Time Stamps

by K. L. Kreig

  So, driving the Songbird off the lot made me incredibly jumpy. What if I scratched her? Backed her into something? Ran her off the road? It took me a few miles to get my legs underneath me, remembering turning radius rules, trusting my mirrors, and the tricks of merging into traffic. I was careful with her…maybe overly so. It took me ninety minutes to drive twenty-eight miles. This could be a long trip.

  “Roth, what is this?”

  “It’s a motor home, my love.”

  “I know that.” She walks down the two front steps to come stand beside me, never taking her eyes from the Songbird. “What I don’t know is why it’s here, parked in front of our house.”

  My father’s awed voice belts from behind me, “Holy Lamb of God, would you look at that.” He whistles long and low, obviously impressed.

  “Roth,” Laurel says. I don’t like the way she drags out my name, like it’s stuck in mud. “What have you done?”

  I pivot directly in front of her. She blinks a few times before she focuses on me. “I didn’t buy it,” I tell her.

  She does that cute laugh-snort thing she hates but I think is endearing. “Well, I’d certainly hope not. What is it doing here?”

  “It’s our home away from home for as long as we’re away from home.”

  “Roth.”

  “Laurel.” I match her censure.

  “I didn’t agree.”

  “You didn’t disagree.” I move behind her and grip her shoulders, whispering in her ear, “Just go inside and look at her before you make up your mind.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes, love. Her. All vehicles are female.”

  “Is that so?” She rests her head on my shoulder, so I wrap my arms around her and pull her closer. She seems thinner today. More fragile. Her rib bones poke my forearms. And it’s in this moment I wonder who I’m truly doing this for…her or me?

  I don’t want the answer.

  “That is so,” I say quietly. I press my lips to her neck and breathe in her scent. Today she smells like vanilla, but there is also a distinct, faint chemical tinge that I’m not sure is disease or lingering chemo. Or maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s just my overactive imagination. Either way, I feel a renewed sense of urgency to get the hell out of here, as if by leaving Nashville behind we can leave our new stark reality behind too. “Do you want to go inside?”

  “I do,” my father answers, pushing past us. My mother is on his heels. She looks over her shoulder at us, eyes alight, clearly caught up in the moment. He whistles again when he opens the door, and I can even hear my mother gasp from here. Pretty sure I made the same noise when I walked inside.

  “I can take it back if you want,” I offer, only half-heartedly meaning it. “I wanted to give you something you’ve always dreamed of, Laurel, but if you don’t think you’re up to it, I understand. I don’t want to push you. We don’t have to go, and it will be okay, I promise.”

  Laurel is quiet for what feels as long as an eternity. Occasionally, one of my parents’ stupefied comments floats out from the motor home. “There are four TVs in here.” “Can you believe how soft this leather is?” “This kitchen is to die for.” But when my mother shrieks, I can tell they’ve reached the bathroom. It is very impressive.

  “Where did you get this?” Laurel asks, nearly resigned.

  I knew this question would come up and Laurel would be quite upset if she knew I’d planned to quit, so I decided to keep the story as high level as possible. “Pat Anderson.”

  “Pat?” She shifts in my arms to face me. “How? Why?”

  “He offered.” This is true, but I don’t serve up the rest of the story.

  “It’s his personal camper?”

  “Motor home,” I teasingly correct. “It’s a motor home, Laurel. Or a recreational vehicle, or even a motor coach. It is not a camper.”

  “Mo—tor—home,” she mocks, swinging her head back and forth with each exaggerated syllable.

  “Funny girl.” I poke a finger into each side of her waist where she’s ticklish. She squees and jumps a foot off the ground.

  It’s moments like these, little things like a sweet giggle or a quick-witted comeback, that I will miss the most by far. Time stamps, my father calls them. And there are so many of them. So many. How do you begin to pack them all away so you can pick them out when you need them? It’s an impossible, daunting task.

