Looking for Me

by Beth Hoffman

  “When are you going to tell me where we’re having this mysterious breakfast?”

  His lips curved into a slight smile. “If I told you, Theodora, then it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.”

  As curious as I was, I didn’t press further. Mile after mile disappeared behind us, the street lamps glowing warm in the morning vapors. From somewhere off in the distance, I heard a foghorn sound on the Cooper River. Closing my eyes, I rested my head against Sam’s shoulder and listened to the hum of the tires. I might have fallen asleep if we hadn’t hit a pothole that made the car shudder. I sat up and looked out the windshield. Chain-link fencing surrounded low, windowless metal buildings, and to my right I saw a lone train engine sitting on a set of tracks.

  “Sam, this looks like some kind of industrial park. What are we doing here?”

  “Patience,” he said with a wink. Just as we drove over railroad tracks, he pointed and said, “Look at that big crane, Teddi.”

  It was still quite dark, and I had to squint to see what he was referring to, but there it was, looming in the fog like a huge praying mantis. Then I saw ships.

  “Where are we?”

  “This is the Charleston Naval Shipyard. You’ve never seen it?”

  I shook my head. “Are we having breakfast with an admiral?”

  Sam looked at me, his eyes bright with his secret. “Oh, no. Our breakfast will be much, much better.” A moment later his face clouded and he slowed the car. “I can’t believe I forgot to ask you this. Are you afraid of heights?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to wash windows on a skyscraper, but no, I’m not afraid of heights.”

  He let out a breath. “Good.”

  Sam turned left, and we passed a long line of eighteen-wheelers parked by the side of the road. Ahead of us was a yellow-and-white-striped barricade flanked by two construction barrels topped with flashing lights. While Sam came to a stop, a security guard got out of his car and turned on a flashlight. As he approached, Sam rolled down his window and took a piece of paper from behind the visor.

  The security guard leaned down and looked in the window. “You’ll have to turn around. Road’s closed till—”

  “I have clearance,” Sam said, handing him the paper.

  The guard shone his flashlight on the paper. “All right, just drive in to the lot and turn left. Park on the other side of the fence where the red barrels are.” He returned the paper to Sam’s waiting hand and stepped aside.

  When Sam pulled around the barricade, I tried to see what this place was. Off in the distance, a serpentine shape rose from a sea of concrete, and to my right a string of red and white lights flickered a few times and then stayed on. The faint smell of caramel wafted through Sam’s open window, and when he parked and we got out of the car, I heard the clang of metal on metal and then someone shouted, “Back it up! Whoa! That’s enough!”

  Sam lifted a small wicker basket from the trunk, took hold of my hand, and led me around a truck. In the blue-gray light, I realized that the serpentlike shape was a roller coaster.

  “Is this a carnival?”

  “Yes. It’s a weekend charity event for the Carolina Youth Center. My law office is one of the sponsors.”

  “So why are were here at the crack of dawn?”

  He said nothing as he hurried me around a teacup ride and up to a stoop-shouldered man who was adjusting a length of freestanding fencing. “Good morning. You must be Fred.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sam Poteet. And this is my . . . my girlfriend, Teddi Overman.”

  The word “girlfriend” made me smile.

  As the two men shook hands, Fred said, “Tested her last night and again this morning. She’s all ready to go.” He walked to a wooden platform, opened an electrical box, and flicked a switch. Colored lights flashed against the dark sky and outlined a big circle.

  I looked from Fred to Sam, stunned. It was a Ferris wheel.

  Fred unlocked a chain and stepped to the upper platform. “Hop on.”

  “C’mon, Teddi,” Sam said, pulling me forward.

  Fred held open a safety bar, and we sat on the bench seat, the wicker basket between us. With a metallic clang, Fred snapped the bar into place, gave it a tug to make certain it was secure, and said, “Off you go.”

  We set off backward, the gentle whoosh sending butterflies flapping in my stomach. As we rose high into the air, I burst out laughing. “I . . . I don’t know what to say!”

