By the time I entered the break room, Pickles had poured two cups of what smelled like peppermint tea and plated up a tray of scones. The bench against the wall served as a perfect place for my bag and purse, and I approached the small break table, stomach rumbling from hunger. In the center of the table sat a thin vase with fake, pink roses inside. Not a spot of dust stood out on the petals, which were as soft as Lexie’s skin to the touch.
“How do you keep those roses so clean? Artificial flowers and plants are lovely, but my ability to keep away the dust is as good as my ability to use a map. What’s your secret?”
The older woman sat across from me, took the lace napkin off the table, and placed it into her lap before speaking. “It’s not hard. You need to find the time to do it each week...Oh heavens, I didn’t even get your name!” She pursed her lips, blew across the teacup, and sipped the beverage. Within an instant, the tiny china vessel was empty. She must have had a stomach of steel; my cup was still too hot to touch.
“It’s Sadie. Sadie Rollins. We’re from Ohio, and we’re only visiting for a few weeks.” The smell of the tea wafted up to my nostrils, filling my head with memories of my grandmother’s house. Thoughts of Grandma and her afternoon etiquette lessons served as my reminder to remove my napkin from the table and place it onto my lap.
“Oh, we get so many visitors from Ohio. And my son lives there. Have you been here before?” Pickles’ blue eyes sparkled under the fluorescent lighting of the break room as she poured herself another cup of tea. The whir of the small refrigerator and the click of the radiator muffled her words, and I had to lean in to catch what she was saying.
“Actually, yes. We’ve been coming up here for quite a few years now, and I used to come when I was a child. That’s how we found this place originally.”
“It’s quite the place, isn’t it?” A smile danced across her lined face, and a fleeting image of her as a young lady crossed my mind. Had she always been this content?
“You can say that again. Do you live here year-round?” In all the time I’d been visiting Walloon Lake, I’d never seen Pickles Martin. My family was on great terms with the workers at the general store, and we knew the owners of the marina. Even some of the people in Petoskey, like the proprietors of the fudge shop, knew June meant our family planned to visit. I wondered then, if anyone had missed us that summer.
“I do now.” Pickles dabbed the corners of her upturned mouth with her napkin much like I would do to Lexie or Delia. “I am so pleased to meet you. It used to be Henry and I, that was my second husband, traveled here only during the summers. We then retired to our little bungalow on East Street and after he passed on, God bless his soul, I chose to stay. The place is in my blood now. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” She smoothed the napkin across her knees against her blue cotton skirt and then nibbled a tiny bite of a cinnamon scone.
“I hear that from many people,” I said. “That they can’t imagine living anywhere else. What is it about this place that makes people want to stay?”
I knew why I’d like to stay. The idea of finding a sliver of happiness amongst a lifetime of confusion and angst. The gorgeous mirror of a lake, the splendid sand, the shade of the imperial pine trees. Mix into that the easy-going attitude that tagged along with summertime and even autumn, as I was finding out, and I’d move here in a heartbeat. That sort of mindset would be beneficial every moment of every day during every season.
“It’s a little bit magic, if you ask me. Or a lot of magic. Henry always said I believed in fairies, and yes, I do. But since I can’t prove otherwise, I’m sticking with that theory.” Pickles’ cheeks crinkled with a full-blown smile. Theo would have rolled his eyes at her statement, calling himself too much of a realist to even consider the idea of something that couldn’t be proven. But I couldn’t help grinning myself. To think I’d been annoyed by her initial intrusion into my space.
The older woman made a valid point, though. There had to be something, whether we possessed the ability to name it or prove it or not, that led people to Walloon Lake and then convinced them to stay there. With cooler summer temperatures and mountains of snow, the winter season often brought with it something else that lured people there. If it wasn’t magic that kept people in a place so cold, then what was it?
I put my hand to my heart and closed my eyes, taking a moment to pause, enjoy the silence, and hope the place lent even a little bit of its magic to me.
Pickles grabbed my attention again with the tap of her fingernails against the laminate of the table. “Many people tell me I’m nuts. But the lives I’ve seen over the years, the number of broken people who come up here to this idyllic place, who stay for merely a few days or several months and end up being repaired.” Pickles punctuated her words with a nod of her head and a bob of her gray-blond curls.
My dampened mood perked up at the words broken and repair. Our marriage, my life, my psyche. They had so much defective in them, and I considered whether anything could be reconditioned, much like the ancient and rusty mountain bike Theo had placed by the curb this past summer. The only facet of my life that seemed mostly unchanged over the last couple of years was my relationship with Charlie, Delia, and Lexie.
For the most part, I put forth an extreme effort to be a decent mother, and I thought the kids were having an adequate childhood. But the words decent and adequate didn’t seem enough to give to my wonderful and deserving children, and lately, my parenting might not have been up to snuff.
