God, thanks for coming,” I cried, and hugged her.
“I knew you auditioned for the play so I watched for the ads,” she said. “And sure enough, there you were with a starring role!”
She introduced me to her husband and their friends, who all told me how great the show was.
“So are you coming back in the fall?” she asked, taking me by surprise.
“No. No, I’m not. I’ve decided to focus on acting.”
She nodded her head, looking disappointed.
“I ran into Daisy and her mom at the market a couple of weeks ago and she asked about you,” she said. “She wanted to know if you’d be back.”
Which made me feel guilty. But what was I supposed to say? She had no idea how painful teaching would be for me. Impossible, really. The kids deserved to have a teacher who could get to know them and care for them, not one who constantly averted her eyes. So I just kind of shrugged.
Then I spotted Alex on the other side of the lobby. He was standing with Tia and another couple. It was obvious they were waiting to speak to me. But I really didn’t want to talk with them.
As Maria and her group wandered off, Alex, Tia and their friends converged on me. So I pasted a smile on my face.
“Congratulations,” Tia said, giving me a quick hug. “Alex was right. It’s a great play and you’re, like, awesome.”
“Thanks, Tia. I appreciate that.”
That’s when Alex stepped closer to her and wrapped his arm around her waist.
“Yeah,” he said, “I told Tia what a good actress you are.”
Even though I wasn’t looking either of them in the eye, the sarcasm was impossible to ignore. I made quick work of my thank-yous and hurried for the door.
“Jenna!” Tia called after me.
I just waved and kept walking. I was absolutely steaming by the time I got to my car. And feeling an uncomfortable pang of jealousy. Why did I still want him? I had Sam. Alex was behind me. He was with Tia. I’d seen it. I knew it was coming. So why was I pissed?
When I got home I fixed my new favorite drink and checked for emails and texts. One from Tia, one from Dad and one from the genealogist, but nothing from Sam. Tia said she’d stop by tomorrow because she needed to talk with me about something. I texted her back, saying I had a doctor’s appointment and then took my drink with me to the shower.
12.
It was with a great deal of irritation that I answered the damn doorbell, which wouldn’t quit assaulting my eardrums, no matter how tightly I pressed the cushion to my ear. At first I thought it was, like, seven in the morning or something. But when I opened the door, sunshine and heat slapped me in the face. I squinted into the brightness, trying to figure out whose silhouette I was staring at. When I saw the fake Michael Kors handbag, I knew it was Tia.
“Do you have any idea how shitty you look?” she said. “Even though it’s, like, two o’clock on Sunday afternoon, I’d say you could use an injection of caffeine.”
I let loose with a big yawn.
She brushed past me and made a beeline for the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets while I made a pit stop in the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face, rinsed my mouth and combed my hair with my fingers before joining her in the kitchen.
She was making so much noise that I almost shushed her, but stopped myself just in time. I sat down at the table, feeling queasy.
“You got any food in this stately manor?” she asked, opening the fridge and more cabinets. “Well, let’s see, a carton of skim milk, a box of Special K – woops, it’s empty – a box of Triscuits and some disgusting cheese in a can. Hm. What will it be?”
She grabbed a small plate from the cabinet, laid four crackers on it and held the can above them.
“To cheese or not to cheese, that is the question,” she said, waiting for me to reply.
I shook my head and she set the can down and brought the plate of crackers to me. Then she poured me a cup of freshly brewed coffee and brought Splenda and the milk carton to the table, along with a spoon. I doctored the coffee as she started in on me.
“I had a visit from my brother the other night,” she said, sitting down across from me. “You know, to hang out and play video games. Terry stopped at Mellow Mushroom and got a pizza on his way over. You know how I love Mellow Mushroom. Anyway, he didn’t bring any beer with him, even though I specifically told him to bring a six pack. And so I was like, ‘where’s the beer, brother dear?’ And he’s like, ‘we don’t need beer with pizza.’ And I was like ‘oh yes we do.’ And he was like ‘nah, we can just drink Coke.’ And I was like ‘that’s totally lame.’ And I said ‘you got money problems or something?’ And he says no – that he just thinks we don’t need to be drinking alcohol. Alcohol. He used the word alcohol. Mucho bizarro, wouldn’t you say?”
I sipped my coffee.
“So my radar is on, if you know what I mean,” she continued. “And I was like ‘what’s up with that?’ And he hems and haws and tries to avoid the subject but I wouldn’t let him off the hook, you know. And you’ll never guess what he finally says to me.”
I couldn’t help it – I heaved a sigh and waited for her to continue.
“These were his exact words: ‘Dad said he heard through the grapevine that you have a drinking problem.’ That’s what my big brother says to me, that my dad says he heard from someone that I’ve got an alcohol problem. Hell, maybe someone even told him I’m an alcoholic.”
And she was quiet for a moment as I rubbed my eyes. But she wasn’t through with me yet.
“So naturally I wonder who’s been saying bad things like that to my father.”
