Second Chances

by Abbie Williams

  “Joan, she’s in love, and she’s taking this chance,” my aunt said quietly. “Do you think life offers chances like candy?”

  “Like jellybeans,” Mom muttered sarcastically, but she backed off, and Ellen touched my hand briefly before gathering her cooking supplies and heading into the café.

  An hour later, fortified by a strong cup of coffee, I was able to sit down with two of my daughters at one of the booths. Tish and Ruthann, who were sleepy-eyed but snapping with curiosity, sat facing me, forearms lining the table’s edge, elbows bumping. Tish, who close-cropped hair had grown out over the months here in Landon, had a row of bobby pins holding bangs out of her cobalt-blue eyes, Jillian’s eyes, which had been bestowed on my middle daughter. Ruthie, whose eyes were a soft hazel flecked with gold, with her own dark hair in a braid down her back, studied me intently; both of them wore pale blue Shore Leave t-shirts, Tish’s with her name written across the left pocket in permanent marker. Camille, my oldest, was still sleeping and had been exhausted of late; being four weeks pregnant did that to a person.

  For a moment my conviction wavered; how could I contemplate leaving my pregnant child behind while I drove cross-country? What if her morning sickness got worse? What if she had a question about something?

  “Mom, you look like crap,” Tish observed then, in her usual blunt fashion, snapping me momentarily from my worries.

  “Thanks, dear,” I responded drily, lacing my fingers around my coffee cup.

  It occurred to me that in the past two months, since the advent of a boyfriend into their big sister’s life, Ruthann and Tish had been more often in each other’s company. Camille had moved on for the time being, swum ahead into life, and they were a little bereft in her wake. Ruthie, even with her scattering of freckles, suddenly looked more like an almost-teenager than my baby. When had that happened? Both Camille and Tish were olive-skinned, like their father, but Ruthie had my coloring all the way, save for the dark, luxurious curly hair that Jackson had kindly passed to his children. My own was straight and light, hanging now over my back in reams of snarls. I supposed my make-up was under my eyes and probably I should have brushed my teeth at some point. Ruthie, also my sweetest child, amended, “No, you just look tired, Mom.”

  “Well, I am a little tired,” I said, and then tipped my chin slightly to study them with serious eyes. “Girls, you know what I told you last night, about Blythe?”

  They both nodded, eyes equally solemn. I’d told them last night about falling in love, and my heart pounded harder.

  “Well Rich left last night for Oklahoma, where Bly is from. You guys remember? Blythe has to face some charges there, and I am going to drive down there and see if I can help.” And bring him home with me, ideally to stay forever. His name tasted sweet in my mouth, and I pressed my lips together as though to keep it there for a moment longer. I was relatively proud of holding it together so well, when everything inside of me was shrieking, aching to run to the car and go, to find Blythe and get my arms around him. Joelle, Joelle.

  “You’re leaving?” Tish gaped at me. “For how long?”

  “Just a week or so,” I reassured instantly, reaching to grip her hand. For once she allowed it, curling her slim fingers with their short, unpolished nails around my own, as she had when she was a little girl. “I won’t stay long. And I’ll call you guys every night.”

  “But why can’t you just call him?” Tish continued. “Why do you have to go there?”

  “I want to see him,” I explained quietly. “I have to see if we are meant to be.”

  “Like, meant to be married?” Tish asked, drawing her hand from mine and then gripping the edge of the table with both hands. Ruthie bit her bottom lip, not speaking, but the question was clear in her eyes. When I didn’t instantly respond, Tish slapped the table with the bottom of her palms, a gesture of pure frustration.

  “This is bullshit!” she snapped at me, daring me to call her out for cursing. “Dad is marrying that dumb woman from his office, and now you’re marrying Blythe? What about us?”

  Tears had sparked into her eyes, and I closed my own for a moment, hurting everywhere. She was justified in her anger, I understood that. I had to make her see that I wasn’t choosing Blythe over them, that I would never do that. But the ground here was incredibly shaky, totally unknown territory for me.