I didn’t want my children to feel the way I did about my mother at times: she was selfish and self-centered and so out of touch with reality that conversations with her inflicted pain on me. Dreams of the future often occupied my thoughts, a time when, as adults, the children still called because they wanted to, not because they felt obligated to do so. But to cultivate those dreams, I needed to be more. The kids should have a fantastic mother and spectacular childhood, one full of laughter and memories and traditions they’d want to pass on to their children, and only I could make it happen. If only I could figure out how to do that. If only I could figure out a lot of things. Tears simmered behind my eyelids.
Pickles regarded me with a sparkle in her eye as she leaned in close, the smell of the cinnamon scone coming with her. “You’re not telling me something, young lady.”
Her comment surprised me in many ways, but the tears had probably tipped Pickles off to my situation. One bite of strawberry scone later, I decided to let her in. “Maybe, maybe not. But for one, I’ve just met you...”
“That’s true.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin and poured herself another cup of tea before offering me a refill. The chestnut brown liquid cascaded into the cup much like I wanted to spill myself over Andrew. Argh. Where in the hell did that thought come from? The calendar pinned to the wall became my focus, allowing me to turn away from her gaze.
“And two, I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” I said.
That phrase had always bothered me, and yet there I was, uttering it myself. In my experience, a person used those words when she wanted the other person to ask questions, to pry open the lid of whatever Pandora’s Box stood before her. They were to be said if I wanted to unload a burden but first had to probe the situation, to see if the other person would be receptive. Would Pickles change the subject and convince me she had no intention of listening, or would she offer to shoulder the burden and persuade me to open up? This wasn’t a game I was playing, and I owed my new acquaintance more than a thoughtless phrase, though I wasn’t sure why I felt that way.
“You’re right,” I started again. “I don’t know you...” The gears of my mind turned, and I cut my gaze toward her. “Sometimes, we don’t have to know one another to know one another, do we?”
Huh. The things that came to my mind when I didn’
t worry about what I was saying. Pickles and Andrew made me feel the same way: safe, comforted, content, and appreciated. She’d likely listen without judgment, and, if time allowed, become a best friend. Like I thought Andrew would do anything for me without question, provided it was within the confines of the law and didn’t hurt anyone. Two different people, two different situations. Perhaps Pickles could help me with my issue with Andrew. Kate’s words echoed in my ears: Rewrite the stars, Sadie. You can shape that narrative.
The first draft was finished. Now, I needed to tackle the revision.
“Can I be frank with you?” In that moment, the dialogue as written on a page sprang to mind, as if someone was reading a book in which I was the protagonist. Of course, it wasn’t a romance novel, but something else more literary, something strewn with drama, joy, heartache, and humor. The ending hadn’t been written yet, and I was picking up more characters along the way, one of them named Pickles. And why was she there? For a good laugh? Or a good lesson? It was time to find out.
“Of course, you can,” Pickles said and sat back against her chair, as if she was ready to be in for a long haul.
Was she right? Could I unpack my life’s baggage like I had the luggage in the cottage on Shoreview Drive? And should I? Before I spoke, I took in the little bits of Pickles’ life that had been strewn here and there in the break room. Newspaper clippings and butterfly stickers clung to the walls, along with pictures drawn by children, and a paper vase full of dried wildflowers, probably something she’d picked in the late summer. The room burst with simplicity and happiness, two things I wanted so much to grab onto.
“I guess I’m having a tough time right now. With my life in general. I’m not sure who I am anymore, although that’s not the case at work. Percoletti-Winn is about the only place that seems to be drama-free right now.” I peeked at my new friend, afraid of what I might see in her face as she focused on me over her teacup.
“It seems that way,” Pickles said. “Something in your body language spoke to me of being needy for something you aren’t getting. Is that right?”
Pickles Martin possessed an uncanny amount of perceptiveness. Of course, her statement could be interpreted in many ways, and I’d just admitted to a discordant life. But perhaps she was more observant than the rest of the population....
The glint of the fluorescent light off my watch reminded me I didn’t want to be late getting back home. Needing only a few minutes to walk back, I allowed myself a bit more time with Pickles, but any more purging of my soul wouldn’t happen today.
“That’s about right. Amazingly right. You’re a discerning woman.” I wondered about how to phrase my next sentence, not wanting to offend her or imply I was running away. “I’d love to fill you in, really, but I do need to get home. I told my family I’d be home by noon, and I don’t want to disappoint them. This is supposed to be a vacation. A family vacation. I might have an odd—dysfunctional, even—family, but I do need to get back to them.” That was as close as I’d get to telling her of all my thoughts and problems today.
“I understand. We can finish up another time, if you’d like. Most days, I’m here, unless my knees start to hurt too much, which is happening more and more the older I get. Then I call in the sub and sit at home, wondering what all my library friends are doing. But with the weather being as nice as it has been, I’ll try to get here as much as possible.”
It took but a few moments to collect my wrinkled napkin, plate, and teacup and place them near the sink, all the while marveling at the sound of Pickles’ voice as she spoke about her life in her cottage next to the lake. A dream world that wasn’t mine enthralled me, but I soon snapped myself back to reality.
“Would you like me to do the dishes before I go? I certainly don’t mind—there are so few, it won’t take long.” I helped clear Pickles’ place as well and then turned to find a dish rag in the drawer of the cabinet.
