Before You Were Mine

by Heidi Lowe

  As I approached the room, I heard a familiar voice.

  "I do not like green eggs and ham..." Her tone was playful, and when I wandered inside, I realized why. Five children of various ages, Orion among them, were all sitting in front of her, curled up on floor cushions as Tiffany read to them. The children joined in the refrain with zeal and laughter, which made her giggle.

  I stood with my back pressed against the wall, going unseen, and regarded the scene before me. She put on the voices, gave them a performance as though she were on stage, and the children ate it up.

  I didn't notice I was smiling and totally transfixed until the fliers slipped out of my hand and onto the floor, prompting everyone to spin around and look at me.

  She looked up from the book. Her smile faltered a little.

  "Uh s–sorry, I–I..." I stuttered, bending down to quickly scoop up the papers, which had scattered all over the floor. In my haste, I accidentally knocked over some building blocks.

  The children burst out laughing, clearly mistaking my clumsiness for a show. And when I looked up again, I saw that Tiffany had joined in with the laughter, though she was trying her hardest to hide it.

  "I think that's enough Dr Seuss for this afternoon," she said, closing the book.

  When the kids had busied themselves, she came over to me. "You could certainly give clowns a run for their money," she teased.

  "And there I was trying to go unnoticed." I chuckled, burning with embarrassment.

  There was a stray flier that had slipped under the easel, which she bent down to pick up. She studied the bad artwork.

  "Piano lessons? Of course. Why didn't I think of that? Did you want to leave some of these here?"

  "If I can? Nurse M–erm, Nurse Pat said I wasn't allowed."

  She leaned in and whispered, her breath minty fresh, "It'll be our little secret."

  And in the spur of the moment I did something I hadn't anticipated and, after deliberating about for days, chastising myself for hours, I couldn't explain...

  I recoiled from her. It happened so quickly, and it was only a couple of steps backward, but any amount was enough to send the message.

  I watched the smile drop from her face and her eyebrows furrow. Then she snatched a couple of fliers out of my hand, mumbled, "Was that all?"

  "Yes, I–"

  "Okay. Bye," she said, and took off. Stormed off.

  No! That wasn't how it was supposed to go. I went there to show I wasn't homophobic, but I'd managed to make myself seem even more bigoted.

  Was that really who I was?

  TEN

  Who the hell was I in my past life, and what was I going to do to fix this?

  If my instinct had been to edge away from her, something I hadn't done before finding out her sexuality, surely that meant I wasn't okay with it.

  The whole sorry mess troubled me for the days that followed the incident. More than once I pulled on my jacket (a donation from the local church), told Mrs Howlett I was going for a walk, and ended up at the hospital, only to turn back round and head home, without seeing Tiffany, without defending myself.

  What could I say? I'd made it very clear what I thought of her and her lifestyle: she wouldn't want anything more to do with me. And I didn't blame her.

  Who was I?

  "Hi Abby," Dennis said when I came out of my room one morning. He was packing his tools away, the renovations finished.

  "Hey!" He dropped something and I picked it up for him. His thank you to me was accompanied by his signature blush and deep dimpled smile. His thick mop of brown hair was messy, untamed; his T-shirt was ripped.

  As I started down the stairs, he came hurrying after me.

  "So I heard you're giving piano lessons."

  "I am. Did you see my unattractive fliers? Enticing, huh?" I laughed. "No takers yet. Do you know anyone who might be interested?"

  "Actually, I do... Me."

  I let out a surprised laugh, stared at him, waiting for the punchline, which didn't come.

  "You want piano lessons?"

  "Is it just for kids?"

  "N–no, you just don't strike me as someone interested in playing the piano."

  He scratched the back of his head. "If you don't want to, it's totally fine."

  "Of course I'll give you lessons. I have to warn you, though, I might be crap at it. You'll be my guinea pig. When do you want to start?"

  I was so excited to get my first student, it didn't matter that it came in the form of the shy builder who'd been checking me out for over a week.