  “Dad is a cheater,” she said then, some of the steam leaving her tone, replaced by a sadness that hit me 10 times harder than the anger.

  I opened my eyes and regarded my middle girl, who was swiping at her nose with a knuckle, roughly, the way a boy would. I said, delicately, “Tish, honey, I know this is hard to hear—” She began to interrupt me, but I held up a hand, warning her with my eyes. I drew a breath and went on, catching Ruthann in my gaze too. “But you’re both old enough to understand that sometimes people fall out of love. Dad fell out of love with me, and it hurt me really badly. You guys saw that. But don’t you think it would be worse to stay married to someone who doesn’t love you anymore? Wouldn’t that be living a lie?” I was pleasantly surprised at the sincerity of my speech; I wasn’t saying these things to pacify my kids, but truly meant them.

  They thought about that for a moment, though Tish studied the tabletop and Ruthie directed her gaze out the window at the lakeshore. I prodded, “Right?”

  Ruthie nodded, looking back at me. She smiled her sweet smile.

  “Mama, we just want you to be happy,” she added, and my heart melted.

  “Yeah,” Tish grumbled, unconvincingly. But then she tipped her head at me and managed a little half-smile. “We do, Mom, honestly.”

  “Thanks, you two,” I told them. And then, because I had to know, “What did Dad say after I left?” I mentally cringed, remembering what had taken place on the front porch last night, Blythe and Jackson fist-fighting because Jackson had behaved like a jealous kid whose favorite toy had been played with by someone else. I knew it wasn’t that simple, but it was easy to blame him, though he’d come out on the losing end of this one. Jackson, whose hot temper had landed him in numerous such situations in high school, had never lost a fight. And now, this morning, he was surely worse for the wear, and missing a tooth. My thoughts again flashed to Bly, as they had a thousand times already today, wondering if he was hurt from the fight. It was hard to imagine, since Jackson had barely landed a single punch, but still. The thought of him hurting in any way just aggravated my desire to get going.

  “He talked to Camille mostly,” Ruthie informed, playing with the sugar boat, absently stacking and restacking the little pink and blue bags of sweetener. “He told her he’s not mad, and told us we could come to live with him if we wanted, and—”

  My heart nearly came out of my chest. Ruthie saw the horror in my eyes because she cut herself off and assured, quickly, “But we wouldn’t do that, Mom, you know.”

  I swallowed and said what I had to, though my throat was dust-dry. “You know if you girls want that, I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t stop you. I know you love your dad, and miss him.” The speech cost a lot of my bravado and I drank a long sip from my coffee, which was now lukewarm and unpalatable, to hide my face for a moment. Please, please never let them want to do that, oh please, please.

  Tish said, “Mom, we love it here. We want to live with you.”

  “I like Chicago, but I can’t imagine not living with you, either, Mama,” Ruthie said, and I felt a fraction of the tension leave my shoulders.

  “Okay,” I allowed. “And you’re willing to give Blythe a chance?”

  They both nodded.

  “We wouldn’t have to call him ‘dad’ would we?” Tish asked, and I rolled my eyes at her.

  “No, honey, just ‘Bly,’ like you have been all summer,” I said. If he comes home with me, if I can make him see.

  “Dad did say he’s coming back today. He wants to talk to you, too,” Ruthann added, a worried look in her eyes.

  “I know, sweetie, it’ll be all right,” I reassured her. �
�And I’m sorry about everything last night. I hate that Dad and Blythe got into a fight. Blythe was just worried about me, but Dad would never hurt me that way, you know that.”

  “It was pretty scary,” Ruthie admitted. “Blythe looked so angry, I was worried for Daddy.”

  Jackson would writhe in shame at that statement, though Ruthann only meant it with compassion. I said, “I know, honey, he was just really mad. And he felt bad for hitting your dad.” Maybe not immediately, but there was no need to be that specific.

  Clint was suddenly bounding over to us, squeezing against Tish to displace her on the booth. He was holding a plate loaded with pancakes and syrup.

