by Lyn Cote
He heard his grandmother, always an early riser, open her creaky back door to let her dogs out for their morning run. He turned to make himself a full “wake-me-up” pot of coffee.
God, I want this to stop. Haven’t I been through enough?
His conscience didn’t let him get away with this self-pity. At least you’re alive, a voice in his head whispered, stabbing deep. He winced as if the pain were real. He tried to marshal his strength for this important new start. Why did the day have to start out like this?
Later, Rosa got out of her car and wrestled—once again—with the rusty, creaky door till she got it to shut properly. Embarrassed, she stared at the car. Like everything else she owned, it was on its feeble last leg. She looked around and took comfort that she wasn’t the only one driving a decade-old, battered sedan.
Trying to distract herself, she looked around at the sun glinting on the community college campus’s three buildings and large parking lot. I can do this. I must. Within her, the feeling of hope tried to bob to the top. But a growing case of nerves threatened to swallow that hope whole.
She pushed herself to start toward the nearest building, fighting the invisible force that was trying to drag her back to the car. Being here would naturally feel very strange at first, she told herself.
Resolutely, she headed in the direction indicated by the sign which announced Late Registration. Without warning, her fledging confidence and hope shriveled. Why had she thought she could do this, deserved this?
Late registration. She began to walk slower. That’s right—five years late registration. It would have been so different if I could have come here right after high school. Having Johnny in her senior year wouldn’t have kept her from school, but…
Dark memories of long hospital days and nights at her mother’s bedside, the smell of disinfectant and the sound of gurney wheels rolling nearby tried to suck her down into the past. No. She refused to allow the sadness to spoil this. She straightened her shoulders and marched with quick steps toward the entrance.
She entered the registration area in what must be a gymnasium. After blinking in the sudden dimness, she was able to survey her surroundings. There were three tables with signs posted above them, dividing the people who were registering into lines according to the alphabet.
She headed toward the R-Z table. As she passed the first two tables, she glimpsed someone she hadn’t expected to see here. The man—he’d been called Marc—who had saved Johnny yesterday. An overwhelming reaction to seeing him startled her. He stood well ahead of her in the nearby A-G line. The sight of him dragged her back to the shock of seeing a cement truck bearing down on her son. It shot through her like an electrical charge.
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. But it didn’t work. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. If he turned and caught her staring, it would be embarrassing. And it wasn’t just the memory of that awful moment; something about the man beckoned her.
It wasn’t just that he was good-looking. Something about him spoke to her of diffidence. He looked like the kind of man who could handle anything, yet there was more there, something in the way he stood that spoke of tension and vulnerability, too.
Moving forward in her line, she hesitated to approach him. She sensed he wouldn’t want her to make a big deal about his risking his life to save her son.
Yet the awareness of his being so near refused to go away. She forced herself to face forward; however, that didn’t stop her from tracking him out of the corner of her eye.
As her registration line moved more rapidly than his, she reached the front, very aware of his standing just feet away. The woman manning the R-Z desk interrupted her preoccupation and asked for her name, checked a list and sent her to another line to have her student ID photo taken.
Rosa arrived there at the same moment Marc did. She took her rampant reaction into a firm grip and gave him a smile. “Hi, Marc.”
“Hi, Rosa,” he said, looking abruptly surprised. “I didn’t know I’d be meeting you here.”
Before she could reply, they were interrupted by the photographer. With an apologetic smile to her, Marc approached the photographer.
She watched Marc follow instructions to stand against what looked like an old projector screen and face the photographer. He wasn’t dressed in jeans, but in khaki slacks and a dark green short sleeve shirt. He looked much more put together compared to the much younger students around them.
She studied Marc’s face, a strong jaw, tanned skin. His face had filled out and firmed—so different from the teens laughing and talking around him. And though he was clean-shaven apart from the scraped skin, the outline of his beard was visible.
Marc didn’t smile for the camera. Then his blue eyes captured her interest once again. They were underlined by dark gray smudges. That made her stop. What was causing him to lose sleep? She stared into those intense eyes. There it was again. That hunted impression. Her heart reached out to him.
Then the photographer called her to take her turn in front of the screen. Marc walked past her with a deprecating shrug as if apologizing for not being able to talk. Then still tracking Marc moving away, she tried to follow the photographer’s too softly spoken instructions. After he had snapped her photo, she was told to go to another line where she’d get her photo.
She found this line and caught up to Marc. She gave him a cordial smile. Again she was too aware of this man. Normally, she would have spoken to him without self-consciousness. But something held her back. Was it the dark circles under his eyes? Or was this odd reaction completely due to the fact that she felt uncertain, didn’t feel she belonged here? Was it all about her, not him?
“How’s Johnny today?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Fine. He’s home with my grandmother.” He’s alive today because of you. She did not say that thought out loud. He wouldn’t appreciate her mentioning his heroic action yesterday. That much she knew about men like Marc. “This is my first time registering for classes here,” she said, steering the conversation away from yesterday. “How about you?”
“Me, too.”
