by Cathy Lamb
“What do you think of your maid of honor dress?”
I was on Skype with Jules. She held up my dress.
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Wow.
Whew.
Unique.
Daring, sort of scary.
Breathe deeply.
Okay!
She was smiling, so sunny, so hopeful, her blonde hair swinging, Mack’s tattooed face staring right at me from her arm.
“I love it!” I said, with as much gush and mush as I could, as my insides quivered. I was going to wear that?
“I am soooo glad, Evie! You’re going to look spectacular in it! It’s perfect for that perfect figure of yours. I had the same woman make your maid of honor dress who made my wedding dress. They’re different, but they belong together, like you and I belong together, as sisters, as best friend sisters! As love-sisters.
I’m so excited, Evie!” She burst into tears.
“Jules, don’t cry, please. You’ll make me cry. You know when I cry I get carried away.” I started to cry. I don’t like seeing Jules cry even when she’s happy. She started to sob in front of the computer. I started to sob. Her nose got red. I had to blow my nose. Her makeup was smearing down her face. I grabbed tissue and wiped at my cheeks. She made funny sounds, choking on her happy tears. I made a gaspy sound, too, that sounded like a frog choking.
“I’m so happy,” she squeaked out. “Mack and I were in the hot tub last night. He’s an intelligent man. He knows so much about creativity in the bedroom, well, in this case the hot tub, and he made sure I wasn’t getting too hot, and I didn’t make too much noise because of the neighbors, and then we talked about how we can’t wait to be Mr. Mack and Mrs. Jules!” She honked her nose into a tissue. “I’m getting married and you’re my maid of honor and Mom and the aunts will be there and Dad will be there from heaven and Mack’s family will be there and all our friends are coming on their motorcycles in leathers!”
I burst into a fresh round of tears, so she did, too.
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“Look at your dress!” she semi-shouted, shaking it. “Look at it!”
We both sobbed again.
The nonfiction book club met on Monday night. They read a book about Everest and invited me to join them, as usual. I had read the book. I will never climb Everest. I don’t want to be anywhere near Everest. The scenes during the snowstorm scared me even when I was at home in the bath reading the book. I was so freaked out, I had a piece of apple pie. Apples are fruits. Therefore the pie was healthy for me.
The chess club came in later in the week. I played one game.
I won. I had a croissant. Croissants are pretty, which means they add vitamins and nutrients to my day.
A group of women came in for their weekly coffee and treat date. They invited me, as always, to come and chat, so I did.
They bought coffee cake. I had a slice, too. Coffee beans are healthy, therefore the coffee cake probably boosted my immune system.
I chatted with customers from all over the world. I sold books.
I sold my mother’s bouquets. She had titled them, as usual. “This Bouquet Is for a Saucy Woman Who Takes No Crap” and “Love Monster” and “Tulip Titillation.”
I sold my aunt Iris’s photographs of strange talking, laughing, sexy flowers and her cards. One that was selling especially well, which she’d had to reprint many times, was a purple flower that looked distinctly like a penis. Two red roses were clearly boobs.
I sold Aunt Camellia’s lotions and potions. Her latest, which smelled like a blend of lemon and vanilla, was called You Light Me Up, Baby. It was selling well, too.
I was surrounded by books, my forever friends, who have encouraged me since I was a little girl to escape from my premonitions between their pages, to dream, to travel to places in my head, to learn, to see through others’ eyes, and to imagine.
Book nerds get this.
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They will understand me when I say that I love owning a bookstore.
A pretty, red-haired lady in her fifties came in the next morning. My bookstore was full of tourists and people from town.
We were having a rare rainy summer day, which was excellent for me. We were selling salted caramel chocolate cake, and we had two popular tea specials: Jasmine and Peppermint.
We were busy at the café, and we were busy at the cash register. I loved days like this and I couldn’t wait to go home. There are few things better than reading on a rainy day while drinking coffee and eating pie, which is what I wanted to do.
