Things I Want to Say

by Cyndi Myers

  There was the little store where we’d exchanged empty soda bottles for nickels, which we used to buy more pop. There was the park where I’d scuffed the rubber off countless pairs of Keds, dragging my toes in the dirt beneath the swings.

  There was the street where we had lived: Amaranth Avenue. A fancy name for a short row of almost identical cinder-block houses, each with a brown patch of front lawn and a short gravel driveway leading to a detached one-car garage.

  I hesitated, then took a deep breath and turned onto the street. I’d come this far; I couldn’t leave without taking a look.

  I slowed the car to a crawl and craned my neck, looking for the green-shingled house where we’d lived. I really was hoping it had been torn down, but no such luck.

  I pulled the car to the curb directly across the street from the house and studied it. It’s such a cliché to say it looked smaller than I remembered, but it was true. It had diminished in more than size; it had diminished in significance.

  It was a cramped, square building with a small stoop in front and a screened porch along the back. Inside, it was divided into a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms and a single bath. We had eaten at a table at one end of the living room. Our parents had had the front bedroom, across from the living room, while Frannie and I had shared a smaller room that opened onto the screened porch.

  Someone had added a green metal awning over the front stoop, and at some point the shingles that covered the exterior had been painted gray. The color did nothing to improve the house’s appearance. Looking at it, a big knot of sadness formed in my chest and began to swell like a balloon inflating.

  Why the hell hadn’t I listened to Frannie and avoided coming back here? It wasn’t as if seeing the place again was going to conjure up a slew of happy memories.

  I started the car again, drove to the end of the street and turned around, driving too fast in my haste to get away.

  If I didn’t already know my love affair with food was deeply ingrained, the fact that I ended up at the old hamburger stand, like a pigeon homing in on its coop, should have told me something. How many summer afternoons and crisp autumn evenings had I spent at this low square building with the red-and-white-striped awning out front? My friends and I rode our bicycles here after swimming lessons or after football games and shared root beer floats and chili cheese fries while flirting with boys who sat in booths across the way. There was no childhood sorrow that couldn’t be made better with a chocolate shake and a double cheeseburger with extra ketchup.

  The gnawing in the pit of my stomach urged me to order that double cheeseburger now, with onion rings and a triple chocolate malt. I stared at the menu over the order window, my nails biting into my palms.

  The window slid open with a snap. “What can I get you?” asked the freckled girl inside.

  “A Diet Coke and a junior burger,” I said resolutely.

  “Would you like fries with that?”

  Yes. My mouth watered. “No, thank you. But could I have an extra pickle?”

  “Sure.”

  She took my money and, after parking the car, I walked over to one of the outdoor picnic tables and sat down. I took deep breaths, trying to center myself. It’s just an old house, I told myself. It can’t hurt you. Don’t let it.

  “Ellen? Ellen Lawrence, is that you?”

  I turned and saw a nice-looking man in a Markson’s work shirt striding toward me. He had thinning light brown hair and a wide smile. Definitely familiar, but I drew a blank on his name.

  “Hi,” I said, manufacturing a smile. “I’m amazed anyone remembers me after all these years.”

  “I wasn’t sure, but that hair is hard to forget, and those blue eyes reminded me of Frannie.” He held out his hand. “I bet you don’t remember me, though. Walt Peebles.”

  “Of course I remember you, Walt.” I did now. He’d been Frannie’s date to her senior prom. A sweet, gawky guy who had tried hard to make that evening the best of Frannie’s life.

  Walt sat across from me at the picnic table. “How is Frannie?” he asked.

  “Good. She’s a hairdresser in Bakersfield,” I said. “She’s made a real name for herself, has a lot of famous clients.”

  “That’s great.” He nodded. “I’m glad she’s doing well. I guess she’s probably married with a bunch of kids, too.”

  “No, she never married.”

  “Really?” One eyebrow shot up. “A pretty girl like her?”

