“No, I’m sorry,” he said, apologetic frustration evident in his tone. “Foster, I’d really like to keep talking, but I can hardly hear you, and beside knowing I must be shouting at you, I should probably get back to the kids before they”—he waited until the rising swell of ecstatic voices simmered. It seemed to be coming in steady stream of chants, rooting, and cheers now—“revolt,” he finished, with a dry laugh. “What do you think about me dropping by in a little while? I would really like to see you, if you’re up for company. Shouldn’t be any later than six.” Butterflies with multiple sets of wings took flight at the base of my stomach, not so much fluttering as rocketing upward in dizzy power. Summoning an equanimity that did not exist was difficult.
“That would be wonderful,” I said slowly. And then bested by curiosity, I asked, “Are you playing baseball?” I was already fairly certain of this already, having spent the last few minutes listening to both mature and young voices shouting jargon that would indicate in favor of that assumption. I was more curious about the “who” than I was about the “what.” Something familiar gnawed at my senses.
Dominic released the full richness of his laughter, earning a visceral response from my heart in return. “Oh, you could tell, then?” he asked facetiously. Through another laugh, he began to explain. “Yes; the kids and I agreed we would try out a few sports today, since you mainly stick to crafts and games on your days with them.” I listened, having no trouble hearing what he was saying at the moment, but in the way of processing was coming up less than enlightened.
“The kids?” I repeated, and with it arrived the apparition of clarity. My stomach lurched. “You mean, my kids? You’re—you’re at The House of Hope?”
“I am.” His voice had gone soft again, this time with pleasure of surprise. “I called early this morning to see if they had heard from you. Mr. Sandhearn told me your mom had already notified them that you wouldn’t be coming in, but that they could more than likely expect you tomorrow. I knew . . . I knew the only way you wouldn’t be here was if you couldn’t be,” he said gently. “I asked Mr. Sandhearn if he would let me take your place—just for today.” This time when the tears pricked my eyes, they pushed hard enough to spill. I was thankful he continued to speak; I wouldn’t have been able to talk. “He was reluctant to allow a new person to work with the little ones—I guess that hasn’t gone so well in the past. But I guess you weren’t the only volunteer unable to make it in today, and a few of their staff members weren’t doing so well either. Actually, he was very honest. Said they were desperate for help today, and just about to start making calls to their back-up list of volunteers. He said if I could come in and stay for the day, that I would be doing him an incredibly big favor and would give me the choice of which group I wanted to work with.” He laughed. “I almost didn’t want to tell him it was me who was getting the favor. I was afraid he would assign me somewhere else. But I did. I told him once you found out how long you’d been out, you weren’t going to take the news so well. He understood.”
More tears had trailed behind the first, and I could tell without talking that my throat was thick with emotion.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I said weakly and moved to sit down on the bed. I began stroking Rhoda’s head, seeking calm with the comfort of her warmth. I couldn’t know for sure, but I thought it likely that Dominic sensed my lack of composure at the moment. He was patient while I found my voice. “Thank you.” It felt small and insignificant, but I was very much at a loss for words. None of the possibilities I considered seemed worthy, none of them able to encapsulate the gift he had given me by showing up when I couldn’t. I was utterly grateful and words did not exist to express such a thing.
I heard the smack of a ball and bat, the subsequent cheers shadowing the victory. “I wanted you to know they were okay,” he said after a long moment of silence. “They miss you, Foster . . . but they are okay.” I swallowed the lump that rose high in my throat, fighting against the tightness that closed my airways. I tried, but I couldn’t speak. “I—um . . I’m being called up to bat. I should probably let you go now. But I’ll see you in a few hours, right?”
I nodded hard on my end, forcing the words out of my locked lips. “Yes. Right. Tonight.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Me, too,” I said, and sounded winded from holding my breath for too long. “Have fun!” I said brightly, fresh tears obscuring my room, turning it to color and texture.
“Oh, I am. Actually”—he laughed—“more than they are, I think. I’ll make sure to pass on a hello from you.”