  “Yes, it’s Pat’s personal motor home,” I tell her, giving a quick kiss to her forehead.

  “And the Jeep hitched to the back?”

  Yeah. He forgot to tell me the Songbird also came complete with our own toad.

  “We need a way to get around when we’re parked.”

  “And he doesn’t mind?”

  A breeze kicks up and catches the edges of Laurel’s cotton dress, dragging it upward as if in a vacuum. She secures it in the nick of time, bunching the fabric to tighten it around her knees. Too bad. I was hoping for a Marilyn Monroe moment.

  “He insisted, actually.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “It surely was.”

  “Don’t you have to work, Roth?”

  “I’m taking a leave absence, Laurel.” Not exactly the truth, but not a lie, either.

  “For how long?” she asks.

  I don’t respond. She knows the answer to that.

  She gnaws on the inside of her cheek, a habit she has when her wheels are turning. I practically see them whirling, making her beautiful brown eyes murky. “Where would we go?”

  I have some very specific goals to accomplish with this trip, so while I’ll make subtle suggestions, ultimately, it’s up to her and I’ll have to work in my surprises along the way.

  “Wherever you want, Laurel.”

  She rises on her tiptoes and mashes her lips to mine, and I hold on to her like she’s a life raft in the middle of the Pacific. She gently cups my cheeks, blinks her eyes open, and I drown in her anyway. She faces the Songbird once again, taking two steps toward it.

  “It is beautiful.”

  “She’s more beautiful inside.”

  My mother darts her head out of the Songbird’s door. “Laurel, dear, you simply must come look at this. It’s incredible.” That draws Laurel in and the second she steps foot into the “camper” she is done for.

  The next day, with our agenda roughly mapped out and emergency plans in place, I throw on our road trip playlist, and we head out, bopping our heads and singing along with The Proclaimers at the top of our lungs.

  And with that full-on grin splitting her face in two, I can almost forget it will be our last road trip together.

  Almost.

  16

  Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)

  Laurel

  Six Years Earlier

  December 10, 2:49 p.m.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “Stop it,” I shush Carmen, wiping a mascara smudge from underneath her left eye. I step back and let my gaze fall down the length of her.

  Her hair is coifed perfectly atop her head, each curled strand that shapes her face intentionally placed. Her cheeks sparkle, as do the diamond studs in her earlobes. The gold beaded gown she selected conforms to every curve on her body, hugging her like a gentle lover.

  I draw in a sharp breath.

  She is stunning.

  Manny will bawl his eyes out. I have twenty bucks on the line that says so.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks in a panic, turning back to the mirror. She skims her hands from her breasts to her torso and sucks in her waist. Her thumbs almost touch when she spans it.

  “Nothing.” I wipe a drop of moisture away from the corner of my eye.

  “I look fat, don’t I?”

  “What?” I ask incredulously. If she’s fat, then I’m the Goodyear blimp’s first cousin. “No. You are not fat.”

  “Look at me. I’m bloated. My boobs are giant.” Her hands are like suction cups on them, lifting them up and down. T
hey are plump, but I think they are rather perfect on her. She obviously disagrees. “Ima…Ima…I’m a horse.”

  “A horse? Carmen—”

  “I can’t wear this. What was I thinking?”

  Her hands fly to the back of her neck. She starts to unzip the most beautiful wedding dress in the history of wedding dresses.

  “Carmen, stop.” I grip her fingers with mine. She bats me away.

  “Tell everyone the wedding is off.”

  “What? No.”

  “Yes. I can’t do this.”

  A few more teeth separate.

  “You can. You are. You are marrying him.”

  “No, I can’t—”

  “Yes. You. Can!”

  I go at her again. We fumble and fight and end up on a nearby couch in a thrash of arms and hands and fingers. I grip her shoulders and push them into the cushions. Hard. Her hair is now a mess. She has to walk down the aisle in three minutes.

