by Nancy Moser
When had “Mommy” changed to “Mother”?
At the question, the image of her father’s face intruded. A stern face. A proper face with his eyebrows drooped toward a center point marked by a deep vertical line. Eyes that could change from disapproving to plaintive in a single moment.
Vanessa couldn’t remember when the laughter had started to fade, but snippets of harsh words and slammed doors populated the time between Go Fish and her mother’s going away.
Being sent away.
She clutched the napkins to her chest. A huge lie. How many other lies had she clung to as truth? Daddy’s version of truth?
She noticed a cross-stitched sampler on the wall: Bless This House.
She nodded and gathered some plates for the kitchen.
Amen to that.
Saying good-bye at the door, Lewis kissed Vanessa’s cheek. “Why don’t you come to church with your mother on Sunday? We’ll save you a place. It starts at ten-thirty.”
She imagined herself sitting next to him in a pew, his hand straying to the space between them, taking hold of hers… It was a pleasant image. But a bold one considering the white-black thing. “I’ll think about it.”
“’Night then.” He left with a wave and one more killer smile. When Vanessa turned around to make her own goodbyes to her mother, she found her in Harry’s arms. Kissing.
When Mother opened her eyes and saw Vanessa looking, she blushed and pushed him away. “See you tomorrow, Harry.”
He kissed her once more on the cheek and pointed a finger at Vanessa. “You come back soon. We demand a rematch.”
She nodded, but her mind was not on cards. She hung back so he would leave first. Her mother stood by the opened door, waiting for her to go, but Vanessa closed it.
“You’re seeing him?”
“Harry?”
“Yes, Harry. The man who had you lip-to-lip.”
She smiled. “He’s a great kisser.”
“Mother!”
She put her hands on her hips. “Why are you objecting? I thought you liked him.”
“I do. But I didn’t know he was your… what is he to you?”
Her grin was like a schoolgirl’s. “Actually, dear daughter, he’s my fiancé. We’re getting married July Fourth. We figured it was a good way to celebrate the Bicentennial. The country doesn’t know it, but all the fireworks will be for us.”
“But… but Daddy didn’t remarry!” Lame. Very lame.
Her mother placed both hands on Vanessa’s shoulders, looking her straight in the eyes. “Your father and I have been divorced nearly five years. I am way beyond the age of consent. And in spite of what you may think, I’m a relatively young woman. Do you actually want me to be alone for the rest of my life?”
Vanessa knew her feelings were petty, but they came out anyway. “Daddy doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”
At this, Mother dropped her arms, gave a bitter laugh, and led Vanessa to the couch. “I really don’t like taking on the position of bubble-burster, but here goes another one.” She fueled herself with a deep breath. “Your father has always had girlfriends, even when it wasn’t proper for him to have girlfriends—if you get my drift.”
Vanessa scanned her memories for evidence. “I’ve never seen—”
“He’s always been discreet, I will give him that.”
“But if he had, has girlfriends… now that he’s single, why doesn’t he bring them around?”
“Ask him. I stopped trying to figure out the psyche of Yardley Pruitt a long time ago.”
Vanessa’s mind zeroed in on a cruise her father had taken last year. She’d asked to go along, but he’d told her she couldn’t, telling her it was a business trip.
Mother stroked Vanessa’s hair. “It’s late. You’ve had a lot sprung on you the last two days. Why don’t you stay here tonight?” She patted the couch cushion.
Why not?
Vanessa let her mother take care of her.
Dawson—1987
Lane grabbed a lukewarm Pop-Tart along with her jacket and hugged Grandma Nellie from behind. “Am I forgiven?”
Grandma patted her arm. “It’s your life, chickie. Far be it for me to tell you how to live it.”
Lane’s mother laughed. “Far be it.” She poured a cup of coffee before heading off for her shift at the soybean plant. The pungent smell of the processed beans was always present—on her person and in the town.
“Maybe I should just keep quiet. Is that what you all want?”
Lane whispered in Grandma’s ear, “Never.” She kissed her cheek and gathered her things for school. She purposely didn’t tell them she was trying out for the school play today. Let it be a surprise when she told them she was Juliet.
Toby honked out front. “I’ll be late coming home. I have something after—” Her backpack was upstairs. “Oops. Forgot something.”
She ran and got it, but as she was on the landing coming back down she heard her mother say, “…seems to have recovered well.”
“It’ll hit her,” Grandma said. “One of these days she’ll realize she passed up the chance of a lifetime, and we’ll have to scrape her up off the floor.”
The air went out of her. But then Toby honked a second time.
She ran to him.
Lane pushed her lunch tray toward Toby so he could finish her goulash. “So you don’t object to me trying out?”
He shrugged. “I’m not going to be the one to hold you back.”
“But…?” There were things unsaid.