The woman was striking, with light blue eyes and a lopsided smile that showed a lot of teeth. She was wearing jeans, a pink Windbreaker, and pink tennis shoes. I felt the oddest sensation when we started chatting about books, then I felt a premonition slide on through. . . . She was going to meet a man. I saw the man, slowly, coming into view in my mind. They were going to fall in love. They would be together for a long time . . . until they died. They would be old then. . . . I saw them with white hair, wrinkled.
I kept chatting with her; she wanted nonfiction. I suggested a few . . . and then I saw a man in the science fiction section. He was about fifty, too. Windblown hair. Looked as if he’d spent a lifetime outside. He was taller than her, trim . . . yes, it was him.
She would meet him.
Was I supposed to help? Was it supposed to happen today?
Well, I thought, why not?
I couldn’t miss this chance. Maybe I was the catalyst. Maybe I was the fixer-upper. Maybe I was Cupid! Evie Cupid, that’s me.
I chatted with her; she found her book. I chatted with him; he found three, and they both ended up at the register at the same time because of sneaky finagling by me. The gentleman let her go first; they smiled at each other. And I saw it, their gazes held for a smidgen longer than normal. It was interest.
I rang her up and said to them both, “Well, one of you likes nonfiction and one of you likes science fiction.” It was an inane
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comment. A nothing comment. But it opened the door to conversation. Book lovers are all alike. They are always so interested in what other people are reading, and why.
I finished her purchase while they were still talking about the nonfiction books she had chosen, then they moved on to his science fiction books. She had never read science fiction, but she would be willing to try. What was that book about? Oh, he was happy to tell her. But tell me about your interest in the Vietnam War. Why that time period?
And I lied and said, “I have to get rid of this cake. It was made yesterday. Let me give you two a free slice.” All our cakes are fresh.
Oh, no, they couldn’t, the man said. “I’ll pay for it. Would you care to join me?” He looked at the smiling woman.
And she said, “I would be delighted. But let me pay.”
“No, please,” he said firmly. He was a gentleman.
“Nonsense,” I said. “I refuse.” I cut two thick slices of the salted caramel chocolate cake, added forks and napkins, and handed it over.
They were surprised and delighted. Free cake! They would remember this. They would remember the rainy, windy day they met on San Orcanita Island at Evie’s Books, Cake, and Tea.
They thanked me profusely, and he invited her over to sit by the windows overlooking the rainy bay.
They were there for three hours. I brought them ice water.
Then free Jasmine tea.
When they left, still chatting, she turned and waved and mouthed “Thank you” to me.
When they were at the door, the gentleman turned his head and winked at me. “Thank you,” he mouthed.
“You’re welcome,” I said, in turn, to each of them.
I love happy premonitions.
I saw Marco at Lupita’s Mexican Restaurant, out on the patio with a group of men from the island. One is our doctor. Two are fishermen. One is a builder. They were laughing, being guys, talking, drinking beer.
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I didn’t want him to see me, so I scurried around the corner.
I paused and leaned against the wall of the hardware store.
Marco was so hot. I liked his jawline. I liked his hands. I liked his shoulders. I liked his eyes the best. Dark and rimmed with black, with flecks of gold. I liked him. It’s important, I think, to deeply like someone whom you’re madly attracted to. There can always be lust for someone, but liking someone is the most important.
I brushed away a few tears, then my throat clenched as I remembered, once again, what would happen to Marco if we were together.
My heart about split in two. If a physician had an X-ray machine, he would see two half hearts right there, I was sure of it.
Nothing could help me and this cataclysmic romantic situation at all, except for, maybe, fettuccine alfredo.
I’d still hurt, but at least I’d get pasta.
C h a p t e r 1 4
Betsy Baturra
Multnomah County Jail
Portland, Oregon
1976
Six months after her baby was taken out of her arms, Betsy was cuffed at the wrists and ankles and led out of jail in her orange jumpsuit. In a specially equipped van that was made to haul prisoners back and forth to the courtroom, she sat shackled, two armed guards with her, their faces stony.