“Thank you,” I said again, my grateful heart full and throbbing.
We said goodbye, and when I heard the phone click, I gave into the need to fall back onto the bed, careful not to crush Rhoda beneath me. I laid there, breathing and thinking, the phone pressed to my chest, unable to believe any part of that conversation was actually true. My kids are okay and Dominic is coming over to see me.
Thinking it didn’t help. “My kids are okay and Dominic is coming over to see me.” This verbal recitation was of little assistance to disbelief, as well. At the intense urge to see their faces, I sat up and walked to the dresser, removing the picture frame. Walking backward, I stared at their happy faces, smiling back at them. I will see you tomorrow, I thought to them. By then, it would be safe to.
I dropped to the bed without looking behind me, realizing a fraction of a second too late that I had misjudged the distance between me and the bed. I fell for only a second, and then my backside met the hardwood with a dull thump.
“Ahumpf.” Meeting my destination, I let out a cry of pain, though counted myself lucky at landing on the white rug. Its heavy padding had softened my graceless fall tremendously. I had thoughts of getting up, then decided that it might be best to stay here for a moment. Besides, contemplation worked just as well from the ground as it did sitting on a bed. Speaking of the bed . . . it began to shake and jostle as Rhoda edged toward the end of it. Soon I felt her unmistakable presence looming over me, the big black head gazing down with keen interest. I felt her cold wet muzzle dip oppressively into my curls and a great sniff and snort came forth. Assessing the damage, I thought. Then deeming me fit, evidently, she returned to the task of slumber.
I glanced to my left, smiling at the outrageous display on my dresser. A humongous neon bear, a partially eaten donut, and the most beautiful bouquet of sunflowers I had ever seen. Aching bottom aside, I couldn’t have been any happier than I was right at this moment. I didn’t just have friends; I had friendship—the kind that made itself known and defined by its less convenient and glamorous moments. Maddie, Jake, Emily, and . . . Dominic—they had cared enough to think of me when I wasn’t there, when I was easily forgotten. I marveled at the generosity I had in my life. What had I done to deserve these people? Until very recently I had made myself available to no one, valuing safety over real relationships. How was it that I earned the right to such genuine character, such integrity and kindness? I was almost positive that I had not earned anything at all. Only that perhaps I had finally allowed what was already there the opportunity to have me.
“Let me guess . . .” Ripped from my thoughts, I squeaked in surprise, my head whipping toward the open doorway. My accelerated heartbeat was already beginning to slow by the time I registered whose body belonged to the voice.
She was dressed—sort of—in a simple black bikini that looked anything but simple on the lean muscle and glowing skin sparsely concealed inside it. The rhinestones from her sponsor’s logo sparkled on one of the small triangles. Over her bottoms she had on light jean shorts; the pockets poked out, frayed at the ends, bits of sand clinging to the torn threads. She’d obviously come straight from the beach, though her everyday attire differed very little from that of the Brazilian supermodel leaning against the doorway.
Smirking, Emily changed posture, tucking her hands away beneath the flesh of her arms. “You’ve fallen and yo
u can’t get up?”
Looking behind me, I laughed. “I sort of . . . missed the bed.”
She raised both eyebrows, glancing first at my bed, then to where I sat on the floor. “Looks to me like you completely missed it.”
I began to nod, laughing. “That would be more accurate, yes.”
She pulled her long, wet hair to one side, laying it like a scarf down the front of her chest. “Yeah, I can see that,” she said with dry amusement, scowling at the hardwood. “Well, least there was something to catch you this time.”
Again, I nodded in wholehearted agreement. Presumably, both of us were recalling the specific disaster a few weeks ago, when I dropped like a glass bottle, splitting both my lip and eyebrow open. Emily—having played net and mitt more times than I could count—had watched the whole thing happen as I walked across the cafeteria, oblivious. I learned later that she’d shouted a warning, but by then it was too late, and my sandal was sliding out from under me, the cliché banana peel no longer just a cliché.
