by Darien Gee
Maybe Isabel should, too.
She lets out a deep breath. She’s never done this before, but she’s also never had a friend like Yvonne before. “So,” she finally says. “What do you think I should do?”
Yvonne doesn’t answer right away. She’s halfheartedly rummaging through a small box and pulls out a single brass cufflink. It’s tarnished but Isabel can see that it’s engraved with Bill’s initials—WSK. William Samuel Kidd. Bill’s parents gave them to him when he graduated from college, and he wore them religiously until French cuffs went out of style. Isabel wonders where the other one is, if he lost it or took it with him when he moved out.
Yvonne studies the cufflink, then gently puts it to the side. “You know what I think, Isabel. It’s the same thing you’ve been thinking about for a while, too.”
Isabel stares at her in disbelief. “I finally ask you for advice and you lob it back into my court. Unbelievable.” She drops the sweater into the box, frustrated.
“You don’t need my advice, Isabel. You need someone to say it’s okay to do what you want to do.”
Isabel gives one of the boxes a kick, discouraged, and then leans heavily against the wall. “And what’s that?”
Yvonne comes and stands next to her, her hands in her pockets. “To reach out to Ava and Max.” She gives a sad smile. “I know what it’s like to feel bad about loving someone. It’s the worst kind of feeling, Isabel, because in your heart you know one thing, but everyone else is telling you something different. And then you betray yourself by listening to them instead of yourself.”
Isabel doesn’t say anything.
“I almost got married once,” Yvonne says. “Sam was my best friend. We grew up together. But his family worked the bogs while my family owned them—your typical mismatch from different sides of the tracks. It didn’t matter to me, of course—I was in love. And I believe Sam loved me, too. But in the end my father offered him money—a lot of it—if he would break it off and leave the Cape. Sam did, on the morning of our wedding. I never saw him again. He never even said goodbye. Last I heard he got married about five years ago.
“When I look back now, I see that it wasn’t just about me and Sam. It was about his family, too. I know my father and I’m sure he gave Sam and his family some kind of ultimatum, a threat.”
“God,” Isabel says. “That sucks. I’m sorry, Yvonne.”
Yvonne shrugs. “Sam made a choice that allowed his parents and sisters to live a different life. I was willing to walk away from the money, but for Sam and his family, money equaled freedom. So I guess I’m saying that things are not always as they seem, Isabel. What happens has consequences that sometimes exceed what we can see. And I think that’s what you have with Ava and Max.”
“So what are we supposed to do, have sleepovers?” Isabel complains. “Do each other’s hair? Reminisce about Bill?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe she wants money. Or maybe she wants me to absolve her of what happened. Well, I won’t.” Isabel crosses her arms.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Yvonne tells her. “I just know that you’re not as closed off about Ava and Max as you claim to be. And because of that, and because I’m your friend, I want you to know that there’s nothing wrong with striking up a conversation and seeing where it goes, especially since you might be moving soon. This may be your last chance.”
Isabel can’t picture how this will go. Awkward, that’s for sure. More tears, mostly likely on Ava’s part. Weird politeness, possibly the occasional curt word from Isabel if she can’t resist. But Max?
Isabel hasn’t told Yvonne everything about the call from Max’s school, about how she answered the phone, confused at first, and was then struck with terror that something awful had happened to Ava. Why hadn’t she picked up her son? Had she deserted him? Had she been in an accident? It had taken Isabel all of five seconds to leave the office and rush to the school, uncertain of what to do next. Who to call? Where to take him? Did they have any other family, any other friends? She didn’t know where they lived. She didn’t know anything more than Ava’s last name.
But when she saw Max sitting there, alone in an empty classroom with a wooden puzzle, all her questions and fears evaporated. He had wet his pants. The teachers hadn’t noticed, halfheartedly wiping down toys and complaining about this parent or that parent. All Isabel could think about was getting him out of there. Getting him out of there and then figuring out what to do.
Since the teachers hadn’t bothered to change him, Isabel didn’t bother to argue. She showed her ID, found the spare set of clothes he had at the school, borrowed a car seat, and got them out of there.