I could feel her eyes boring into me but I just studied my coffee cup.
“Are you even listening to me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well, what the hell did you say to my dad?” she yelled.
My hands flew to my ears. The noise was like a hammer on my brain.
“I know you and Dad met at Starbucks,” she spat.
“I was just asking him about a genealogist.”
“Liar!”
“I’m not lying.”
“Genealogist!” she cried, jumping up and striding angrily to the sink and looking out the window at the garden. Then she whirled around like she was about to shoot me.
“You don’t need a genealogist! You need a psychiatrist. Because a screw has come loose somewhere inside your head. I’m like, really, really sorry about your mother, Jenna. And I wish you’d let me help you through the grieving process. But you won’t even let me come near you. It’s like you hate me. Normal people don’t go crazy like this when their mother dies.”
“Tia…”
“I thought you were my friend!” she whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
There was a part of me that wanted to tell her everything. It would be such a relief to share my burden. But she was already telling me to see a shrink. I could only guess her reaction if I told her the truth. She’d probably go straight to my father and tell him I should be committed.
“Is that all you have to say?” she said.
I couldn’t help it – I sighed again.
“Well, you know what?” she said. “That’s not good enough. I don’t care if you’re sorry. Even if you really are sorry. It’s a long way from making me feel better. You’re nuts. And you know what else? You’re mean! And you ca
n sit here looking like a plate of reheated pork n’ beans and wallow in all the self pity you can cook up in this great big empty kitchen. You can be Miss Holier Than Thou, if you want. I. Don’t. Care.”
She sailed past me and slammed the front door on her way out, causing something to crash to the floor in the living room. I wasn’t sure what it was but it didn’t matter. I just sat there staring into space, holding my coffee mug. I needed more than coffee, though. I needed aspirin or something. But getting up and finding it was such a daunting prospect that I just folded my arms on the table and laid my head on them.
*
On my way to the playhouse Thursday evening I noticed my tank was nearly empty. That happened a lot lately and it ticked me off having to stop for gas when I was already running late. But I pulled into the QT, figuring I could at least get a few gallons right quick, only to discover it was crowded. Then I saw a pump open up behind me. So I popped it into Reverse and backed into the space before anyone could beat me to it. And then – boom! Some idiot bumped me from behind. I slammed it into Park and jumped out.
“What the hell!” I shouted as the guy pulled his car back a few feet. My rear bumper was crunched. And then he was standing next to me.
“Jesus Christ!” I barked, turning toward him. “You…”
And I was looking straight into a pair of green eyes that belonged to my father. And before I could look away, I stumbled backwards as the vision hit me. There was a scene of him helping Meg with her breathing during childbirth; them holding their baby boy; taking him to the park; helping him blow out birthday candles; sitting on the sand at the beach watching Meg and the little boy build a castle; Meg helping Dad get out of a hospital bed; then Dad was bicycling on streets filled with traffic. Lots of traffic. And a car sideswiped him, sending him hurtling through the air. And then – blackness.
I came to with my hands over my face, moaning. Dad was gripping my arms, holding me up. Then he wrapped his arms around me.
“Jenna, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
He thought I was upset about the accident. I took some deep breaths, trying to get oxygen to my brain.
“Just some cosmetic damage,” he said. “Easily fixed.”
“Dad, I’m sorry. I was in such a hurry, I didn’t see you.”
“I know, I know.”
The front of his car was pretty banged up but he must’ve slammed on the brakes in time to avoid serious damage.
“Are you on your way to the…”
“Shit!” I pulled out my phone to check the time. “I’m late.”
“But you still need gas,” he said, fishing his wallet out of his pocket.
“I really have to go, Dad. I’m not that empty. I’ll fill up tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, gotta hurry. Talk with you later.”
I jumped in my car, desperate to get away. But it was hard to drive because I was trembling. I’d almost forgotten how weak I felt after one of those episodes. And what the hell was that bicycle thing about? I went over and over the vision in my mind and tried to remember every detail of what I’d seen with Meg.
I was twenty minutes late getting to the theater and had to rush to get my makeup done and get dressed.
“Are you all right?” Rachel asked.
“Yeah, I just had a fender-bender on the way over so I’m, you know.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Just a little rattled.” And I gave her a weak smile.
For the first time that night, I forgot a line. It was during the scene where “my husband” and I argue about having kids. We were in the middle of the scene. Randall said his line: “you’re the one who wanted kids, not me.” He stared hard at me, but it didn’t help. I was blank. So he said it again, circling me this time: “And you know it’s true: you’re the one who wanted kids, not me.” And when he had his back to the audience he whispered: “We made that decision together…”
And I jumped in.
“We made that decision together. I certainly didn’t ambush you.”
I don’t think the audience noticed. But still, I was ashamed of losing my concentration. After our curtain call I apologized to Randall as we left the stage. He gave me a sneering shrug.
