“Well… Hi, Hans.” Mom placed Ava right next to Alfred on the bench, making me scoot over so I was practically sitting on top on Eleanor Rigby’s bronze newspaper.
“Well, hi there. And congratulations.” Hans got up and before he had time to say a word more, Mom pulled him into a tight hug.
“I’m so happy to see you, Hans.” Mom looked over his shoulder and down at me with tears pooling in her eyes. “Did you have time to catch up?” She let go of him, took a small step back and gave him a once-over. “You look good, Hans. Are you good?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks. And yourself?”
“I’m happy and well, thanks.” Mom took off her backpack and sat down on the sidewalk, close to Eleanor Rigby’s big feet.
“We were just talking about how Hans is about to become a father, right?” I stated and offered a tight smile, hoping Mom would catch on.
Mom looked up at me, her eyes and eyebrows bursting with questions. “Okayyyyy,” she said, dragging out the word. “Um, to who?” Her eyes automatically shifted to Alfred.
“To Regitze, named after his grandmother. She arrives in five months but the mom, um, Hans’s wife is around here somewhere with his grandma.”
Mom looked between me and Hans, with a facial expression that could best be described as “what the fuck?”
“Well, I guess now it’s my turn to say congratulations to you,” she finally said, her voice void of the usual softness. She grabbed onto one of Alfred’s dangling feet and ran a tickly finger up his little chubby leg.
“Well, times two,” Hans added, looking down at Mom’s hand. “Ella told me. About Alfred,” he added, only above a whisper.
“Oh, then now what?” Mom’s red face reflected the nervous note in her voice. She reached over and clutched my hand, and I felt a tightening in my chest. Mom and I both looked up at Hans.
“I don’t know.” Hans ran a frustrated hand through his blond hair. “Tut mir leid … I really don’t know.”
***
Ella. R. Jensen — feeling emotional.
I did it. I finally did it—I went and sat on the bench, and never has a bench been such a roller coaster ride. And it was not because of Eleanor Rigby who, by the way, is kinda small but has humongous feet, according to Mrs. Rockefeller. This is way too complicated for a Facebook update but let’s just say that our quest has ended. We finally found what we were looking for. And Mom, thank God, finally got to not only go see the house where Paul grew up, but she actually went into the house (with me), and we got to see his room, the kitchen, the “loo,” where a lot of dreams and songs were made. Apparently, there’s a big waitlist to do this but, once again, Colleen did her magic. As Mrs. Rockefeller said, and pardon her French, “Colleen is persistent as fuck.” (Mom said I shouldn’t write this, but this is what she said, verbatim. Gotta be true to the source). Mrs. Rockefeller has truly been a solid rock in all of this. Not only has she helped us/me in any possible way to finally get to where we are, she has been emotionally supportive AF.
We just got back and I’m beyond exhausted. I could sleep forever but Mrs. Rockefeller has arranged a big dinner for us in two hours, so I’ll survive on a small nap (ordered by Mom). Yes, I’m in bed, mindless TV running in the background. Alfred and Ava are in the tub with Mom. Not sure, however, if I can sleep. I have too much to think about… Miss everyone. Love Ella.
@Thomas/Eleanor. A picture as promised, of me and Eleanor sitting, in spirit, with all the lonely people (and British assholes) in the world. When I told Mrs. Rockefeller that we’ll just have to Photoshop you in, she looked at me like I was from planet High-tech. In other words, she has no clue what that means. The other pictures are just from the place where the bench is located. Nothing big or fancy, pretty much your average street. I guess they should have put her on Abbey Road and that way killed two birds with one stone, so to speak. Anyway, you get the picture and you’ll get A picture <3
I closed my laptop and yelled in the direction of the oversized bathroom. “Mom, I’m taking that power nap now.”
After a few beats, Mom’s wet face appeared in the door.
“Okay, sweetie. I’ll wake you up about an hour before dinner, which gives you...” She squinted over at the digital clock on the bedside table but had to give up. “Just try to get some sleep, okay? Your brain needs a little break from thinking.”
