by Nancy Moser
She was a little nervous about meeting the girl. Although she’d dabbled in nearly every other kind of volunteering, Angie had never done anything so one-on-one. But the idea of helping a teen in need appealed to her. Now that her own children were grown and gone . . .
Their son, William, was a lobbyist in DC and they rarely saw him. At twenty-six he was still single. Wasn’t even dating anyone. Not that he’d tell them if he was.
At least Talia was in town. Angie was often thankful that if one of her children had to live far away, it was single William. Angie loved having Tomás close enough to cuddle. And now with the new baby coming . . . she could hardly wait.
She spotted a lone teenager walking toward the entrance of the coffee shop. Angie thought of the yearbook photo she’d received from the school that pictured a pale girl with mousy brown hair and a few extra pounds. The girl on the sidewalk fit the bill. She looked hesitant, even indecisive, as if she were considering not going in at all.
Angie got out of her car. “Sarah?”
The girl looked in her direction and nodded.
Angie locked the SUV and walked toward her, hand extended. “Hi, I’m Angie Schuster.”
The girl offered a halfhearted smile yet shook Angie’s hand strongly. But her eyes looked away. Was she shy? Angie hoped not. There was nothing worse than talking to a person who didn’t want to talk. Especially a teenage person.
“Shall we go inside?”
Sarah shrugged.
Angie led the way and chose a table by a window. A waitress in jeans and a blue Marlo’s Coffee Shop T-shirt took their order.
That done, Angie took a fresh breath. “Well then. I’m so glad to finally get to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Sarah’s eyes flashed. “From who?”
Whom. Angie hesitated. “Mrs. Miller. Your counselor. She’s the head of the mentoring program.”
“Oh.”
Actually, “a lot about you” was an exaggeration. There hadn’t been much to tell. Mrs. Miller hadn’t known much about Sarah beyond the bland details of a grade transcript. The girl did okay in school, but was not a stellar student. And there were no extracurricular activities listed except participation in a food-bank promotion the previous year. Information about her home life was limited to knowing that she had working parents. Actually, Mrs. Miller had expressed surprise that Sarah had agreed to join the mentoring program. Mrs. Miller’s only advice to Angie had been “We think Sarah would benefit from having someone to talk to.”
As long as Angie could get her to talk.
Their coffees came along with a plate of biscotti.
Sarah fingered one tentatively. “I’ve never had these.”
“They’re Italian. You dip them in your coffee.” Angie demonstrated and Sarah followed suit.
“They’re good,” Sarah said.
“I come here for the biscotti more than the coffee.”
Sarah traced the edge of her mug. “I’ve never had coffee before either.”
Angie had a sudden thought. “Your parents haven’t forbid you from drinking it, have they?”
“What?”
“Saying it stunts your growth? Not wanting you to have the caffeine?”
She snickered. “They can’t object. They drink it.”
The girl had provided a segue. “What do they do for a living?”
Her eyes looked down. “They work.”
Angie suffered an inward sigh. “Doing what?”
Sarah bit her lip, as if carefully gauging her answer. “My dad is a traveling salesman for a paper company.”
“Traveling . . . that must be hard on all of you. How many days a week is he gone?”
“Uh . . . actually he doesn’t travel anymore. Used to. But not anymore. He’s home every night. We play chess together. Right after dinner.”
“Knight to queen four, eh?”
“Uh. Yeah. That.”
“How about your mom?”
“She’s a lawyer.”
“What’s her specialty?”
“Huh?”
“Is she a criminal lawyer, corporate, divorce . . . ?”
“She does it all. She’s almost famous. Everybody wants her to defend them. She was on TV once after defending a big-criminal guy.”
“Who was she defending? Maybe I saw her.”
“I . . . I don’t remember. But you’d know the name if I said it.”
Hmm.
Sarah wrapped her hands around the warm mug of coffee. “She and I are real close. Like that Gilmore Girls program on TV. We talk about everything. We even share the same clothes.”
“That sounds nice.” If it was true, it gave Angie hope. A good home life was important in the teenage years. Yet if Sarah’s home life was so idyllic, why was she in need of “someone to talk to”? She decided to change the subject. “What are your favorite classes?”
“Lunch and recess.”
“No, really.”
Sarah tried a sip of her coffee and made a face. “This is bitter.”
Angie plucked a blue envelope from the sweetener container. “Try one of these.” She waited until Sarah stirred it in and sipped again. “Better?”
“Better.”
“Your classes?”
She shrugged. “I’m kinda good at math.”
“Want to teach me how to balance my checkbook?”
“I could.”
Angie changed the subject again. “Do you play an instrument? sing? act? draw? knit? play sports?”
“I sing. I like to sing.”
“Do you sing with the chorus at school?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
Sarah shrugged. “I sing on my own. At home. When I’m alone.”
“Talent is meant to be shared, Sarah.”
“I don’t think so. My mom heard me singing with a CD once—I hadn’t heard her come home—and she told me to shush, she had a phone call to make.” She seemed to catch herself. “Then later, she asked me to sing the whole thing and applauded, right there in the living room. Dad did too.”
“How nice of them.”
“Yeah, they’re great. They wanted me to be in chorus too. You’re not the first one to say that. But it didn’t fit in my schedule.”