“I’m Isabel,” she’d told him when he looked at her with his big blue eyes. “Your, um, mother asked me to come and get you.”
“Mommy,” he said at the mention of Ava, and Isabel saw his lower lip tremble.
“Yep,” she said in what she hoped was a light and airy tone. “And she’s so proud you waited patiently. Maybe we’ll get an ice cream cone to celebrate, okay?”
He had nodded and seemed to relax. Then a barrage of thoughts filled her mind: Did he have any food allergies? Had Ava taught him about stranger danger? Was there another preschool she could send him to? Did he even know his home phone number? And then the more immediate question at hand.
Where the heck was Ava?
Isabel called Yvonne but there had been no answer. She drove by Yvonne’s house, pointing out points of interest to Max along the way, and finally bit the bullet and called Hugh. She’d had to hold the phone away from her ear, he was yelling so loud. It had been easy from there, another five minutes to the police station, and then the surprise of seeing both Yvonne and Ava sitting on the bench, a look of guilt and pride on their faces, each for their own reasons.
But it was more than just surprise—it was relief. Max reached for Ava and for a second, all three were in an unexpected embrace as Max went from one set of arms to another. Isabel doesn’t know if Ava felt it, but it doesn’t matter—she knew that pang in her gut, felt something ring true. She knew in that moment that if they needed her help, Isabel was going to give it.
After she had dropped them off at their apartment, a dingy hole in a not-so-nice area of Barrett, things got complicated again. A war of emotions, of right and wrong, of fair and unfair. Isabel felt trapped, her clarity gone.
“I don’t know what to do,” Isabel finally says. “And I’m mad at Bill for leaving me to deal with all this. This is his mess, not mine.”
“Don’t look at it as messy,” Yvonne advises. “Look at it as life. Not Bill’s life, not Ava’s life, not even Max’s life. It’s your life, Isabel. It’s all up to you to decide what you want.”
Isabel gives a small nod, wishing it wasn’t up to her. “I think I need a drink,” she says. “Let’s take a break.”
They open the side door, walk into the house, and gasp. There, sitting at Isabel’s kitchen table, is Bettie. She’s dressed but her hair is in curlers even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. She’s upended Isabel’s trash onto the table and is picking through it carefully.
“Look at what I found!” she tells the girls, holding up an old bottle of pale pink nail polish. “It’s practically full!”
“Bettie, how did you get in here?” Isabel demands, and then she sees her Hide-a-Key sitting on the table next to an empty tissue box.
Yvonne gives Isabel a pointed look as she begins to sweep the trash back into the bag. “Let’s clean up a bit,” Yvonne starts to say but Bettie swats her away, her face indignant. She doesn’t seem to recognize Yvonne at all.
Then Bettie turns to Isabel, her face flushed with pleasure. She holds up a plastic tube. “And look at this: a rejuvenating clay mask, all natural! I could use some rejuvenating, that’s for sure.” She pops off the top and begins to squeeze the tube but nothing comes out.
“Bettie, that’s old,” Isabel tells her, taking it from her grasp. “I w
as cleaning out the cabinets in the bathroom.” She motions for Yvonne to start cleaning up again. “I’ll get you a new one, okay?”
“Get us a new one, you mean,” Bettie says, grabbing bits of trash and paper as Yvonne tries to quickly shovel it back into the bag. “We have to do it together, like the old days. Right?”
“Um, right.” Isabel gives Yvonne another bewildered look. “So Bettie, what are you doing here?”
“I’m baking,” Bettie says matter-of-factly. “Wanted to bring some goodies to the scrapbook meeting on Thursday. I don’t like last-minute baking—too stressful.” One of her curlers is slipping out of her hair and Isabel notices that there’s dirt underneath Bettie’s nails.
Isabel glances at her oven. The dial is pointing to off, but she goes and checks it anyway, almost expecting to find a pan of uncooked batter sitting inside. But when she opens the door, the oven is empty.
Yvonne has removed all the trash and taken it to the garage. Isabel pulls out a chair and sits next to Bettie who’s humming as she smooths a crumpled advertisement for a credit card.