  "How about...now?"

  "Now?" I gawked at him. "Wow, someone really wants to learn. Okay, sure, why not? I have nothing else to do."

  He set his tool box down, followed me into the living room.

  Within the first ten minutes of his instruction, I knew he was a lost cause! Not only was he tone deaf, his fingers were trembling the whole time. Until finally, after an agonizing half an hour, he threw in the towel. Maybe it was my teaching.

  "I have a confession to make," he said, head hanging. "I wanted to ask you out to dinner, but bottled it and brought up the piano lessons..."

  "Oh." I was only half-surprised. Call it female intuition, but I'd suspected a dinner invitation was forthcoming. "Well that's a relief, because you kinda suck at playing!"

  He laughed. "Yeah, I have no musical talent whatsoever."

  "As for dinner, why not? How's tomorrow evening?" There were worse ways to spend a Friday evening, and I was severely lacking in the friend department.

  His face lit up, like he'd been expecting rejection. "Really? That's great. I'll pick you up at seven."

  Although I'd insisted he didn't have to pay me for the half hour, since we'd cut it short, he still did. Which was just as well, because I was broke. The small amount of change Mrs Howlett had been giving me for helping her organize her attic wasn't stretching very far.

  Luckily, among the bags of clothes I'd been given from the charity was a half-decent black dress. Simple, yet classy, and the color hadn't faded from too much washing. It fit like a glove and didn't chafe my skin.

  The following evening, Mrs Howlett knocked on my door while I was getting ready. She never usually came to this floor. She had one arm behind her back, and a grin that, coupled with the crazy pink hair and colorful clothing, made her look spooky, witch-like.

  "Have you decided on your footwear?"

  I held up the only pair of shoes I owned – flat black pumps that I'd had to wear with pretty much every outfit. "They'll have to do," I said, making a face.

  "Luckily for you, I was a wild young girl once. And oh did I love my heels." She revealed what was in her hands: a pair of wedged, black, peep toe shoes that looked brand-spanking new, as though they'd just come out of the box.

  "You'll let me wear them?" I asked, delighted. They were exactly what I needed to complete my outfit.

  "They're yours. I have no use for them now."

  "Thank you," I gushed.

  "Now, are you sure this builder is someone you want to be getting involved with? He doesn't talk much."

  That's because you're always horrible to him when he does, I wanted to say but didn't.

  "What's wrong with Dennis? He seems nice. I'm not exactly in the position to discriminate about who I befriend."

  "So you're just going as friends? That's good. He's so...well, there's not much to him."

  I knew what she meant, which was one of the reasons why, yes, our rendezvous was platonic only. The other reason, the main one, was the fact that I didn't feel comfortable getting involved romantically with anyone, not while my past was a blur. What if there was someone important to me, a long-term boyfriend? Anything other than friendship would have meant I was cheating.

  It felt silly explaining this to her, the possibility that I was off the market, so I kept it to myself, said instead, "It's just dinner between two new friends. Nothing more."

  How and when had our relationship progressed to one of pare
nt and child? I found it somewhat comforting having someone looking out for me, and didn't feel the need to tell her to stay out of my affairs.

  "How do I look?"

  I'd settled on wearing my hair loose, with minimal makeup – some mascara, cinnamon lipstick, and the thinnest coating of concealer. Dressing to the nines would only have given him the wrong impression.

  "Like a million dollars, adjusted for inflation," Mrs Howlett said, giving me the thumbs up.

  The Green Goose was a cozy little establishment tucked away in the center of town, that I must have passed several times without noticing. What it lacked in exterior attraction it more than made up for in its interior. An intimate setting, tastefully decorated, with chandeliers, candles and ambient music playing at a low volume, giving it a relaxing feel.

  That evening, there was a full house, something I suspected was a frequent occurrence here. Like a true gentleman, Dennis pulled out my chair for me as we settled at our table.

  "It's beautiful here. Good choice," I said, placing my napkin across my lap.