When she arrived at the courtroom, she went to a holding area and changed into the clothes her attorney brought her: blue blouse, black skirt, and a blue suit jacket. She had on flat black shoes. She knew the clothes were supposed to make her look conservative, serious, slightly frumpy, and innocent.
She was not the femme fatale the press said she was.
She was not the greedy girlfriend.
She was not the master manipulator.
She was not a cold-blooded murderer.
She was a young woman, defending the life of her boyfriend.
Betsy was numb. She was devastated. After the birth of her sweet Rose, her milk had come in and her breasts became rock hard and infected. She had shown the doctor, a male doctor, and he’d shrugged at her, gave her some pills, told her it would “get better on its own especially since your baby is gone,” and that
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was that. The infection hadn’t gone away. She caught a cold, and it went straight to her chest, caused pneumonia, and gave her a hacking cough. She was sick, weak, and depressed. She couldn’t eat, and when she passed out in the lunch line it was back to the infirmary.
The doctor, a woman this time, was appalled at the infection in her breasts, and she took care of it as it should have been taken care of in the first place. Betsy’s fever was at 103. She had no desire to fight anymore, even for her own life, but the medicine overruled her wish to die.
The ride to court from jail was bumpy and made Betsy nauseated. She knew that she and Johnny would be tried together.
That was unusual, but the prosecutor wanted it that way. They were eighteen, Johnny still in high school, but they would be treated like any other adults.
The press was clogging the entrance of the courthouse. Her case, Johnny’s case, had captured the eyes of the public. Peter, born Pyotr, Kandinsky had been murdered by his son and the son’s girlfriend! Betsy knew what the press was saying: MURDER
FOR MONEY . . . PAMPERED SON PLUS GREEDY GIRLFRIEND EQUALS
A MURDER . . . YOUNG WOMAN LURES BOYFRIEND INTO KILLING
HIS OWN FATHER . . . BEAUTY, LIES, DEATH: HOW TWO LOVERS
PLANNED THE MURDER OF THE DECADE.
Not only was the case making national headlines because of the two young lovers, but both of the young lovers said they had murdered the father.
Betsy had told the police that she had stabbed Peter.
Johnny, to Betsy’s utter shock, said he did it. She told the police Johnny was lying, she did it. Johnny said that Betsy was lying, he had killed his father.
Both of their fingerprints were on the knife, but the knife had come from Johnny’s kitchen so his prints were expected.
The only other person in the room who could tell what truly happened was Tilly, Johnny’s younger sister, who was seven years old at the time and had not spoken since the stabbing. Not one word. She was, as the press reported breathlessly, “almost in a trance . . . mentally comatose . . . lost her memory . . . not
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speaking. . . . Poor thing! Traumatized by watching her brother’s girlfriend stab her father . . . or was it her brother who stabbed her father?”
The courtroom was noisy and chaotic. The rows were crammed with journalists and spectators who had managed to get in. No one could resist it: Betsy was young and beautiful. Johnny was young and handsome. And there was a dead dad.
Betsy should have been scared to death, but she wasn’t. All was lost. She knew it. Her baby, Rose, was gone. Even her own attorney said that she could get twenty years, maybe life. Maybe the death penalty. It looked premeditated. But none of that mattered. She wanted Rose and could not have her, or her beloved Johnny. Her depression was black and oppressive, sucking out all hope of light. She felt done with life and living. The only thing that kept her from killing herself in jail was her premonition, the one that showed her driving and crashing amidst fir trees and orange poppies.
Betsy was manhandled out of the van, two deputies beside her in bulletproof vests, more in front and behind. She could hardly walk, a few shuffles at a time. She had taken a shower the night before because the woman in the cell next to her, Devina—a woman who was addicted to heroin five years ago and bought and sold the drug to feed her habit—insisted she do so.