  “Quit shoving me!” Tish bitched at him, but moved gamely enough. She grabbed a napkin-wrapped trio of silverware from the tabletop and shook it open, snatching the fork and then helping herself to his plate. Clint playfully stabbed at her hand with his own fork, and Ruthann, now pressed against the wall, took the easy way out and ducked under the table, popping out on my side.

  For a moment I snuggled her close, and then she observed, gently, “Mom, you kinda smell like you need a shower.”

  “Point taken,” I said, smiling against her hair.

  Three hours later I had showered, dressed in clean clothes, packed a bag with enough supplies for a week and a half—the longest I could figure being absent from my children—and withstood the blame Mom attempted to heap over me. She’d followed me right up the steps into my bedroom, despite the fact that lunch would begin in the café in a less than an hour and that she’d been on my case without relenting almost since I’d ended my conversation with the girls.

  “Jo,” she continued, sitting on my unmade bed and regarding me with somber eyes. I did my best to politely appear to be listening to her, all the while rooting through my drawers and tossing things into my travel bag. “I truly don’t understand this. Why can’t you call him? Wait a while, see how you feel in a few weeks. A month. Maybe this was just a rebound kind of thing.”

  My hackles rose at that, but I knew she was only trying to be reasonable.

  “Seriously, I know he’s a nice boy,” she went on. “But chasing after him this way, Jo…”

  I rounded on her finally, my cheeks hot. I stood still and faced her squarely, pressing my hands against my thighs to still the trembling. With extreme effort I knocked the edge in my voice down a peg or two and spoke quietly, but with emphasis. “Mom, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but he’s no boy. He’s a man, an amazing man, and I love him. I love him. I am going to find him and tell him so, because I owe him that. I owe myself that.” My voice was shaking, but I meant every word to the core of my soul. “If he sends me away then I’ll let him go, but I have to find out.”

  Mom’s lips softened a little, though her eyebrows knitted in concern. She reached one hand out towards me, fingers splayed, but then let it drop back to her lap when I remained stubbornly unmoving. She said, “Joelle, this isn’t like you.”

  “Then you know what, Mom, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” I said, my tone flat, and resumed my packing with venom.

  “Maybe so,” she allowed. “But I know you better than you think. I know you’re moving on from Jackson, but I hope you’ve considered the odds in this relationship too. It’s going to be so hard, honey, think of that.”

  “Well I’ll never know if I don’t try,” I said, my back to her and a catch in my throat.

  “All right,” she finally said, rising and abruptly clutching me in a hug. I stood motionless in her embrace, angry, but at the last moment turned and hugged her back, breathing in her familiar scent. She rubbed my back vigorously, reminiscent of Gran, and then released me. “Call us every night, all right?”

  “I will,” I assured her, and managed a small smile.

  Camille was helping out with the lunch rush as I entered the café later, craving the familiarity of routine to get me through until tomorrow morning. I was planning to leave with the sunrise; Mom had promised to help me plan this evening, including making a call to Christy Tilson, Blythe’s mother and Rich’s stepdaughter. I planned to go to her first thing, for better or worse. I had my cell phone in my apron pocket, some part of me hoping that somehow, despite everything, Blythe would call me. I craved the sound of his voice so much that I could hardly bear it; I reached with my right hand yet again and slipped the phone out, caressing it as I had all of the nights for the past two months when he’d call me in the early hours of the morning as I curled in bed. I would be warm, with his scent all over my skin, my arms and legs aching from being wrapped around him the entire night before, and he’d call to tell me good-night. I breathed hard through my nose, hearing his deep voice in my memory, remembering the sweetness of those moments as my gaze skimmed over to the kitchen, where Blythe had worked this past summer.

  “Jo, light a fire!” Jilly said as she bustled past with a tray of drinks. “Three top outside!”

  I kept myself busy until late afternoon, but when a lull fell a restless energy began to creep back into my thoughts, and I knew I had to pull myself together. No matter how very much I wanted to be on the road to Oklahoma, I was realistic enough to know I’d be exhausted if I left now. I needed a good night’s sleep, or as much of one as I could manage at this point, and then I’d leave at dawn. Right now I had a road map and a feverish desire to get moving south on I-35.