Sam didn’t answer when I tried his number. I hadn’t talked with him since he left. And I felt this need to talk with someone but couldn’t think of anyone else to call. I wished I could talk with Alex and tell him about the scary vision I’d had of my dad. I hated the sense of foreboding that consumed my consciousness. So I headed home where I could fix myself a drink and send Mrs. Robertson an email. I needed to know what she’d found out about my dad’s family.
But halfway home, I ran out of gas. I pounded the steering wheel, cursing myself for letting the tank get so low.
“You stupid idiot!” I screeched. “Moron! Dimwit!”
I couldn’t call my dad, that’s for sure. Not after running into him, quite literally, at the gas station. No way in hell would I call Tia. But it was nearly midnight – not the best time to walk a mile or so to the nearest gas station. So I looked around. A short distance down the road was a tiny shopping center I’d driven by a thousand times. Post Office, hair salon, Chinese buffet and a bar called The Filling Station. I headed for the bar.
13.
It was a dive – dark, loud and grungy – with a pool table in the back, a big screen TV and an empty stage the size of a postage stamp. A country song was blaring through dusty, oversized speakers. I looked around like I was searching for a friend and then took the first seat at the bar and ordered a beer so I could consider my options.
I could call a cab to take me home. I could call a cab to take me to the gas station, although I didn’t have a gas can. I could call a tow truck to take my car to the gas station but that would cost a bundle. I could walk the distance to the gas station and ask if they had a gas can and then walk all the way back to my car. I glanced at the door as though my friend might join me any minute now.
It seemed overwhelming. So I drained my beer and ordered another. About that time a guy sitting at a table with some friends sauntered over and parked himself on the stool next to me. He was, like, forty, forty-five, with a paunch, thinning hair and a wide, red face.
“You been stood up?” he asked, giving me a friendly smile.
I pulled out my phone and made like I was checking messages.
“No. Just a little late.”
“Name’s Bud, like the beer,” he said and chuckled like he used that line on every woman he met.
I glanced at the door again and then took a swig of my beer. I was going to have to make up my mind soon.
“Never seen you in here before,” he said.
Not good, I thought, that this guy was flirting with me. I tapped out a message on my phone to the genealogist, asking her if we could meet. I was still annoyed Tia thought I was making it up.
“I usually go to bars for younger people.”
Not sure why I said that, except I was hoping he’d get the idea that he was probably old enough to be my father.
“Well, you’re here now,” he said, laughing. And he called out to the bartender: “Hey, Ronnie, bring the little lady another! On me.”
“No, thanks,” I said.
“I insist,” he said, leaning close enough so I could smell the alcohol and cigarettes on his breath. And that’s when he put his big hand on my thigh.
Without thinking, I splashed my beer in his face, which came as quite a shock to him and to me. But we both got over the shock real quick. I called 9-1-1 as he came toward me, beer dripping from his nose.
“Uppity little bitch,” he snarled.
“Stay away from me!” I shouted as I slid off my stool. And then into my phone I asked the dispatcher to send the police. “A middle-aged man is threatening me,” I blurted when she asked what the problem was.
“Middle-aged?” Bud yelled. “Hey, Danny, she says I’m middle-aged. You believe that?”
And his
buddies converged on the corner I’d backed into.
“Leave her alone,” the bartender called out, moving quickly in our direction behind the bar. “She’s just a kid.”
“She ain’t no kid,” said Bud. “You served her beer. And that means she ain’t no kid. And she was flirtin’ with me.”
“I don’t flirt with old men.”
God, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“I think we need to teach the little lady here a lesson, don’t you?” Bud said to his friends, who laughed in reply.
Panic bloomed in my gut as they moved closer. I wasn’t sure if they were just trying to scare me or whether they might actually hurt me, but I broke my beer bottle on the wall and waved the jagged edge in their direction. Thankfully, that’s when the door opened and two cops walked in. Bud and his pals backed off like they’d scalded their fingers on hot coals.
“Is there a problem?” the shorter officer asked, glancing at the men and then at me and my broken bottle.
“No,” said Bud, “no problem at all.”
“Miss,” the officer said, “you wanna put that down?”
I did exactly as I was told, setting the jagged bottle on the counter.
And then the short officer talked with me while the other one talked with Bud, his buddies and the bartender. The cop asked me what the hell I was doing in that bar all by myself, letting me know I was lucky he and his partner just happened to be close by. I explained about running out of gas and admitted I’d made a big mistake coming in here and ordering a beer. I didn’t tell him I ordered two. So he and his partner gave me a ride to the gas station where I bought a gas can and filled it up. Then they drove me back to my car and talked me through pouring the gas into my tank. After thanking them profusely and promising I’d stop and fill up first thing, I drove straight home, fixed myself a whiskey sour, watched a stupid reality show and crashed on the couch.
Buzzing. Something was buzzing. Then it stopped. More buzzing. Why? I drifted back to sleep. Way too early. Then the buzzing again. I realized it was my phone vibrating on the coffee table.