  “Get. Your. Shit. Together,” I hiss. My chest heaves. My knuckles are white.

  Carmen’s eyes round. Her nostrils flare. She pulls in a long breath. “You swore,” she declares in shock.

  “What?” I don’t swear.

  I push myself up. This woman is marrying a man who raises her up on a pedestal and she’s about to screw it all to heck because…because…because I don’t know why. “What in the hell is the matter with you?”

  “You swore again. Twice, in like…twenty seconds.”

  “Well, you…you…” I shake my head clear and pinch my fingers into her flesh until they scream. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you. Why are you acting so…insane? You love Manny. He loves you. You are meant to be. What’s the matter? Isn’t his credit score high enough yet?”

  Her body deflates beneath my verbal punch. She shifts her eyes away. I’m a crappy friend.

  “It’s seven hundred and fifty-two,” she mutters under her breath.

  “Good gravy,” I say. I heave my leg back to the floor, hearing the distinctive parting of fabric. Lovely. “Then what is it?”

  “What if I’m not enough?” Her chest rises and falls in rapid succession. Worry sinks into her forehead. It pulls down the corners of her crimson lips, creating frown lines.

  This is not like Carmen.

  She’s poised and confident and as hard as titanium. Her middle name is “Efyou,” for heaven’s sakes.

  “What did he do?” I ask, suddenly worried Manny may have brought this on by doing something stupid, like men can without thinking.

  “Nothing. He did nothing.” She sounds very defensive of him. “He has been amazing.”

  “Then what is it?” I offer her a hand, which she takes. I help her off her back and sit down next to her. With her thumb she begins twirling her two-carat diamond around on her finger.

  “Estoy embarazada.”

  I’ve been friends with Carmen long enough to know a lot of Spanish by proxy, but I’m out on this one.

  “English, please.”

  Her sigh is weary as she places her hands over a flat belly that I am incredibly envious of. She does work her butt off for it, I’ll give her that, and I just don’t seem to care quite that much. I poke at mine. It’s a little squishy. Maybe a little too squishy. Maybe I should care more about the fact that it’s squishier than it was when I met Roth. Maybe when we get back from Carmen’s destination wedding, I should start—

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Saaay…what? All thoughts of firm abs dissipate. Not like I was really considering acting on it anyway.

  “You’re pregnant?”

  She nods.

  Holy crap.

  Well.

  This is unexpected.

  “Are you sure?”

  Carmen reaches into the cushion of the couch and yanks out a pregnancy test as if she was just waiting for me to ask.

  Ewww.

  I peek at it, because I am not touching it. I know how those work.

  There are two pink lines in the little clear window.

  “Maybe it’s false,” I tell her. “That happens all the time, right?”

  Carmen reaches into the cushion of the couch and yanks out another pregnancy test. How many of those things does she have stuffed down there? She doesn’t say anything as she shows me this one too.

  Pink lines. Two of them.

  “Maybe the whole box was defective—”

  “I bought three boxes, Laurel,” she says, unsmiling. She goes back into the cushions several more times until six used pregnancy tests rest in peace on her lap.

  That’s a lot of pink lines.

  And a lot of peeing.

  Carmen is definitely, 100 percent pregnant.

  “Does Manny know?”

  She moves her head slowly from side to side.

  Oh my.

  “Well, how…” That’s obvious, Laurel. “I mean, when…” Also, fairly obvious. “You know what?”

  Now I understand what’s driving her angst. It’s not marrying Manny. It’s the overwhelming thought of raising another human being. I can understand why.

  “What?” She scoots down, resting her head against mine. I slot my fingers between hers, her enormous engagement ring cutting into my flesh.

  “You’re going to be a perfectly imperfect mama.”

  She splutters. “You got half of that right.”

  “It’s all right. Don’t strive for perfection, Carmen. Just love that baby unconditionally.” I place my palm on her stomach. “Be perfectly imperfect. That will be enough. You will be enough.”