“You think I did the right thing?”
“You did what you thought was right. There’s never such a thing as the right thing.” She smiled. “Now take a nap. There are some of those sleep eye thingies in the drawer. And ear plugs. Just in case.” She opened the door all the way up, and I could hear Alfred and Ava singing “Yellow Submarine.”
“Got it. Ear plugs and sleep mask. You go now and make sure the kids are not drowning in the tub, or in their sub.”
She nodded and slipped inside the bathroom again, shutting the door.
I placed my head on the soft pillow but as soon as I closed my eyes, I almost felt dizzy. My head was spinning with a million thoughts and there was no way I could “take a little break from thinking.” So, I sat up and punched the pillow a few times.
“Okay, that’s it. I can’t sleep,” I announced to the room and all the Beatles faces looking down at me. “I effing give up.” I leaned over and grabbed my laptop—the worst thing a restless mind could do, according to Mom and this article she’d once read about insomnia, one she liked to quote often—and typed in the hotel password, scrambledEggsFab4, and went straight to Facebook.
Thomas, Maddie, Martha, and Aaron had already left a comment, and when I saw the beginning of Thomas’s, I swear my heart stopped beating momentarily.
Thomas T. Jensen.
Eleanor is away for the day. She went with Jennifer to her cousin’s farm, who happens to have horses. So, you finally made it to the bench. Remember what you told me when we first met—“Who wants to go to a bench and hang out with a bunch of old people/losers?” and I dragged that old wobbly bench over for you to sit on and you said, “This bench looks pretty good to me. I might just stay.” Well, I’m not sure I ever told you but the bench we have in the yard is that bench. When Mom and Dad moved from the temp house, I grabbed the bench and I fixed it up, for you. That way you never had to go all that way and, quote, hang out with a bunch of sad and lonely people, unquote. But, I guess you went anyway… But you don’t look lonely or sad at all. You look really happy. However, I’m not sure how you’re gonna Photoshop Eleanor in on that bench with you and Eleanor Rigby, since you are not sitting alone. I’m guessing it’s the infamous German dude sitting right next to Alfred? I hope he knows how—”
Frantically, I scrolled up. Shit. He was right. I was not sitting alone. I had posted the God damn photo of me and Hans and Alfred that Mom had insisted on taking so we would have that—for Alfred—a picture of his birth dad from Germany. It was also the photo no one was supposed to see, let alone be broadcasted on Facebook. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.
“Mom,” I yelled, already running for the bathroom. “Mom?” I almost had to carve through the steam. “Mom?”
“Yes. What’s up?” Mom was sitting on the little stool, next to the bathtub where Ava and Alfred were all covered in soap.
“Can you—c-c-can you come here? Now.”
She nodded. “I’ll just need to get the water out so they don’t drown in here.” She bent over and pulled the plug. “Okay. No more bathtub for you two. You’re almost growing gills.” She laughed and handed Ava the shower head. “Now you rinse each other off.”
“Mom?” I urged behind her back.
“Yes, yes. I’m coming.” She stood up and wiped her hands on the nice hotel robe. “What’s the emergency?” She followed in my determined footsteps and I grabbed the laptop from the floor.
“This!” I shoved it into her hands and plopped down on the bed.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did it break?” She sat down next to me and ran her sleeve over the front cover, out of habit I guess.
�
�No, open it.”
“Okay, okay.”
Carefully, she opened it and the screen lit up her entire face. “Oh, an update.” I watched as she read the comment, a smile moving across her face as she did so. “Oh, Martha is gonna be jealous as hell when she reads this.” She looked up at me and smiled. “But what’s the matter?”
“Look. At. The. Picture,” I said between clenched teeth, not meaning to.
Her eyes darted back to the screen and she held the laptop out further to get a better look at it. After a few beats, she faced me. “You posted the picture.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But, but—”
“—I posted the wrong picture.” I threw myself back on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. The fucking wrong picture.