She pushed off the doorway, dour face brightening as she padded barefoot across the wood floor. “Did you break your butt?”
From the ground, I watched her tiny hips sway back and forth. Long ago I had stopped disillusioning myself that they—along with other rounded shapes promised to me—would take shape on my form.
I laughed. “I don’t think so,” I said with feigned uncertainty, tucking both legs up in anticipation.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” She planted her feet just before the edge of the rug, reached down with both hands, and hauled me upright with ease.
As I came to full-height, she peered up at me expectantly. “Well?”
I made a face of great relief, sighing with exaggeration. “I think my posterior survived.”
Emily rolled her eyes, tipping her head back. “Only you would call a butt, a posterior. How old are we turning this year? Seventy-eight, is it?”
Taking care not to miss the bed this time, I took a seat, pretending to think for a moment. Clicking my tongue for added effect, I replied, “I believe seventy-eight was last year; so that means the next will be my seventy-ninth, right?”
Emily plopped down beside me, eyes going large with astonishment. “Wow . . . that anti-wrinkle cream is really working. You give Demi Moore and Jennifer Aniston a run for their money.”
These women, in some respect or another, were no doubt famous and likely notorious; though, I couldn’t begin to know what for exactly. I decided it was best not to ruin the fun with my lack of celebrity knowledge, and changed subjects. Emily was busily rearranging herself and didn’t notice the second’s breath of contortion on my face. Splaying her body like a starfish, she made herself comfortable, grabbing a pillow and tucking it under her stomach. Rhoda neatly ducked a foot that would have surely clocked her in the head, and then moved upward toward the front of the bed.
“How was the beach?” Reaching out, I picked a clump of sand from Emily’s hair, rolling it between my fingers as I pulled back.
“Totally tubular,” she said, in a very convincing surfer’s accent. Shorter strands of hair not long enough to stay put behind her ears continued to fall into her eyes. She shimmied to her knees and began gathering the damp mass into a high bun, pulling the ends through to secure it.
I grabbed a pillow, hugging myself around it. “Did you compete today?”
“Yup. Up in Malibu,” she added, returning to her stomach. Yawning, she lowered her head, pressing the side of her face to the back of her hand and closed her eyes. “Even with practice at 6 a.m. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to waking up at the crack of dawn. I love sleep too much. I don’t know how Jake does it, either.” She went on contemptuously, eyes remaining closed. “The jerk can fall asleep anywhere, and nothing will bother him. I’ve tried pans, whistles—nothing works, but then he wakes up like frickin’ Mary Poppins as soon as the alarm goes off. I don’t get it . . . the only thing worse than being exhausted in the morning, though, is his cheerful mood.” She opened one eye, narrowing it to a slit. “He sings.”
I made a sympathetic face. I had heard Jake sing on occasion, and while Jake himself was incredibly pretty, his voice was not, unfortunately.
“How did you guys do?” I asked. “Did you place?”
Emily snorted at this, opening her other eye, lips curving smugly. “Of course we placed,” she said, as if I had inquired about there being water at the beach. “We killed the whole dang competition. Won four of the five heats. Those kooks from up north never knew what hit them.”
“You won the entire contest?”
“Fost,” she intoned, sounding almost bored. She rose up on one elbow, pressing her knuckles into her cheek. “You make it sound like it’s rare that we win. Where have you been for the last year and a half?”
I laughed. Anyone else, the hubris Emily exuded would have seemed both arrogant and unattractive. On Emily, though, it was as idoneous as her humor, the effect not so different from her knack for rankling Jake. Very few people could say and do the things Emily did—and still come away exceptionally likable, that is. Besides, if anyone had the clout to brag, Emily did. Not more than fourteen years old, she surpassed every girl stylistically and skillful, all of which were two and three years older than she, and consequently taking home the nationwide Surfing America title in both of her divisions, and championing the national scholastic women’s title.
“Did you take home a trophy?” I asked. Trophies and ribbons were involved, though not always, I’d learned.