  Sam looked enormously pleased with himself as the Ferris wheel made one full rotation and then another and another. Then, just as we neared the top, the wheel slowed and we came to a stop at the highest point.

  “Time for breakfast,” Sam said, opening the basket. Inside were napkins, a foil-wrapped package, and two thermoses. “Heavy cream and a pound of sugar for the lady.” He unscrewed the cap of the first thermos, filled it with steamy coffee, and handed it to me. Incredulous at where we were, at everything, I started to laugh. And I laughed even harder when Sam opened the foil package that contained breakfast pastries and said, “You pick first.”

  “It’s a good thing heights don’t make me queasy,” I said, selecting a cinnamon twist.

  Sam picked a cherry turnover and bit into it with enthusiasm. “Well, if we were kids, we’d be eating cotton candy and corn dogs.”

  And there we sat, suspended in the air, with pastries and coffee. Everything about the morning was so unexpected that I kept giggling. “How in the world did this come about?”

  “One day I read an article in the newspaper about a seven-year-old boy who was rescued from living in the streets by a youth-center employee. That story really hit me. If Everett and Tula Jane hadn’t taken me in, that could have been me. So anyway, I’ve been a donor ever since.”

  “Did your law firm arrange for this carnival?”

  He took a sip of coffee and shook his head. “No. A buddy of mine got this location. His dad’s a retired navy captain. I came out here with him on Thursday when the carnies were starting to set up, and that’s when I got the idea—”

  Sam abruptly stopped talking and stretched his arm on the seat behind me. He pushed aside my ponytail and slipped his fingers along the collar of my blouse. With his eyes set on the trees, he smiled and said, “This is why I brought you here. Look, Teddi.”

  Though I followed his gaze, I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the ships outlined against the sky, the cranes that loomed over the shipyard, or something else. I was about to ask when he slid his hand along my shoulder and gave me a gentle squeeze. “Watch. Here it comes.”

  The flat bluish gray of the sky began to pull apart, and above the trees there came a soft glow—pale violet and lightly feathered at first, then turning deep pink as it raced along the horizon. Within a few minutes, the pink gave way to a brilliant orange that set the clouds afire in luminous shades of gold. And then, pushing a stray cloud away from its face, the sun peeked above the treetops.

  It was a glorious moment—not only for the palette of colors that nature had painted across the sky but because Sam had thought to do such a thing. Slowly he turned and looked at me, his eyes searching my face. “I thought this would be one helluva way to see our first sunrise together.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  I stood in Olivia’s kitchen and looked around. Gone were the gumball machines, the dusty hand puppets, the Felix the Cat wall clock, and the tons of glass decanters she’d collected over the years. The walls had been freshly painted the color of lemon custard, the woodwork was white, and the old pine floor had been polished to a warm glow.

  But Olivia looked bewildered. “I made a mistake by painting the walls yellow. It’s too happy, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, the color is really soft. Maybe you’re just in shock at how different it is from those old blue walls. Once we get the artwork hung, I think you’ll love it.”
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  “I hope you’re right. If I have to repaint these walls, I’ll scream.”

  “So what made you decide to do all this?” I asked while adjusting the ladder. “I can’t believe that you didn’t tell me about it.”

  “Last Thursday morning I came downstairs to make coffee and it hit me like a slap in the face. My house looked like hell—like a crazy person lived here. Before my toast popped up, I had already started to clear things out of the kitchen. I didn’t tell you about it because, well . . . I felt a little embarrassed.” Olivia raised her eyebrows and looked at me. “I really let things get out of control after Eric left, didn’t I?”

  I gave her a wink. “Maybe a little. Well, okay—a lot.”

  “Why didn’t you say something, Teddi?”

  “It wasn’t for me to judge. Our friendship isn’t based on what you have in your house. I knew you were having a rough time and figured you were trying to fill up your empty heart. Instead of using food, you used gumball machines and puppets,” I added with a slight laugh.