  “Well, you know Frannie. She’s always been particular.” I tried to laugh off the comment, as if my sister’s choice to isolate herself from everyone was a big joke. Ha, ha.

  “What about you?” I asked. “Are you married?”

  “Was. We divorced a couple years ago. But I have two great kids.” Before I could say anything else, he pulled out a wallet and flipped it open to a couple of head shots—the kind that come in packets of school pictures—of a boy and a girl. They had their father’s thin hair and brown eyes.

  “How adorable,” I said. “How old are they?”

  “Sybil is eight and Jeremy’s seven.” He closed the wallet and replaced it in his pocket. “They live with their mom, but I see them every weekend.”

  “Order up.”

  He stood. “I gotta go. It was good seeing you.”

  “You, too.”

  “You tell Frannie I said hello. Maybe she could give me a call sometime. I’m in the phone book.”

  Frannie would never call. I should have given him her number, then he could have called her.

  Of course, if he was so interested, why hadn’t he asked me outright for Frannie’s number? He was probably just being polite, making conversation about the only thing the two of us had in common.

  Though I wanted to believe this nice man had been carrying a torch for my sister for twenty years, I knew better. He had been her prom date, for goodness’ sake. Why would he be interested in Frannie now?

  Of course, why was I so intent on hooking up with Marc Reynolds after all these years? Not because I was in love with him.

  But maybe because I thought I was capable of falling in love with him.

  Frannie says I’m a romantic, but she doesn’t mean it as a compliment. To her, it’s a synonym for delusional, to which I counter that I prefer my delusions to her version of reality any day.

  “Your order’s ready, ma’am,” the freckled girl called.

  I carried the paper bag back to the picnic table and unwrapped my food, telling myself that a burger without cheese is just as good as one with cheese, and that greasy fries were bad for my complexion.

  I’ve always been a terrible liar.

  A slender woman with close-cropped silver hair walked up to the window and ordered a chicken finger basket. She stood with one hip cocked, her fingers drumming on the counter in a way that was eerily familiar. I had a flashback to ninth-grade chemistry class, and those same drumming fingers on the lab counter.

  I blinked. What were the odds of running into two people I knew from school, here at our old hangout? Coincidence? Or one of those weird metaphysical tricks my new-age acquaintances in Bakersfield believed in?

  “I’ll have that right out, Alice,” the freckled girl said.

  Memory confirmed, I half stood. “Alice Weston?”

  The woman turned toward me. “No one’s called me that in years.”

  She didn’t remember me. The realization made me feel as if I’d swallowed rocks. Alice Weston had only been my best friend in the world from the time we met in sixth grade until I left town. “It’s Ellen,” I said. “Ellen Lawrence.”

  Alice’s smile could have lit a stadium. “Oh my God, Ellen!”

  She ran to me and threw her arms around me. The first thing I noticed was how strong she was. Her hug squeezed all the breath out of me. The second was how skinny she was. I could feel the ridge of her ribs outlined beneath her shirt.

  She pulled back first and held me at arm’s length. “You look fantastic,” she said, shaking her head
. “Almost good enough for me to forgive you for running out on me all those years ago.”

  I hung my head, shame engulfing me. “I’m sorry. I meant to get in touch, but it never happened.” We’d left town so quickly, and Frannie had said it was best to make a clean break. I felt terrible about that now.

  “Come on. Let’s talk.” She slid onto the bench on the opposite side of the table. “Here’s your chance to tell all, and I’ll think about forgiving you. But first you have to tell me—did you have the baby or not?”

  “Baby?” I stared at her, suddenly having trouble breathing. “What makes you think I had a baby?”

  She shrugged. “The last time I saw you, you were puking your guts up in the funeral parlor ladies’ room. When you and Frannie hightailed it out of town after that, I thought for sure you were pregnant.”

  I almost laughed out loud, the idea was so absurd. I shook my head. “No. Just…stressed, I guess.”

  “Losing your daddy when you’re only sixteen will do that, I guess.” She patted my hand. “I forgive you. Life’s too short for grudges, right?”