She laughed at me. “Yes,” she said, rolling out her neck muscles. “But it was a duplicate, so I gave it to a little girl who was waiting for an autograph.”
“That was nice of you,” I commented. “Especially after how hard you worked for it.”
Emily raised one sinuously muscular shoulder, dismissing the praise. “Winning is hardly the fun part anymore, Fost. At this stage in the game, I’m ready for more, you know? I was stoked to finally nail a nine hundred spin on a point break, though.” Her eyes took on that gleaming quality, lit with tenacity and fueled by something more than purely accolades and adoration. “I wish I could explain to you—what it feels like. It’s like . . . like . . .” She exhaled impatiently, her brows knitting together in frustration.
“Like it’s only you and the ocean and nothing else matters,” I finished for her.
She blinked once, hard, then raised those wide incredulous eyes to mine. “Um, yeah.” She scanned me suspiciously. “That’s exactly what it’s like.” Her mouth turned upward, wry and amused. “You been hittin’ the waves without telling me?”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “No,” I said. “I don’t think I necessarily need to have surfed to know what it feels like for you,” I began in contemplation. “I only need to have something I love that much—something I could never live without.” I was thinking specifically of the moments when I was alone in my room, singing and playing the piano for nothing more than the joy of it. The freedom I felt when I was alone, unwatched and without fear of failure, was an experience like none other. For whatever reason, as I considered this my eyes had wandered toward my dresser, laying to rest on the flowers.
“Something you love, huh?”
I blinked, and my eyes focused. Slowly, I turned back to Emily, my cheeks warming along the way.
“Singing,” I said succinctly, too flustered to say much more. “I love to sing.”
“Sure you do,” she said, “and I love to eat Pringles.”
It was quiet—no, quiet wasn’t the right word. Somehow all noise, loud and otherwise, had found a way to disintegrate, swallowed up by awkwardness—mine alone.
“So . . . how’s school been?” Emily narrowed her eyes, full of pointed observation, then grinned with all the excitement of someone who’d just been given the most terrific news.
“You think because you’ve been sick with the flu I’m going to give you a pass?” She laughed; it was a deep belly laugh that traveled around the
room, filling it up with a rich, husky noise. “How are you feeling, by the way? I texted you a bagillion times, but when I didn’t hear back, I figured you must be like really-really sick. I was stoked to get a message from your mom saying you were up. I listened to it on the way home from the competition and came over after dropping Jake off at the house. Oh, right,” she interrupted herself, remembering something. “He wanted to come over, too, but said it wasn’t fair to you. His exact words were, ‘I’m staaaarving. If I go now, I’ll just be thinking about food the whole time.’ He told me to tell you hi, though, and that he doesn’t need the Beowulf paper anymore. I guess he bought one off the internet? I don’t even know . . . I don’t want to know.” She’d been speaking to the comforter. She raised her head now, rolling her eyes. “Geez. That was way too much information. I think I need a nap. So, how are you?”
I jumped on the question before she remembered the first one she’d asked. “I feel great.” I inhaled deeply through the mouth to prove this. Too deeply. I choked on air and a minor coughing fit ensued. “Tons of energy,” I wheezed, reaching behind me to take a sip of water. “I really feel much better.”
“Good.” She held her hand out for the water bottle. I gave it to her and she took a small sip. Wiping her bottom lip, I watched the look materialize in her eyes like fog on a river bank. “And how could you not with flowers like that?” She turned her head but kept her eyes on me, raising one eyebrow. “Aren’t those your favorite, too?”
“I . . . um . . . they . . .” I looked down, wishing I had something in my hands.
“Woah,” Emily said, her voice low and serious. “It’s way worse than I thought.”
“No, it’s not.” My response was immediate, and like a slingshot came back to hit me in the face. Unnerved as I was by just the mention of the flowers, I couldn’t bear to look at her. “I mean, it’s nothing,” I rephrased, stealing a peek at my dresser and paused. “He . . . Dominic was just being nice. In fact, I’m almost certain that he is still feeling bad about a couple weeks ago.”
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