  "I've never been here before," he said. "Heard good things, though. Apparently the chicken is to die for."

  I perused the menu, not in the mood for chicken. "The lobster sounds pretty good."

  "Fun fact about lobsters: did you know that they don't go into shock? So instead of their central nervous system shutting down when they're in extreme pain, they feel everything when they're being boiled or shelled alive."

  I felt my stomach turn. His intention must have been to stop me from ordering the lobster, because I was certain I would never want to go near one again after hearing that. I knew I was going to have nightmares about it.

  That, I'm afraid to say, set the tone for the whole "date".

  He kept making silly cock ups like that, saying stupid, inadvertently insensitive things. His frequent questions about my childhood and the family I couldn't remember were especially vexing, like his memory was a sieve, and he'd forgotten I had amnesia. When he wasn't screwing up and fumbling over himself to apologize, we were sitting in silence, thankful for the waiter's intervention to top up our wine glasses.

  Halfway through the meal, bored out of my mind, my eyes began to wander around the room, to envy all the couples who were having a great evening.

  That was when I spotted her, over in the far corner.

  Absent her signature French braid and unfaltering smile, she was almost unrecognizable. She wore her hair out, wavy, as though she'd had a perm.

  Her companion for the night, a tattooed woman in a waistcoat, got up from the table and headed in the direction of the restroom. As Tiffany watched her go, she spotted me, and our eyes met.

  My smile was large and over the top, my wave no different. I didn't know why I was so pleased to see her.

  From the unenthusiastic smile and wave she returned my way, it was clear the feeling wasn't mutual.

  Crap! She was still mad at me for my stupid, inadvertent recoiling away from her. Of course that was it. We hadn't seen each other or spoken since then. I hadn't told her how sorry I was.

  She looked away, sipped regally at her wine, and waited awkwardly until her companion returned, avoiding looking over in my direction.

  "A friend of yours?" Dennis's voice pulled me back to Earth. He twisted round to see who had captivated my attention.

  "Uh, sort of." Well, not at all. She'd been nothing but kind to me, and in return I'd insulted her. "The blonde one is a nurse at the hospital."

  "Do you want to go over and say hello?"

  I shook my head hurriedly. "God no! I think she's on a date."

  This made him twist round again, shoot her and her tattooed friend a long look.

  "You mean with her?"

  His expression – eyes as wide as saucers, mouth agape – must have been exactly how I'd looked to Tiffany when she told me she was gay. Now I saw what had made her flee.

  "What's wrong with that?" I asked, suddenly a little agitated with him for being so shocked.

  "Well, she doesn't look, you know, that way. I never would have guessed. The other one, though, that one's easy. She's the man in the relationship."

  I didn't know which part of his comment I found more offensive. I just stared at him, outraged and speechless. Okay, so maybe I was a bigot, but he made me look like the most open-minded person in the world.

  "Let's order dessert," I suggested, bitterness in my tone. The sooner this evening is over, the better. I downed what was left of my wine and got a passing waiter's attention.

  When our desserts arrived – lemon tart for me, bread pudding for him – he launched into this long and insipid talk about some of the renovations he'd done in his fifteen-year career. The only reason I didn't stop him was because I wasn't listening. Nodding and smiling when necessary, I was able to divert my attention to Tiffany's table in order to watch the progression of her date.

  They were as mismatched a couple as any I'd ever seen. Like chalk and cheese. One elegant and delicate, the other rough with a pot-smoking (and possibly growing) vibe to her. She wore her long, dark hair loose, and kept brushing it out of her face as it fell into her dessert. She sat with her elbows on the table, and more than once stole pieces of Tiffany's cake with her fork.

  Tiffany's outraged look made me chuckle, and when I did, she saw me and laughed silently to herself.

  For the remainder of the evening, we spent our time on opposite ends of the restaurant, using nonverbal communication, and making each other giggle. So our dates had proven disastrous, but the evening hadn't been a total waste.

  When the check came, Dennis paid up, told me to put my money away.