  She doesn’t say anything right away. Then, “You think so?”

  “No doubt in my mind. This is an amazing wedding gift you will be able to give Manny. My personalized Nashville skyline cutting board will pale in comparison.”

  “I wanted that, though.”

  “And when the shock wears off, you’ll realize you want this too,” I tell her.

  “I…I do. I’m scared,” she whispers. “Terrified.”

  And there it is. “We can be terrified together.”

  “I’m going to get fat.”

  “I hate to say this but…” She tips her face to mine, waiting for me to finish. “You’ll be even more stunning than you already are.”

  Her lips do a half turn up. “You think so?”

  “As if that’s even possible.”

  “Te quiero.”

  “I love you too.”

  “I’m going to be a mama,” she murmurs in a bit of disbelief.

  “You are,” I reply excitedly.

  We laugh and cry tears of joy. We hug and squeal and Carmen announces Roth and I will, “of course” be the godparents.

  A minute or two later, there’s a knock on the door. Carmen’s spitfire mother pokes her head in. “Es hora, estas lista? Manny nos espera.”

  “Si, mama. Ahora vengo.”

  Mrs. Morales stays frozen, staring at her daughter. Pretty soon her cheeks are wet. Her smile quivers. “You are glowing, mi cielito. Perfecto.”

  Now my face is wet. How perfecto was that? I don’t know exactly what they said but it was beautiful and heartfelt.

  A glance at Carmen and she’s not faring much better.

  “Gracias, Mama.”

  “Now…” Mrs. Morales swipes at her cheeks, the moment gone. “Wipe your tears and vamos. Your new life awaits you.”

  “Si.”

  With one last loving smile, Carmen’s mother closes the door.

  “Does she know?” I ask. She sure acted like she knew. We made sure to toss all the pregnancy tests in the bathroom garbage…except for one, which Carmen tucked into her purse for later.

  “I haven’t told her yet, but she’s like a black witch. Her powers are beyond comprehension. She knows.”

  “If that’s true, she looked happy about it.”

  “One word. Grandbabies.”

  I snicker. “Good point.” Candice has been after me since the Fourth of July three years ago. As usual, she dances around the bush instea
d of coming outright and asking. And it’s the same conversation Every. Single. Time.

  “Is everything all right between you two?”

  “Everything is great,” I tell her.

  “Okay, well…” She always adds a dramatic pause for effect, to which I fill with silence. “I’m just checking.”

  I’m thirty-two years old, yes, but I am in no rush. I don’t need a ring on my finger to know Roth and I will be together forever. I still have plenty of life left for marriage and babies and I’m not going to let her make me doubt Roth the way she does myself.

  Carmen steps in front of the mirror and in a flash both her hair and her makeup are once again flawless as if she simply wiggled her nose. Her mother isn’t the only one with black magic. We snag our bouquets, and we head out of the bride’s room to get Carmen hitched.

  It’s a warm, cloudless day today in San Juan. We stand at the edge of a white walkway lined with clusters of pink and white flowers. On the other side, on the walkway spanning a small pool, Manny stands at the center with Roth behind him.

  He’s mesmerized by her.

  And he’s bawling.

  I win.

  The song Manny asked Carmen to walk down the aisle to begins to play. It’s a romantic Spanish love song, “Llegaste Tú,” translated to you showed up in English. I kiss Carmen on the cheek and go first before I bawl myself, striding slowly to the twang of dual guitars and a beautifully harmonized duet that, of course, made me sob the first time Carmen played it for me. That’s what’s amazing to me about music. Sometimes you don’t need to understand what’s being said…you feel it in your very soul.

  Too late, I realize that I didn’t bother to check where my dress had ripped in our little scuffle, but as I head down the aisle, all eyes let me know.

  I glance down and cringe.

  The slit that had originally ended midthigh, is now just shy of midhip.

  I think my panties might be showing.