The door accidentally slams when Yvonne comes back into the kitchen, and Bettie jumps. Her eyes grow wide and then she looks around, confused. “Am I home?” she asks.
Isabel feels her breath catch. “This is my home,” she says. “You live next door.”
Bettie looks at her, suddenly annoyed. “Well, I know that, Isabel!” She stands up, almost knocking her chair over. “Goodbye.”
“Bettie, wait,” Isabel begins, but Bettie is gone.
“We need to call someone,” Yvonne says, frowning. “Her doctor, maybe? Or maybe we should take her to a hospital and see if we can get some answers.”
Isabel nods, already reaching for the phone book. “I’ll call Dr. Richard,” she says. “He’ll know what to do.” She starts dialing and looks at Yvonne, her heart pounding. “What’s happening?”
Yvonne shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her like this before.”
“I have,” Isabel says, struck by the realization that while she knew something was wrong, she’s waited too long. She presses the phone against her ear. “I should have done something, but I didn’t. I thought that maybe she was being difficult, or absent-minded …”
Yvonne walks to the kitchen sink. “I have to wash my hands,” she begins, and then she looks out the window, a horrified look on her face. “Isabel, call 911!”
Isabel rushes to the window. Gray and white smoke is billowing from windows in the back of Bettie’s house. Orange and yellow flames lick the curtains, overtaking the back rooms. Isabel thrusts the phone at Yvonne and runs out the back door.
Isabel cuts across her backyard into Bettie’s. Bettie’s back patio is cluttered with debris and random household and garden items. Isabel touches the handle of the sliding door, finds it cool to the touch.
And locked.
“Bettie!” she calls, pounding on the glass. Flames seem to be coming from the kitchen and the back of the house, but smoke is everywhere. Isabel can see the piles of magazines in the hallway, already on fire.
Somebody else must have seen the fire because Isabel can hear the sirens but they’re not close enough. With all the junk strewn throughout the house it won’t take long before everything is ablaze. And Bettie. Where is she?
Then Isabel sees her through the window, in the front living room, her face already blackened by the smoke, walking toward one wall, then the next one, and round again. “Bettie!” Isabel cries. She picks up a heavy garden gnome and hurls it through the patio door.
The sound of breaking glass is deafening. Isabel scrambles through the glass and hears small explosions, snaps, and crackles. There’s a layer of smoke wafting toward the front of the house. There’s a whoosh and Isabel suddenly finds herself surrounded by flames.
“Bettie!” she calls, pulling up her shirt to cover her nose. She runs forward, tripping, kicking things out of her way.
Bettie turns in the direction of Isabel’s voice. “Isabel!” she cries. “I can’t find my way out!”
Isabel feels an unbearable heat on her back—there’s a wall of flames blocking the patio exit. Isabel looks around, coughing, disoriented until she sees the front door. She grabs Bettie and pulls her forward, stumbling over piles of magazines and mail, miscellaneous scrapbooking items, trash. She manages to open the door and pull them through.
Yvonne is on the sidewalk and sprints forward toward them, as do several other neighbors. The fire trucks have arrived, along with an ambulance. Firemen race past them dragging long fire hoses. Two EMTs escort Bettie and Isabel to the back of the ambulance where they’re immediately given oxygen and inspected for burns and smoke inhalation.
Isabel feels her arms and stomach smart—she has first- and second-degree burns that run up the length of her left arm and on her stomach. Bettie, thankfully, has none, but her face is black with smoke. Her eyes are wild behind the oxygen mask.
“It’s okay,” Isabel tells her, pulling off her own mask so Bettie can see her face. “It’s me. Isabel.”
The fire chief, Abraham Garza, approaches them. “Are you ladies all right?”
Isabel nods her head but Bettie looks at him, confused. “Abe?” she says.
Chief Garza smiles. “That’s right,” he says. He glances at the EMT who gives him a slight nod. “How are you, Bettie?”
“I haven’t had a chance to call Imogene since the last scrapbooking meeting,” Bettie says, her face a bit like a raccoon’s. The ends of her hair are singed from the fire. “I wondered how she was liking that new circle cutter she bought. She was going to make coasters for the family reunion, I believe.”