  “Jo, sit with me awhile,” Gran ordered, from her seat at one of our porch tables. The café was nearly empty of customers, the sun slanting over the lake on its westward descent. I braced my tray against one hip and slung upon it the bar towel I’d been using to wipe down a tabletop. I obeyed without question, sitting with a sigh. The air was thick with humidity and sweat was skimming between my breasts and collecting along my hairline. I brushed at loose strands and then braced my elbows, meeting my grandmother’s direct hazel eyes. Her face was stern, and dear, dearer to me than nearly any other in my life. I knew if I were to look back at pictures of her from my childhood she would look much younger, but it seemed somehow as though she never changed. Her entire face was shaded under the brim of her straw hat, her knobby knuckles curled around a mug of coffee, even in this heat.

  “You be careful down there,” Gran said, as though I was heading into a war zone. I knew she really meant be careful of your heart.

  “I will, Gran, I promise.” My voice sounded more sure than I felt.

  “You remind me so much of myself at your age, Joelle,” she said then, surprising me. She’d said many times how she thought I resembled Mom, but I knew again that she wasn’t referring to looks right now. “Even though Minnie was older than me, I always felt like the older sister. The one who noticed things, protected people. That’s you, Joey. I admire you for going after young Blythe. But I worry about you. You have so much to be responsible for.”

  I dropped my gaze first to the tabletop and then let it skim out over the lake, glistening like a living creature in the sunlight. I closed my eyes then, seeing the same scene superimposed upon my inner eyelids, this time painted over in oranges and reds. Finally I whispered, “I would never think of putting them second, Gran, you know I wouldn’t.”

  “I know that,” Gran said, again with uncharacteristic softness in her voice. “But I watched how Blythe looked at you all summer, lovesick like I’ve never seen. You two thought you were hiding things so well, but I knew, and your sister knew. Joanie…well, I’m not sure she knows yet.”

  I giggled a little. “Mom still thinks I should be with Jackson, even though she won’t admit it.”

  Gran snorted, sounding more like herself. She drew a long sip from her mug and then said, “I love my daughter, but she wears blinders when it comes to certain things.”

  The sound of the porch door swinging open halted our conversation, and I turned on one elbow to see Jilly coming out, a tub of silverware that needed rolling in her arms. She joined us with a huff of breath and asked, “Jo, you don’t mind getting this tub rolled befo
re you call it quits for the night, do you?”

  “You know I don’t,” I returned, and turned to the mindless task. “And I did plan to help ‘til close, you know.”

  “Good deal,” my sister said.

  And I did, keeping my thoughts focused with effort, attempting to enjoy the gorgeous evening that settled over the café. The intensity of the heat fizzled out by 8:00 in the evening and the air was totally static, lending Flickertail Lake a smooth, glass-like serenity. The western sky blazed with colors reminiscent of the inner curve of a seashell, somewhere between orange and peach. The lake reflected the hue, marred only by a group of mallard ducks that glided almost seamlessly over the surface. By half-past the crowd had again dwindled, leaving only a few regulars at the bar, and a group of four lingering over a last round of beer on the porch, admiring the incredible view. I checked on them for Jilly, leaving their bill, before untying my apron and making my way out to the dock to sit for a moment and contemplate tomorrow.

  I was wearing jean shorts and left my shoes on the shore, rejecting the glider in favor of the dock boards and sinking my legs into the lukewarm, slightly murky green water that lapped at the moorings. I untied my hair from a ponytail and shook out its length; I was finally getting used to the feel of its formerly shoulder-length strands on my back. I hadn’t let my hair get long since high school and as I ran my hands through it I imagined Blythe doing the same thing, his big caressing hands that could be so gentle and hold me with such tenderness. Again I missed him so much I felt ill and took a deep breath and held it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be moving towards him, finally.

  “Jo,” said a quiet voice from behind me, from the end of dock. He hadn’t made his way onto the boards because I would have felt the reverberations. I sat still as a threatened spider for a moment, before turning and studying the man whose voice I knew so very well.