He draped his arm over her shoulder and leaned his head against hers. “Those plays take a ton of time. Time we could spend together.” He tried to feed her a bite of garlic bread. She pushed it away, so he ate it himself. “Of course, if you don’t want to spend time with me…”
She scoped for a teacher and seeing none, kissed him on the lips. “Of course I do.”
“Then it’s a no-brainer.” He stood, taking his tray. “Gotta get to gym. See ya in history.”
Yeah. See ya.
She pulled her tray back and nibbled on the leftovers. Why did he have to pull the guilt trip on her? Yet she’d expected as much. Which is why she hadn’t told him her intentions until lunch. If only she hadn’t told him at all, just tried out, gotten the part, and then told him.
“Hi, Lane.” Melissa Peterson sat beside her, her shirt slanted off the shoulder like Jennifer Beals’ in Flashdance. That was the only similarity.
Lane would rather have sat next to Freddie Krueger. She concentrated on what was left of her lunch.
“Fine,” Melissa said. “Don’t talk to me. That’s just like you, you know. Being a stuck-up snob, thinking you’re too good for Dawson.” She laughed. “As if you could ever make it in Hollywood.”
Lane stood. “I don’t need this.”
Melissa grabbed her sleeve, pulling her back down. “And we don’t need you—especially not at the auditions.”
“Who’s we?”
Melissa swept a hand around the lunchroom. “You see anybody who isn’t turned off by your better-than attitude? Acting like we’re nothing. Like our plays are nothing.”
“I never—”
She stood to leave. “My advice to you? Don’t try out after school. Let the rest of us who love Dawson get the parts. Frankly, Lane, you’re not that good.”
She was gone before Lane could even think of a comeback.
Lane noticed the girls at the next table talking behind their hands, looking at her.
She got up, taking her tray—
Dropping her tray.
Laughter all around.
It was not a good day.
After school, Lane slammed her locker shut.
“Well?” Toby said. “What’ll it be?
Me or Romeo?”
She shrugged. She still wasn’t sure what to do.
He walked his fingers up her arm. “I’m real. He’s not.”
Good point.
Lane spotted Melissa Peterson walking by with two other girls. They looked at her, Melissa said something under her breath, and they all giggled. She waited for Toby to come to her defense—yell at Melissa and tell her to back off.
But he didn’t. “Surely you don’t want to spend the next six weeks with her,” he said. “Not when you could spend it with me.” He pulled her close for a kiss.
The vice principal cleared his throat as he passed by. They separated. Toby took her hand. “Come on. Come with me. I have a surprise for you.”
Lane looked down the hall toward the drama room.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he said.
Why not? She was tired of thinking about it. She let him lead her toward the door.
“How much farther?” Lane asked.
“Not much. Keep your eyes closed.” He had his hands on her waist, pushing her. The ground was uneven and she stumbled often, but he kept her safe.
Finally, he let her stop and positioned her just so. “Okay. Open your eyes.”
They were on the crest of a hill and could see for miles. The trees were still weeks away from budding and the ground was splotched with snow, but the view of open fields and groves of trees stirred her.
“It’s gorgeous.”
He pulled her back against him. “Just like you.”
“Where are we?”
“It’s my grandpa’s land.”
“I didn’t know your grandpa owned land.”
“Neither did I, until recently. I heard him and Dad talking about Grandpa’s retirement. He bought this land back in the fifties and has been holding on to it ever since.”
“What for? Farming’s bad now.” We had to sell our land.
She felt him shrug. “‘Maybe nothing, maybe something’ was what I heard him tell Dad.”
“Is he going to sell it?”
He hugged her tighter still. His voice was soft. “Maybe.”
Volumes were said with that one word. She turned her face, trying to see his.
He smiled. “I talked to Grandpa about it. About selling it. Or part of it.”
She turned all the way around. She didn’t want to presume, but she desperately wanted him to say…
“It could be our land, Lane. Yours and mine together. We could build a house here.”
She squealed and wrapped her arms around his neck, surprised by her own enthusiasm. She’d never thought much about having a house, having a home. Just the usual teenage thoughts. But to actually be here and see the view that her house—their house… It changed everything.
He took her hands. Then he got down on one knee. “Lane Holloway, will you marry me?”
How could she say no?
She didn’t.
Lane and Toby sat in his car in front of her house. She pulled away from him. “I need to go in.”
His eyes narrowed as he snuggled into her neck. “But we’re engaged. Let’s celebrate. Really celebrate.”
Before she was forced to think of another excuse, the porch light blinked on, then off. “The porch light…”
He glanced up, then returned to her neck, pulling aside the edge of her shirt. “So?”
She found the door handle and opened it. “I’d better go.” She got out.
He reached, as if to pull her back, but she was on the grass. “Laney!”
“The porch light. I gotta go.”
“But we’re engaged. Can’t they cut us some slack?”
She leaned down to look at him. “But they don’t know we’re engaged.”
“Then—”
She blew him a kiss and shut the door. “See you tomorrow.” She ran up the front walk and inside—where Grandma waited.
“It’s late.”