Chief Garza smiles. “She has most of them done,” he says. “They sure do look nice, I have to say.”
One of the firemen comes up to them. “Chief, it looks like the fire started in the kitchen,” he says.
“Thanks, Ricky.” Chief Garza turns back to Bettie. “Bettie, do you remember if you were cooking anything in the kitchen?” he asks.
“No,” Bettie says.
Isabel coughs, her throat burning. “Bettie, you told me you were baking. Remember? For the scrapbooking meeting?”
“That’s right!” Bettie exclaims, an excited look on her face. “I wanted to make a sugar-free crumble. There are some diabetics in the group, you know, and they have to watch their sugar intake. We always have so many delicious things they can’t eat, so I thought I’d make something special. I used rhubarb. Is it time to take it out?”
“Uh, I think it might be done,” Isabel says, glancing at Chief Garza.
An EMT escorts Bettie to a stretcher and has her lay down. They attach a clip with a wire to her finger, carefully put the oxygen mask back over her mouth and nose. A second later, Bettie’s eyes flutter closed.
Isabel gasps.
“She’s okay,” the EMT reassures her, pointing to a monitor. Bettie’s pulse is steady. “She fell asleep. That happens sometimes.”
“We’re going to take you over to the hospital in Freeport,” Chief Garza says to Isabel. “Just relax and someone will be with you in a minute. Can you stay with her?” he asks Yvonne. Yvonne gives a fervent nod and steps closer to Isabel.
Isabel takes another hit of oxygen. They watch as the flames take over the roof, the firemen aiming their hoses through the windows and doorways. She thinks of everything in the house, of Bettie’s life, going up in smoke.
Going, going, gone.
FIRE DESTROYS LOCAL HOME
Reported by Edith Gallagher
AVALON, ILLINOIS—A kitchen fire quickly set a local Avalonian home ablaze this past Sunday, according to local fire officials.
The house belonged to longtime Avalon resident Bettie Shelton, who lives alone. Shelton, 77, was home when a fire broke out in the kitchen. Shelton was trapped in the home and rescued by neighbor Isabel Kidd.
“They were both very lucky,” said Avalon fire chief Abraham Garza. “It’s dangerous to run into a burning ho
use, but she saved Ms. Shelton’s life.”
Shelton’s house was gutted from the fire, which was a two-alarm blaze. She is currently staying with friends and appreciates the outpouring of support from the community.
Shelton is also president of the Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society. This Thursday’s meeting has been moved to Madeline’s Tea Salon.
Chapter Seventeen
Ava knocks on the door, carefully balancing a tuna noodle casserole. Max is holding a Tupperware container of chocolate chip cookies and a clump of weedy-looking flowers that he insisted on picking at the park.
Ava knows she may be pushing it, but she can’t help it. Standing up to Randall Strombauer changed something inside of her and one thing’s for sure—she’s going to do her best to be as honest and open as possible, no more shirking away. Ava will never forget Bettie’s unexpected kindness, her willingness to help, and she wants to offer some sort of support, even if it means being subjected to Isabel’s wrath and obvious disapproval. It’s true that she promised Isabel never to bother her again or show up unannounced, but this is about Bettie.
The door opens and Ava gasps, unprepared. Max presses against her legs, uncertainty etched on his face as well. The person answering the door is wearing a bathrobe with her hair twisted up in a clip, a clay mask on her face.
“Oh, it’s you,” comes the tight voice that Ava knows belongs to Isabel. “Come in.”
Ava and Max step warily into the house. For Max, it’s because the lady answering the door is unrecognizable and a little scary, but for Ava, it’s because it’s the house Bill used to live in. Her Bill, Isabel’s Bill, Max’s father Bill. She almost expects to weep in recognition but sees that the house is practically bare. There are no pictures, nothing that speaks of Bill or even Isabel. The furniture is spare and everything is neat and clean. It feels … neutral. Not good, not bad, but okay. Ava realizes she’s gawking and quickly reminds herself why they are here.