  I nodded weakly. This was the Alice I’d known and loved. Older for sure, with fine lines around her eyes and her brown hair all silver. I bet it wasn’t a half inch long all over her head, but it looked good on her. She had three piercings in one ear and four in the other, with silver rings in each hole, more on each finger and a dozen bracelets on her wrists. Her pale blue T-shirt and denim capris were faded and comfortable, just like the woman herself.

  “If your name isn’t Alice Weston anymore, what is it?” I asked.

  “Alice MacCray. Are you back in town for the reunion?” she asked.

  I nodded. “And you? Are you here for the reunion, too, or do you still live here?”

  “I live here, but not for much longer. After the reunion, I’m going back to California.”

  “I’m from California. I mean, Frannie and I both live there now. Bakersfield.”

  “I’m in Ojai. Or was for ten years. I’ve been out here for the past ten. I came home to take care of my mama when she got sick. She got better, but then I ended up with breast cancer and she took care of me.”

  She said it so matter-of-factly, I almost missed the meaning behind the words. My gaze drifted to her short, short hair.

  “Oh yeah, it’s grown back in now. I had a mastectomy, chemo, the works. The one thing I got out of it was a good hairstyle. Easy to take care of.” She ran her fingers through the cropped locks and smiled.

  It was the smile I remembered from when we were girls, a look that welcomed you into Alice’s corner of the universe, a place where curfews were restrictions to be gotten around, homework was a ten-minute inconvenience and dessert was always to be eaten first. Amazing after all she’d been through she still had the same attitude.

  My own life seemed a picnic in comparison.

  Alice’s food was ready, so she retrieved it and joined me again at the table. “So what have you been doing with yourself?” she asked, pointing a chicken finger at me.

  “Not all that much.” I sipped the last of my Diet Coke. “I own a flower shop in Bakersfield. I do flowers for movie and television sets. I went on a diet last year and lost a hundred pounds.”

  “A hundred pounds? Holy shit, that’s amazing.” She grinned. “And you look amazing. Really great.”

  I sat up a little straighter, the dark mood that had threatened earlier gone altogether. “Thanks. What have you been up to?”

  “Besides being sick?” She swabbed a French fry through a pool of ketchup. “Not much. I ran the snack bar at the bowling alley until a couple of weeks ago. Took my vacation time to pack up the house.”

  “So you’re really moving?”

  She nodded. “Are you married? Any kids?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet, but I’m still open to the idea. If the right man comes along.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ve had two husbands and I’m not so sure the right man exists.” She pushed her half-eaten lunch aside. “You’re going to be at the reunion tomorrow, right?” I nodded.

  “Great. We’ll talk more then. In the meantime, I have to go see about renting a moving truck.”

  I reached over and impulsively took her hand. “It was so good seeing you again,” I said. “Really.” The plane ticket from California had been worth this moment alone.

  “It was good seeing you again, too.” She flashed another brilliant smile. “See ya.”

  I stared after her, an odd mix of hope and regret churning my stomach. Alice. I’d avoided thinking of her for years—feeling guilty over the way I’d left town without saying goodbye. I’d never had another friend like her, one to whom I felt so close. Closer at times even than I felt to Frannie.

  Seeing her today, finding out she was moving to California, not all that far from where Frannie and I lived, opened up the possibility of having that kind of friendship once more. I could actually come away from this reunion with a new man and a new best friend in my life. And Frannie thought coming here was a bad idea!

  I checked my watch, amazed to see it was already after two. I had time to get back to the hotel, exercise, shower and get ready for my date.

  A date. I almost giggled at the word. After talking with Alice, I felt young and beautiful and more carefree—more ready for romance—than I had in years.

  To think I could feel that way in Ridgeway, Virginia.

  It was proof that anything really is possible.