Again, they were interrupted when he was called away by someone who read his name from a list. Again, he gave her a rueful smile and headed toward the person who was holding out a folder.
She picked up her ID and slipped it into her jeans pocket. Why did ID photos all seem to capture her with the classic “deer in the headlights” expression? It was not flattering.
Over an hour later, Rosa walked out of her counselor’s office and nearly bumped into Marc, who was exiting the office on the opposite side of the hall.
“Oops,” he said, “imagine running into you here.” His tone was bright but his expression and posture spoke of exhaustion. Her immediate reaction was to help him.
“Let me buy you a cup of coffee in the student union,” she offered, voicing her first thought of help. “I’ve never been there.”
He hesitated only a moment. “Coffee. Sounds great.” He motioned for her to lead the way.
Soon they were sitting across from each other at a long gray plastic and steel table. A young woman with waist-length red hair passed them, glancing markedly back at Marc. The redhead sat at a table several feet from them but in a position where she could watch them. Or was Rosa just imagining that? Just in case, Rosa glanced down, making sure that none of her buttons had come undone or anything else like that. The girl looked familiar. Who was she? I know I know her.
Turning toward Marc, Rosa blew over her steaming mug of creamy coffee. And wracked her brain for something neutral to talk about.
“What classes are you taking?” he asked, lifting his mug to his lips.
Well, that was certainly a neutral and a very natural question. She flipped open her folder and began reading aloud. “Composition, algebra—”
They were interrupted yet again. Shouting people were running into the union. Both she and Marc leaped from their seats.
A f
rantic sparrow flew over their heads, nearly grazing the top of Rosa’s hair.
Unfortunately the union had a high industrial-style ceiling. The sparrow swooped to exposed metal rafters far above them. Rosa and Marc joined the growing crowd of mostly teens, all gawking upward as the distressed bird fluttered from beam to beam.
“We need to get it safely out of here,” Marc said in a loud voice. He turned to the woman in charge of the nearby checkout station. “Call maintenance, will you? Tell them we’ll need a ladder or two. And maybe some kind of net.”
The young woman nodded and picked up a phone under the counter.
“Everyone needs to either leave or sit down,” Marc suggested in a commanding tone. “A herd of gawking and squawking humans will keep the bird frantic. And harder to capture.” Marc made downward motions with both hands. “Chill, birdwatchers.”
There was a ripple of muted laughter and Rosa watched, startled, as a group of strangers followed Marc’s direction. A few people left. Most sat and looked up, speaking rarely and in low tones.
This incident gave her another opportunity to take the measure of Marc Chambers. Yesterday plainly was not out of the ordinary for him. She’d heard of born leaders and here was one in action. He was a man who took charge in an emergency. She sat down where she could watch the unfolding nature drama.
Rosa noticed the young redhead girl was glancing up at the bird and then down at Marc. But then everyone was. Then two men in work clothing came in. Perhaps since Marc was the only one standing, they approached him. He pointed out the bird that was now fluttering along the ceiling looking for a way out.
The sound of the frantic wings and the frenzied chirping gave voice to the bird’s agitation. They tugged at her emotions. It was just a little bird, but who couldn’t identify with the feeling of being trapped?
“Can those high windows be opened?” Marc asked, pointing toward a bank of windows near the ceiling on one side.
“Sure. Sure,” one of the workmen replied. Soon the two men set the ladders and busied themselves climbing and unlatching the high windows with long poles. When this was done, they rejoined the rest of the birdwatchers below. Marc returned to stand beside Rosa.
The union fell silent except for the bird’s chirping. Rosa felt the urge to climb one of the ladders and shoo the bird toward freedom. Then it happened. The bird located an open window. With a joyful tweet, it flew outside to freedom.
Along with everyone else, Rosa jumped to her feet, applauding. She nearly threw her arms around Marc. A flash of consideration stopped her. But it didn’t stop others who rose from their seats. As most left, they nodded or said something complimentary to Marc. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, just waving off the comments and trying to turn them aside with humor.
Rosa realized then that she would have to be careful around this man, the good man. Marc Chambers had managed to do something no man had done for years. I am attracted to him. This admission launched her fight-or-flight response. The urge to turn tail and bolt cascaded through her. She looked up at Marc. “I have to be going.”
He nodded at her. “Sure. See you around.”
She smiled even though her lips felt cold and tight. She headed straight for the nearest exit. I don’t want to be involved with anyone now. I shouldn’t be. I can’t be.
Chapter Two
Outside, Rosa wrenched open her rusted and dented door and climbed into her car for the ride home. She plopped all her folders onto the seat beside her and put her hands on the wheel. Her body still buzzed with the fear of becoming captivated by Marc Chambers—by any man. It reignited all the emotional turmoil that had surrounded breaking up with Johnny’s father only a month before her son’s birth. How could the emotions from over five years ago still be so fresh, so raw, so powerful?