  “Yeah. What man wants to sit in a kitchen and have coffee with sixty sets of glass eyes staring at him?” Olivia scanned the bare walls and chewed her lip. “Now that I’ve got a clean slate, I’m not sure what would look good.”

  “No problem,” I said, selecting a small oil painting of an apple orchard. “I’ll start with this. And that Chagall print would look wonderful on the wall by your table.”

  Olivia smiled. “I already feel better just having you here. I made egg salad, and since you’re helping me when you could be doing something a whole lot more fun on a Sunday afternoon, I made a loaf of cracked-wheat bread, too.”

  “Great. Let’s get these hung. I’m really hungry.”

  While Olivia stood at her kitchen counter and opened a package of picture hooks, I grabbed a tape measure and a pencil. We jabbered about her most recent restoration project, a first edition of Stuart Little that had survived a house fire but was covered in soot, and we laughed when she confessed how, just the night before, she had unashamedly gone through her neighbors’ garbage when she saw they’d thrown out two boxes of books.

  But when I told her about my Ferris-wheel adventure with Sam, Olivia’s smile faded. She picked up a rag and began cleaning the frame of a photograph. Her voice was barely audible when she said, “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  After pounding a hook into the wall, I stepped off the ladder and set the hammer on the counter. “Olivia, are you upset?”

  “No,” she said, avoiding my eyes as she polished the glass. “If ever I’ve known someone who deserves happiness—it’s you. ‘Upset’ isn’t the right word for what I’m feeling. It’s incredibly childish and small of me, but I’m envious. You met a nice guy when you weren’t even looking. And then there’s me—Olivia ‘The Pathetic Loser’ Dupree.”

  “Stop it. You are not pathetic.”

  “Well,” she said with a small shrug, “I’m just being honest. That’s how I feel. When Eric left me, I thought I’d die. Then, when I finally accepted that he really was gay and there was no hope for us, I thought my life would open up—brand-new start and all that happy self-help bullshit. But it’s like everything went retrograde and stayed that way. While I was painting the kitchen, I started thinking that maybe it’s time I called a dating service. And then—”

  She stopped talking and heaved a long sigh. “Honest to God, I don’t know why you put up with me, Teddi. I am so sorry. Seems like all I do is bitch about my life. I shouldn’t have hijacked the conversation about Sam with my ridiculous self-pity.” She did her best to smile as she handed me the photograph. “So tell me more about him.”

  I set the framed photo next to the ladder and said, “Look, I was going to talk to you about this while we were having lunch, but I might as well say it now. Remember the plumber?”

  “You mean the one who had his stories published?”

  “Yes.”

  She held up her hand and avoided my eyes. “Please don’t give me another lecture about how I screwed that up. I know I’ve made a mess of my life.”

  “Hey, I’m not going to give you a lecture. What I’m trying to tell you is that he’s no longer dating Carla Fry. I ran into her at the grocery, and when I asked what was new, she said they broke up last month.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “Boo-hoo for Carla.”

  “Wow, you sure are snarky today. Anyway, I’m telling you this so you can call him. The timing is perfect.”

  Olivia gave me a sour look and began cleaning a painting. “Call him? No way. What would I say? Hey, sorry I blew you off when you asked me for a date, but I’ve spent the past year going through the Judgmental Bitch twelve-step program and now I’m—”

  “Oh, for the love of Pete! Just call and make an appointment for him to look at a water problem you’re having. Then you can strike up a conversation about his book.”

  “Forget it,” she huffed, tossing the rag into the sink. “I’m not calling him. I refuse to grovel.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “Excuse me? Who said anything about groveling? While he’s looking at your plumbing problem, just casually bring up his short-story collection. I’ll bet anything the two of you will be talking about books within minutes.”

  “I don’t have a plumbing problem, and I’m not going to pretend that I do. Let it go, Teddi. It wasn’t meant to be.”