“So, you posted the wrong picture. What’s the worst thing that can happen? It’s no—”
“—I just don’t want people to see it,” I snapped at her, “not yet. If I don’t even know what to do myself, with Hans and everything, I’m certainly not ready to share it with the world. Yet.”
“I see. But what did they say?”
I closed my eyes and shook my head into the pillow. “I don’t know. I only read some parts of Thomas’s, and then I panicked and—”
“I’m sure they are all nothing but kind and supportive. No one would ever say or judge—”
“—What are they saying?” I took a deep breath and put my feet up on the head board.
“Okay…” Mom reached over and grabbed her reading glasses, her “grannies” from the coffee table and put them on. “So, Martha says that she’s happy to hear that you found what you’re looking for… see, I told you. Also, she says that she’s jealous about Paul and I’d better tell her all about it when I come home. And she sends her love.”
“Okay,” I said, my breathing starting to return to normal. “Next.”
“Maddie says, ‘Holy fuck,’ which is not that surprising.” She leaned over and looked down at me, a big smile on her face. “See, it’s all good.”
I nodded and told her to continue.
“Okay, Aaron writes, and I quote, ‘Mom is right about Colleen—she’s efficient AF (I finally realized what you all meant by this.)’And there’s a smiley face beside that statement.”
I chuckled, the bundle of nerves loosening a bit in my stomach. “What else does it say?”
“Okay, he goes on to say, ‘She once got me in to The Museum of Flight on my birthday, even though it was closed. Mom had promised me to go and, well, that’s when she found Colleen. I guess Mom is as stubborn as Colleen. P.S. Please tell her I said hi.’ Oh, Ella. This is a good sign. He called her mom.” Mom placed a hand on top of her chest and took a deep breath. “He called her mom,” she whispered as she exhaled, with a smile in her voice.
“Yes, I know, and I’m happy for her, but not too happy about the photo.” I propped myself up on one elbow and looked up at her.
“Well, can’t you just erase it?”
“I could but people have already seen it, so what’s the point?”
“I guess.” She tossed herself down on the bed right next to me. “Now we go get some nice dinner and it’ll all be fine, okay?”
“You really do think that food can solve everything, don’t you?” I removed a big chunk of wet hair from her face and could see her cheeks forming into a big smile.
“I do. There’s a reason why they say never to make any major decisions on an empty stomach. And they have tons of gluten-free items on the menu, remember?”
“So, after dinner, my world problems will have resolved themselves. Is that what you’re saying?”
She nodded into my elbow. “Pretty much.”
I looked up at the ceiling again and listened to Ava’s and Alfred’s little sweet singing voices coming from the bathroom.
“What on earth are they trying to sing?”
We both lay perfectly still.
“Can’t you hear it?” Mom suddenly said, humming along, “It’s the Beatles,” she informed me, her voice laced with pride.
“Ah, surprise.”
“No, listen to the words. They are singing, “We can work it out, we can work it out.” I listened carefully, and even though they were singing in two very different and probably wrong keys, she was right.
“This is too funny.” Mom sat up and reached for the laptop again. “Thomas finished his comment with the exact same song.” She adjusted the “grannies” and started skimming the screen. “Yes, in the end, he says…” She cleared her throat and started singing, “‘Try to see it my way. Only time will tell if I am right or if I’m wrong. We can work it out.’” She took off her glasses and looked at me. “Work it out,” she whispered, her eyes clogged with emotion. “Listen to your heart and it’ll all work out, okay?”
I nodded and closed my tired eyes again, not exactly sure what she meant. I tried to go over the conversation I’d had with Hans on the famous bench earlier that day, but my mind kept wandering and all I could see was Thomas sitting on the other infamous bench, humming a Beatles song. I had never heard him sing a single word. He had once joked that even a rooster with a sore throat was more talented than him when it came to singing, and I almost fell off the bench laughing. Had he really fixed the bench for me? We had sat there so many summer nights, listening to the kids play, listening to music or talking about one of our latest movies. That bench held some of my best summer night memories, but it was not because of the bench. It was because of Thomas.