  I spent a ridiculous amount of time getting ready for my dinner with Marc that evening. I checked my appearance from every possible angle, all the while imagining how blown away he would be by my stunning self. Of course, an annoying little voice in the back of my head reminded me that perhaps I only seemed stunning to myself, based on the fat version of me that had stared back in the mirror for so many years. I told the voice to shut up and applied another coat of mascara, slicked on lip gloss and told myself the poor man wouldn’t know what hit him. I was going to get lucky this weekend or sprain something trying.

  When we met in the lobby of the Captain’s Table, he clasped my hand firmly and shook it. I didn’t miss the way he subtly checked me out, and the extra wattage added to his smile when he was done. I figured all those hours of exercise were worth that look alone.

  “So, Ellen, it’s great to see you,” he said when we were seated at a table for two near the back of the dining room.

  “You, too, Marc.”

  Marc was as good-looking as the photograph on the reunion Web site had indicated; the classic features hinted at in boyhood had matured into true handsomeness. Big sigh of relief on my part. I would have hated to find out the picture he’d posted was a lie and I’d wasted all my effort for nothing.

  I tried not to grin at him like a Cheshire cat, though a ridiculous smile felt in danger of bursting forth at any moment. “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been up to.”

  It was an innocent enough remark, the prelude to any number of pleasant conversations. This, unfortunately, was not to be one of those.

  “As I told you on the phone, I’m in real estate.” He unfolded his napkin and spread it across his lap. “I don’t like to brag, but I have the biggest agency in Ridgeway. I was named Realtor of the Year in 2001. If you’re serious about buying a house in town, you’d be smart not to waste your time with anyone else. Now, what kind of place are you looking for?”

  “Place?” I blinked, having already forgotten the pretense of wanting to buy property that had lured him here. “Oh yes. Well, I’m not really sure. I mean, if the right house came along…”

  “You’ve got a home in California, right? Prices out there are ridiculously inflated. You cash out your equity in that and you could buy a mansion out here. I just listed a perfectly restored antebellum estate on the north side of town. Three other Realtors were fighting for this listing, but of course, I ended up with it. You wouldn’t believe the competitiveness in this town. Everyone is jealous of my success….”

>   He continued in this vein through our drink order, the salad and on through the entrée, alternating descriptions of houses he thought I’d like (all sounding outrageously expensive to me) and his own accomplishments. I learned about his marriage to a beauty queen—Miss Virginia 1995. Every man I knew would have given his right arm to be in my shoes when we tied the knot—that had ended in divorce. She couldn’t stand that I was more successful than her. Plus, as she got older she started losing her looks and there wasn’t much else there, if you know what I mean.

  The torrent of words spilled forth like lava from a volcano. I stared at him in sick fascination. Nothing more was required of me than an occasional nod.

  So much for my fantasies of wowing him with my looks, charm and wit. Clearly the hot sex and instant romance I’d envisioned were not going to happen.

  As pleasing as he was to look at, the man I’d carried the torch for all these years was a deadly bore. I couldn’t believe my luck. I fought to keep from yawning and spent most of the meal with fake interest painted on my face. As the waitress cleared our entrées, I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, and thought about walking right out to the parking lot and driving back to the hotel.

  I might have done it, except I knew I’d see Marc the next day at the reunion, and I figured explaining my behavior would be worse than enduring a few more minutes of his company tonight.

  By the time I made it back to the table, I had manufactured a suitably ill expression. “I don’t know if I ate something bad or if it’s just jet lag catching up with me,” I said, “but suddenly I feel awful. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our evening short.”

  “But I haven’t finished telling you about the Delaney estate,” he said. “I know you’re going to love this place. And only seven hundred and forty-nine thousand.”

  Dollars? Did he think I had that kind of money? Or maybe just that good a credit rating. “I’m sorry, I really do have to go. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” Only if he saw me before I saw him, though.

  By the time I got back to the hotel, my annoyance at Marc had morphed into anger at myself. I must have been nuts to think I could hook up with a high school crush and create instant grand passion. Who was I kidding? Even if Marc hadn’t been a bore, why would he have been interested in me—a woman he hadn’t seen in twenty-two years, a girl he’d scarcely said ten words to in high school?