She closed her eyes, recalling the last argument with Trent. They had dated over a year and a half, but that day he’d shown her his real self, a self-centered and immature boy, who didn’t want to be saddled with a kid. She silently prayed the twenty-third Psalm, a habit at times like these. Its phrases always calmed her. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me…Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life…
Her breathing became normal again and her heartbeat, too. Opening her eyes, she started the car, checked her rearview mirror, and backed out of the parking spot. At home, she planned to sit down with a strong cup of coffee and study all the pages about everything from student parking to student activity fees. She would concentrate on what was really important now. No more past regrets. This is real. I’m going back to school. At last!
Several miles from school in the midst of the tall lush cornfields, Rosa drove around a bend. Red lights flashed and a bell rang ding-ding, ding-ding, sounding the warning. The barricade lowered over the railroad crossing. She rolled to a stop.
To keep her mind too busy for recurring thoughts of Marc, she lifted the folder, full to bursting with information that she’d been given at registration.
She laid out on the seat beside her all the papers she had been given and tried to put them in some order. Then she opened her purse and took out her wallet to put her student ID into one of the clear pockets.
She fingered her ID. It felt thicker than her driver’s license. She looked at it more closely. Another laminated ID had become stuck to the back of hers. She separated the two and stared at the extra ID. The photo was of Marc Chambers who lived on Chambers Road.
Watching the final few freight cars pass by, she started her engine. The red flashing lights blinked out and the ding-ding sound stopped. The barricades lifted and Rosa drove, clattering over the metal and wood to the other side. To let the backed-up traffic pass, she pulled off onto the shoulder. Parked again, she looked over Marc’s ID.
Marc Chambers lived on Chambers Road. That meant that his family had lived on their land before there had been a road. Then a glimmer of a memory of something about the Chambers family, something that had happened earlier this year, some tragedy earlier this year tried to come up in her mind. It eluded her. She looked around and realized what she had to do.
The Chambers’ farm was closer than driving back to the community college. And Marc might be back on campus before she would be and need his ID. Still it was hard to turn the car around and go toward him, the man she needed to start avoiding until she got over this…infatuation.
Maybe it was just all the new things in her life—the Habitat house, starting college—that had sparked her attraction to Marc. Perhaps when everything settled down again, her feelings would just dissipate on their own.
The few miles through the low, green potato fields and high cornfields passed quickly. Rosa slowed on Chambers Road. She paused to read the name on the first large gray mailbox. “Bud Tracy Luke Chambers.” She decided that she should drive to the next house. There she found the mailbox that read Naomi Marc Chambers. In the distance, she saw Marc reclining in a lawn chair in the backyard. She drove in behind his truck, parked and cut her motor.
She climbed out of her car and walked over to him. That’s when she noticed that he was sleeping. Those telltale gray smudges under his eyes worried her again. All alone, she took a moment to study him. The grazes on his face, wrist and hand were healing, dark red now instead of crimson. She stood in front of him, trying to decide whether to wake him or not.
The decision was made for her when he suddenly opened his eyes. He gazed at her for a moment and then said, “Rosa?”
“Sorry,” she apologized and with a grin added, “I am not stalking you.” She held out the ID. “I was halfway home when I realized I had your ID. Somehow it must have got stuck to the back of mine.”
He got up politely and took the ID. He smiled. “Now I remember. I was called away to see my counselor before I got it.”
“Yes, and you were right in front of me in line.” The fact that they were alone together for the first time did nothing to help her resist the pull toward him. She wanted to stay and just talk to him; the
refore, she needed to leave as quickly as possible. She inched backward.
“I’m really sorry that you had to drive all the way here.” He took out his wallet and tucked the ID inside.
“No problem. I can’t stay,” she said. “I’m waitressing at the Truck Stop tonight.”
“Then I’m doubly sorry you had to drive over here,” he replied, not giving her any information to explain his obvious fatigue.
They stopped talking and walking. For a breathless moment, they just stood looking at each other. The cicadas around them screeched. A tractor rumbled in the distance. The breeze rustled the cornfields around her. She didn’t know what caused her to sense that something was bothering him, causing him to lose sleep.
Again, her mind tried to bring up the vague memory of what disaster had happened to the Chambers family earlier this year. I’ve got to get going. I’ve just met this man, but already I’ve become sensitive to him, dangerously sensitive. She took a large step backward and prepared to leave.
Marc tried not to yawn again. The lack of sleep must have caught up with him when he got home. He’d planned just to sit a moment and then sort through all the papers he’d lugged home. And now there was this pretty woman and he didn’t want her to go and he didn’t want her to stay. How weird was that?
His grandmother’s dated station wagon groaned as it pulled into the drive and then parked beside Marc’s pickup. Naomi got out and the opened the back door. Her two golden retrievers bounded out of the car, barking with their usual excitement. They quickly surrounded him and the woman who looked uncomfortable being there. He quickly waved the dogs away from her to him. “Rosa!” Naomi called out in greeting. “What brings you here?” Naomi asked, then scolded the dogs, who soon quieted.
Naomi asked, “Can we do something for you?”
“She brought me my student ID. Somehow it got left at the college.” Marc hoped his grandmother wouldn’t read anything into finding Rosa here.
“Well, come in, Rosa. I have iced tea in the fridge,” Naomi invited, motioning toward the back door.