“Listen,” Mom said above my head, and as I listened to the rest of the song and to my little sweet Alfred’s voice, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe everything was going to be just fine. Maybe it would all work out.
CHAPTER 18
Hello, Goodbye
If the monster strawberry shortcake orgy at Mrs. Rockefeller’s house had been gluten on steroids, then tonight’s dinner was gluten free on steroids, on speed. I could eat every single item on the five-course meal they had put together for us, and, on any other day, I would’ve been in pure celiac heaven, but right now it was just making me even more nauseated.
“Eleanor, this is pretty much all planned for you. Mrs. Rockefeller went a long way to organize this for us,” Mom whispered sideways, away from Mrs. Rockefeller, who was taking up a fight with a stubborn vongole.
“I know, but I’m too nervous or anxious, or whatever it is, to eat. I can’t help thinking about what Hans said and what Thomas wrote. I’ve never been more confused in all my life and I—”
Helena—our short waitress with a very strong Manchester accent—was back. “More sparkling water?” I think she asked. It was hard to tell, but she was carrying a small tray with a bottle of Pellegrino and a small glass bowl of lemon slices, so it was my best guess.
“Yes, please.” Mrs. Rockefeller held up her glass for her to fill up. “Isn’t this just marvelous?” Mrs. Rockefeller took a small sip and looked over at me.
“It’s wonderful.” I picked up my fork again and pushed some of the steamed broccoli around.
“Speaking of wonderful. We have some wonderful news.” Mom looked at me and nodded. “This girl here updated the Facebook page and,” she paused for dramatic effect, “Aaron left another comment.”
Mrs. Rockefeller looked like she was about to spit out a vongole. “He-he did?” She grabbed her napkin and dabbed at her mouth, careful not to smear her lipstick. “What did he say?” Her face was already flushed.
“He said that you once got him into the Museum of Flight, even though it was closed. And he agreed with you that Colleen is efficient as,” Mom looked around the room and lowered her voice, “as fuck.”
“He said that?” Mrs. Rockefeller clapped her tiny hands together. “I have never heard him swear once,” she said all proud. “Richard didn’t permit any kind of profanity. He said it was vulgar and beneath us.” She shook her head and sighed. “I told you, he was a prick.”
With the mentioning of the word prick, both Ava and Al
fred looked up from their new coloring books briefly. It was obvious they had never heard the word before, but from the way Mrs. Rockefeller had said it, they both instantly knew it was a bad word, and thus should’ve been punished with a few pennies.
“Anyway, that’s not the best news.” Mom smiled at me. “The best news is that—”
“—Excuse me ladies, and lad.” The concierge with the purple hair and crossed eyes, the girl who had involuntary triggered all the songs and singing the last two days was standing in the door, an apologetic expression on her beautiful face.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you.” She looked in the direction of me and Mrs. Rockefeller, but it was hard to see who she was looking at.
“For me?” Mrs. Rockefeller and I said at the same time, my heart already pounding in my chest. Maybe Hans had changed his mind?
“Yes, you.” She moved her head slightly and pointed at Mrs. Rockefeller.
“Me?” Mrs. Rockefeller stood up, and her purse dropped to the floor with a big thug.
“Yes.” The concierge looked over her shoulder and said something away from us.
“But but, who can it be? I already told Colleen that we already found him and that we didn’t need to meet with the supervisor after all… Who then…?” Mrs. Rockefeller looked over at Mom for help but before Mom had time to speak up, we heard loud footsteps against the marble floors. Clunk, clunk, clunk.
When he finally appeared in the door, I was afraid Mrs. Rockefeller was going to pass out. In the blink of an eye, her face had turned all white and she stood as if nailed to the floor.
“A-a-aron,” she whispered when she finally found her words again.
Arron looked around the table and nodded as if to say hello.
“Sorry for barging in like this on your dinner but I-I…” He stepped a little further into the room and looked over at Mrs. Rockefeller, who was clearly fighting her tears now.
Lost in Love (The Miss Apple Pants series Book 2) Page 23