Lane pushed the door shut until it clicked. “I know.”
“You spend way too much time with that boy and I—”
Lane slipped past her and took the stairs two at a time. “I have homework. ‘Night, Grandma.”
She didn’t feel safe until she was behind the locked door of her room. Only when she found herself leaning her forehead against it did she realize her heart was pounding. It was as if she’d escaped from the boogeyman. What’s with that?
Suddenly, her strength evaporated. She turned around and let the door guide her to the floor. Tears followed, confusing her even more.
She was just tired. Everything would be all right in the morning.
It would.
The phone woke her. Lane’s arm got caught in the covers, so by the time she answered it, her father had, too. “Hello?” he said.
“Hello?” she said.
“Laney…” It was Brandy. She was crying.
Lane sat up. “Dad, I’ve got it. It’s Brandy.”
John Holloway’s voice gained strength. “Brandy? Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry to call so late, Mr. Holloway. I—”
They heard a crash in the background.
“You okay?” Lane asked.
“Can I come over? She’s drunk again.”
Lane’s dad took over. “Meet us outside. We’ll come get you.”
By the time Lane and her dad got back from collecting Brandy, Lane’s mom had made hot chocolate. Somehow at two in the morning her teal zip-up robe looked doubly bright against the white kitchen cabinets.
Dad helped Brandy off with her coat, hanging it on the back hall tree under his own. Protective. You can’t get to her unless you go through me.
“Would you like marshmallows, Brandy?”
She nodded and sat at the kitchen table, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands.
Lane sat across from her, with her father to her left. Her mother served steaming mugs, then took the remaining seat. They all blew across their drinks, taking sips.
Only then did Lane’s father say, “I thought she was getting better.”
“She was.”
“She needs to go to AA.”
Brandy shook her head. “She won’t.” She looked up from her cocoa, her smile bitter. “She’s got it under control. Can’t you tell?”
“Did she hit you?” he asked.
“No.” Brandy looked between them. “But she’s bought a gun. I saw it in her dresser. She says it’s for protection ’cause she works late at Moby’s.”
Lane’s mother shook her head. “A drunk serving drunks.” She slapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh. I’m sorry, Brandy.”
“It’s okay. It’s true. Actually, she doesn’t get drunk on the nights she works. It’s the other times…”
Lane’s dad reached over and patted her hand. “You stay here as long as you want.”
Brandy nodded, her eyes filling with fresh tears. “Thanks, Mr. Holloway. I appreciate it.”
Lane’s mother stood. “I’ll go put out some fresh towels in the bathroom.”
Sometimes Lane really loved her family.
Lane and Brandy lay in bed, looking at the ceiling. The shadows of branches played in the moonlight. “You going to be okay?” Lane asked.
Brandy nodded. “You realize how lucky you are, don’t you?”
She hadn’t thought about it much. “Sure.”
“Good. Because not everybody has what you have.” Brandy turned over on her side, snuggling deeper in the covers. “I’m glad you didn’t go to that audition. I don’t know what I’d do if you left Dawson.”
Bangor—1958
David was going crazy. Ever since the wedding-dress fiasco the day before, he’d left Millie alone, certain she’d call.
But she didn’t. And she wasn’t answering the phone either. That in itself was strange. Millie lived with her parents. Her mother didn’t work. Millie didn’t really work—except part-time at the hospital gift shop. There was always someone at the Reynolds’ home.
Dina knocked on the doorjamb of his office. “Excuse me, Mr. Stancowsky, but Mr. Reynolds wanted you to have these bids for the school estimate.”
He motioned her inside and she set a stack of subcontractor bids on his desk. She took a step to leave, then stopped. “Is everything all right?”
For some reason, he really saw her for the first time. Though she’d been working as his secretary a month, he hadn’t had time to take notice. Besides, the best secretaries were the ones who were invisible, there when you needed them, but otherwise, a part of the furniture. She wasn’t pretty like Millie, though she was pleasant looking. She wore her dishwater hair in a French roll, making her look older than she probably was. “How old are you, Miss Edmonds?”
She blushed. “Twenty-eight.”
“Hmm,” David said. “Same as me. So you’re married?”
She looked down. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“Why not?”
“I… I haven’t fallen in love.”
“Ah.”
“Ah?”
“You’re one of those romantic types,” he said.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she said, “I suppose I am.”
“Have you met my fiancée?”
“Yes, I have. She’s lovely. Her father has a picture of her on his desk.” Her eyes strayed to his desk, where there was no such picture.
“Thank you for the estimates, Miss Edmonds.”
David didn’t crave food when it was time for lunch—he craved information. He was stopped at an intersection a half a block from the Reynolds’ home when he spotted Millie hurrying to her car, her arms full of books and notebooks. She hesitated where the walk met the driveway and turned to say something to her mother, who stood at the door. So she had been home when he’d last called? He didn’t like the implication. And where was she going? He knew her schedule. Today was not one of her days to work at the hospital.