  I don’t know what got into me, but before I even thought it through, I picked up the hammer. With all my might, I smashed it against the side of Olivia’s faucet. Her mouth flew open in shock when a geyser of water shot up and slapped her in the face.

  Grabbing a dish towel, I tried to seal the break while Olivia screamed a string of expletives and threw open the cupboard door beneath the sink. She was still swearing a blue streak as she cranked the shutoff valve. Though it took her only a few seconds to get the valve tightened, there was water everywhere.

  When I looked at Olivia sitting on the floor in a pool of water, I started laughing hysterically. “There,” I said with a snort. “Now you have a plumbing problem!”

  It was just two days after I wrecked Olivia’s faucet that all communication from Sam came to a halt. At first I thought it was because of his heavy work schedule, but when I hadn’t heard from him by Wednesday, I started to worry. Since we’d begun dating, Sam and I had fallen into a comfortable schedule: He usually called me every day or two, we had dinner at least once during the week, and we hadn’t missed spending a single Friday or Saturday night together.

  When I hadn’t heard from him by Thursday afternoon, I called his office, only to be told by the receptionist that he wasn’t in and she didn’t know when to expect him. I left no message. On Friday I sat at my desk and stared at the phone, willing Sam to call, but he didn’t. And when I got home from work, I went straight to my answering machine, but there was no message from Sam.

  I arrived at work on Saturday morning feeling so low I could barely force myself to talk with customers, let alone feign some semblance of interest. Every time the phone rang, I sprinted to answer it, but none of the calls were from Sam. When he hadn’t phoned by the time I closed the shop, I walked home with crazy scenarios banging around in my head. Was this his way of cooling things off? Had he met someone else, or had something happened?

  Eddie greeted me at the door with a tennis ball in his mouth, his tail wagging so hard it slapped against his flanks. “What do you think?” I asked when we went outside to the garden. “Is Sam done with us?” I flopped onto the chaise, and my faithful pup jumped up and lay by my side as if to say, We have each other, so what’s the big deal?

  But it was a big deal.

  Though I tried to stay busy and not let my imagination take me on a dangerous journey, the evening dragged. By seven o’clock I was certain that Sam was out on a date with a younger woman who was far more interesting than I
could ever be. When the hands of the clock reached seven forty-five, I curled up on the living-room sofa and stared out the window. My thoughts spun back to the first time I’d met Sam in person, and then, one by one, I relived each encounter we’d had over the course of our eight-week relationship. Even in hindsight I could detect nothing in his manner or his words to indicate that things were going in any direction but forward.

  As the sky deepened, I remembered something I’d thought about only once or twice in the past twenty years. In light of what I was going through, it was more profound than I could have imagined.

  AUTUMN 1970

  A school dance was scheduled for Friday night. Excitement had been building all week, and I was aflutter with anticipation that David Tyler would ask me to be his date. In a rare moment of mother-daughter sharing, I told Mama about David, how he teased me and pulled my ponytail whenever he passed me in the hall.

  I waited and waited for him to ask me to the dance, but he never did. When I arrived home from school on Friday, I ran straight to my bedroom and curled up on my bed with my annihilated ego. Mama came upstairs to see what was wrong, and when I told her what had happened, she nodded and quietly left the room.

  A little while later, she knocked on my door and peered in. “I made you something.” She walked in and put a chocolate milk shake on my night chest and sat down on the bed. “Teddi,” she said, resting her hand on my thigh, “don’t let this bring you down, or the entire weekend will be ruined.”

  “My weekend is ruined.”

  Mama put her hand beneath my chin and leaned close. “If you allow things like this to ruin your day, pretty soon you’ll wake up and your life will be nothing but an endless string of ruined days that stretch as far back as you can remember.”

  She turned toward the window, her profile soft and blurred in the afternoon light. “Believe me, if you let disappointments take you too far, you’ll end up getting lost. You’ll never find your way out of it.”