The heroin addict had attended an Ivy League school. She’d crushed her knee skiing and become addicted to the pain medicine, which then morphed into the heroin addiction.
“Shower. Please, Betsy. You look . . .” Devina paused, shook her head.
“I don’t care how I look.”
“You should,” Devina said. “It’ll help you. You look like a ghost.”
Rainbow said, “Aquamarine. Carnation pink. Orange. You are many colors, Betsy. Let’s bring out the bright ones. Gold. Silver.”
So Betsy had showered and washed her thick black hair for the first time in a week.
Her eyes caught Johnny’s and held. She teared up, and so did he. They had exchanged letters the entire time they’d been in jail
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awaiting trial. They still loved each other. They had cried over the baby they knew they would probably never see again, their tears staining their letters. They had been realistic, but they had been clinging to hope, too. They had been deadly pessimistic, and they had been determined to get out one day to see their daughter.
I love you, they wrote. I love you so much.
The judge hammered his gavel. The trial began.
Johnny and Betsy met at a café in downtown Portland where Betsy worked as a waitress. Johnny went there after school, after sports practice, for chocolate milkshakes, then started coming each day to visit Betsy.
They started talking, light chat, then they progressed, slowly, to opening their hearts. Betsy saw in him someone like herself: Lost. They dated, they fell in love. Johnny did not want to work in his father’s company, or with his father. He hated his father.
His father was part owner of a used car dealership that regularly ripped people off.
He wanted to be a farmer. He had been, every summer, to his grandma’s farm, and he loved it. It had been sold by his father when she died. Even his grandma couldn’t stand his father, who had tried to steal her money. Johnny wanted to sell fruits and vegetables, and specialty items, too, like cheeses and wine. He hoped to have a vineyard one day.
Farming sounded perfect to Betsy. She could be outside. She could have animals. She could hide from her parents and be away from people. The more people she was around, the more premonitions she had. It was fraught, it was exhausting. She wanted to help people, but it was tearing her down, wearing her down.
Bets
y and Johnny had their first kiss at a picnic. Second kiss hiking. Third kiss by a waterfall. Their romance was slow, steady, awash in friendship and kindness. Betsy talked about her parents for the first time, their fanaticism, the violence of her father.
She told him about the beatings with a brush, sticks, a
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wooden spoon, and her father’s belt. She told him about all the times her father hit her with the Bible, all the verses she had to memorize, how her mother stood back and didn’t help her when her father berated her, told her that she was the devil. How she’d crawled out her window in the middle of the night and left home after graduating early from high school, determined to be independent even though she wasn’t yet eighteen.
Betsy told Johnny about the time, only a few weeks ago, when her parents found her at her apartment, the one she lived in now. The building was filled with students because it was near a university. She was working and going to college classes. She was still in her blue waitress uniform, splattered with ketchup and mustard, when she walked down the hallway and saw her parents by her front door. Music pounded out of a couple of the other apartments, doors open, students milling around.
“What are you doing here?” she said to her father as his face filled with a purple, throbbing rage. He hid behind his religion.
He quoted the Bible; he had it memorized. But it was an act.
There was no true love there, or compassion, or faith, only a desire to control her and her mother—a squat man using religion to manipulate and abuse.
“Don’t talk to me like that, young woman,” he hissed. “You sinful, disobedient, slutty wretch,” his voice rose sanctimoniously,
“Betsy, you will come home now and repent.”
“No,” she said, tilting her chin up. She was always tired from working and going to school, but she was proud of herself. She had escaped her parents, and she was living a whole new life.
She still had nightmares about her father: He would chase her through her dreams, he would catch her and smack her across the face, and her mother would stand there and whimper and wring her hands but do nothing to stop the beating. She would wake up panting, sweating, angry, pained, then so incredibly relieved she wasn’t living with him anymore.