“Another person that doesn’t mind doing dishes, huh?” Pickles moved to scoot her chair away from the table. “I never liked doing them myself, but my son, oh, he loved the dishes from the time he was a little boy. He’d play with the bubbles and get as much water on himself as he did on the dishes. So many times, I’d sit back with a cup of coffee or tea and watch him scrub those dishes clean. Twice in one day on days the weather was awful. His hands were small but somehow, he’d get those dishes cleaner than our brand-new dishwasher did.” Pickles focused elsewhere and then broke into a huge smile. “Andrew. Such a fine boy. I wish I saw him more often. I really do.”
Dizziness and heat engulfed me, wrapping my entire skin in an uncomfortable sleeve. I looked at Pickles square in the eye.
“Andrew? You said your son’s name is Andrew?” Inside my chest, my heart hurtled, and I placed my teacup, still dirty, into the sink where it would be safe from my agitated body.
“Yes, that’s right.” Pickles nodded her head with a quizzical look on her face.
“Andrew Martin, right? You said your last name is Martin?” If Martin was her son’s last name, I’d be okay. The sink felt cold and sleek against my hands as I gripped the side, trying to stop the shaking that had spread through them.
“Well no, Martin was Henry’s, my second husband’s name. MacKinnon was the last name of my first husband. So Andrew’s last name is MacKinnon. Andrew MacKinnon.”
The last thing I remember was feeling the loss of blood from my face and a tingling in my extremities.
Chapter 23: Sadie
Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, every muscle in my body tense, I questioned if something more sinister than emotion lay at the root of my fainting episode. Was something wrong with my health, and did I have something to worry about? Jackie would be in a meeting, so I called Kate to help talk me down. She might appreciate a phone call anyway, considering the last two times we’d spoken had ended less than favorably.
“Yes, you heard me right, Kate,” I whispered into the phone. “I fainted while having tea and scones at the library with a little old lady named Pickles Martin. I even have a tidy little bump on my head to prove it. At least I didn’t have to go to the ER.”
“Pickles Martin?” Kate scoffed.
“Yes.”
“Pickles?”
“Right? If she’d been a boy, it would have been Dill.”
Kate’s raucous laughter erupted on the other end of the phone. “Wow. Who knew tea and scones held so much danger?”
“Indeed.” I arranged the coverlet around my legs, tucking the ends underneath my thighs in an attempt at some form of control, albeit a weak one.
“Well what happened? Haven’t you been eating? You aren’t pregnant, are you?” Kate asked in a conspiratorial voice.
“Watch your tongue, young lady. No, I most certainly am not. I’m not sure what happened. Am I worried? A little? Who faints like that? And if something is wrong with both me and Theo, the kids will need—”
“Wait. Back up, friend. Nothing is going to happen to you right now. You’re young and healthy. Tell me the details.”
So, I did. The entire story spilled forth, a few details repeated from past conversation, others news to her. From spending time with Andrew at Jackie’s to running into him at the office and all over Kettering to his words about things not being right at this moment to my running away from him, hoping to find myself and figure out my future.
“That’s crazy—a woman you just met is the mother of Andrew, your Grocery Store Man!” Kate said, restating what I’d told her. Did she think she had misheard me?
“Yes, apparently so.”
“How random, right?”
“Yeah, but you know how it is sometimes.” Despite no one being in the room with me, my level of discomfort rose. Mos
t of the incriminating words were now on Kate’s end, but I had no intention of revealing myself to Theo this way, in an overheard, hushed conversation. Theo deserved more, no matter how I felt about him.
“What are you going to do about this?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, I’d like to see where this thing with Andrew might take me, but—”
“But what?”
“Even he admitted things aren’t good right now. I didn’t let him explain, but I’m pretty sure he means I need to get my act together. Choose to let Theo go, so we can move forward. How can I start a relationship with Andrew if I have another man living at my house?”
“A relationship? You’ve already started that with Andrew.”
“True. But you know what I mean.”
“I do. And I can’t say I have any words of wisdom for you right now. If you like him, then you need to talk to Theo, to get past this, this, uncertainty you’re living in. He’s not being fair to you, but have you asked yourself what he’s doing? You might be finished with him, but is he finished with you?”
Kate’s words ricocheted in my ear. I sniffled into the receiver, willing the tears to remain behind my lids. Kate tried to make amends on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry, Sadie, but I’ve been thinking...”
I grabbed a tissue and huffed a few incoherent words before mumbling goodbye and effectively hanging up on my friend. The phone rang—it had to be her—but I let the call go to voicemail. When I was more put together, I’d call her back.
A bone-weary fatigue forced me to lean back against the feather pillow, and the ceiling fan caught my eye again. The rotation of the blades, as always, calmed me, almost like a mobile did to a baby. In seconds, my breathing evened out, and I wiped away the last of the tears with my wrist. But just because the evidence was gone from my face did not mean I had wiped everything away from my heart.
Rewrite the Stars Page 16