  "What sort of man would I be if I let you pay?" he said.

  Coincidentally, we got up to leave at the same time that Tiffany and her tattooed friend did.

  "Do you want to maybe get a drink somewhere?" Dennis said as we made our way out of the restaurant. "The night's still young."

  It couldn't have been later than nine. Early, sure, but by then I just wanted the night to be over so I could crawl into bed and read a few chapters of a Nora Roberts novel I'd picked up on sale at the grocery store. I didn't know if she had been a favorite of mine in my old life, but I was now a Roberts convert.

  "I'm kinda tired. I think I'll just head home."

  He looked visibly disappointed. Did he think the night went well?

  "That's a shame. Let me take you home at least."

  Tiffany and her date appeared then, and the first thing the tattooed rebel did was light up a cigarette.

  "You wanna come back to my place, or...?" Tattooed rebel said, blowing smoke into Tiffany's face and making her cough. "There's a cab coming."

  "You know what, you go ahead. I'm just going to head home. I live within walking distance."

  "You sure?" She had already stubbed out her cigarette and was climbing into the car.

  "I'm sure. I'll call you."

  Her date, seemingly forgetting something, stepped out again, went in for a kiss on the mouth, but received Tiffany's cheek instead. Then she jumped into the cab and sped off.

  "Are you coming?" Dennis said, starting toward his car parked across the street.

  Tiffany and I looked at each other, and I knew then I didn't want to go home, not yet.

  "Go on without me, I'll get a cab."

  He frowned, looked from Tiffany back to me, shrugged, then said a deflated goodbye.

  "Hi," I said to her.

  "Hey."

  We watched a couple leave the restaurant, chuckling to themselves, holding hands, madly in love.

  "Well that was an...interesting night," I joked. "And by interesting I mean train wreck!"

  "At least you got to eat most of your dessert. The other half of mine is now in Sarah's stomach!"

  "So I take it you didn't give her permission to stick her fork in your plate?"

  She shook her head vehemently. "The worst thing is she ordered something she knew I couldn't eat – I'm allergic to coconut
s – so I couldn't even get any of hers."

  "Wow. That's cruel."

  Once we stopped laughing, and an awkward silence fell between us, she interrupted it with, "Hey, I'm glad you're making friends here."

  She looked genuinely glad. I'd insulted her, but she still wished me well. Could this woman really have been this saintly?

  "Oh, he's the builder working on the guesthouse. I sort of convinced Mrs Howlett to rent out a couple of her rooms."

  She slapped her hands to her face in exaggerated shock. "How did you manage that?"

  I shrugged. "For some reason she respects what I have to say."

  "There aren't many people Mrs Howlett likes in this world, even fewer she would take advice from. In just a few short weeks you've managed to win over the most hard-to-please woman in town, possibly the state of Utah."

  "She seems fond of you, too. But that's no surprise..."

  She looked at me for a beat, then looked away quickly. I wanted to tell her desperately that I was not the homophobe she took me for, that I was sorry for what I did, but couldn't think of a natural progression to the topic.

  "Well, there's half a bottle of wine with my name on it at home. I'll try and salvage the rest of this night somehow," she said, fixing her purse on her shoulder.

  "Want some company?" The words came out without my permission. Blurted into the night seemingly from someone else's mouth. Only a few minutes earlier I'd been ready to curl up in bed with a book, now I wanted to share half a bottle of wine with the nurse with a heart of gold. Nora Roberts could wait.

  She blinked for effect. "You?"

  I shrugged. "Why not? Drinking alone has its advantages, but having company is more fun." Inside I cringed at how ridiculous I sounded.

  She gave me a lopsided smile. "Where'd you get that one from, Confucius? Well, Abigail, you're more than welcome to share my wine with me."

  My heart leaped for joy; my elation at the invitation manifested itself in the biggest smile. This meant that she'd forgiven me, that we could move past it.

  What a relief! Who wanted to be disliked by the nicest person in town?