Everything Sarah said made sense, yet didn’t, as if Angie were seeing the girl’s life through a smoky veil.
Or rose-colored glasses.
“So what do you do?” Sarah asked.
Angie was taken aback—and impressed that Sarah had asked. “I . . . I do . . .” She laughed at her own ineptitude at explaining how she filled her days without having it sound high-and-mighty. “I do stuff.”
Sarah’s laugh was a lovely tinkling.
“I do stuff. For people,” Angie explained. “I try to help people.”
Her face brightened. “Cool.”
No one had ever given Angie that reaction before. “I do a lot of volunteer work.”
“Like what?” Sarah seemed genuinely interested.
“Fund-raising for various causes, and I volunteer at the hospital, and at the shelter downtown.”
Her eyes widened. “You get to work with real poor people?”
It was an odd question. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
Sarah nodded once, with emphasis. “That’s what I want to do. Help the poor, make things right, change the world.”
Angie felt her own eyebrows rise. “It’s a lofty ambition. But not very glamorous. My husband doesn’t like me being down there with that kind of—”
“Can you get me down there? To the shelter? With the poor people?”
“I suppose so. If you really want to go.”
“I do.”
Angie had never imagined that this would be their common ground. “I’m going to serve lunch on Sunday. You could probably—”
“Yes! Count me in.”
* * *
For the fourth time since coming to work that afternoon, Margery dialed home. If she coul
d just talk to Mick . . .
For the fourth time, the receiver was picked up, then set down hard. Stupid caller ID. He knew it was her. The fact that he didn’t ignore her call, but repeatedly took the time to answer and immediately hang up on her, told Margery his anger hadn’t passed. And wouldn’t.
Why did she even try? When Mick was mad, he was mad for ages. And nothing helped. Not crying, pleading, yelling, leaving love notes, making his favorite cookies, sending flowers, cleaning the house extra clean, seducing him . . . nothing worked. Even when Margery’s transgression was small, even when she was innocent, Mick held total control of his anger and wasn’t about to relinquish it because she wanted him to—especially because she wanted him to.
And so, after this fourth rejection, her mind moved into survival mode. In between customers she compiled a list of items she needed in order to function away from home: toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, lotion, makeup, shampoo . . . working in a store where she could get all these items at a discount was a bonus. But considering that Gladys or King had to ring her up, how could she get all these things without drawing suspicion?
And bathing? Where would she take a shower?
With that question in mind, Margery checked out the restroom, looking with new eyes. It was a unisex bathroom back by the office and was extra big to handle the handicap requirement. The floor and walls were completely covered with one-by-one-inch tiles. One sink. One toilet. Very functional—with an added perk: there was a drain in the middle of the floor.
Fueled by the possibilities, Margery took a stroll down the medical- supply aisle and spotted a handheld showerhead that attached to a faucet. With a little ingenuity, she could create her own shower and clean up the restroom afterward . . . if she had towels. She needed towels.
Then there was the issue of clothes. She couldn’t wear the same thing to work everyday. Plus, in order to sleep in the car she needed a pillow and a blanket. Neighbor’s Drugstore had none of these things.
Home did. She had no choice but to sneak home. But when? Usually, Mick would be at work during the day, but after getting out of jail this morning he’d made it clear he was taking the day off. And she couldn’t count on him going out at night. To be safe she’d have to wait until tomorrow. Surely, he’d go back to work tomorrow.
If he still had a job.
She shuddered at the thought of him losing his job. What bitter poison would that be to his mood? Jail, kicking his wife out of the house, then losing his job? Surely, he’d go back to work tomorrow. Even Mick wasn’t that dumb.
Margery saw the lights in the pharmacy section go out. She checked her watch. It was six. Quitting time. Time to go home.
Home sweet Oldsmobile.
* * *
Gennifer never thought she would be one of those people who practiced expressions in the mirror, but throughout the day, she’d done so in the firm’s restroom. By dinnertime, as she and her family entered Cleveland’s restaurant, she’d nearly perfected the surprised look of pleasure she would activate when she opened the jewelry box and saw the pearl necklace. She hated pearls. She would never, ever wear pearls.
But Douglas doesn’t know that.
Douglas didn’t know a lot of things.
And maybe it was time she got over it. A five-thousand-dollar necklace was a five-thousand-dollar necklace.
Gennifer didn’t need to open her menu. She always ordered the same thing: Fontina Chicken, no potato, and a house salad with raspberry vinaigrette. Protein was very important while on dialysis. Since it was her birthday she might splurge on the Death by Chocolate. What a way to go.
She guessed Douglas would get the prime rib, but Sarah . . . she looked at her mousy daughter, with her dark and heavy hair, skimming the menu. You could never tell about Sarah. She’d been known to just order dessert, or order two appetizers, or something fried.
Which was the last thing Sarah needed to eat. Celery and carrot sticks would have been good.
“They have really good salads,” Gennifer suggested.
No reaction.
“Leave her alone, Gen. This is your birthday,” Douglas said.
My birthday. Not her birthday.
The waiter came to take their order. “Anything to drink, ma’am?”
“Water’s fine.”
“How about wine?” Douglas asked. “To celebrate.”
Gennifer shook her head, regretting the absence of most beverages in her life. While on dialysis liquid intake was restricted to a quart a day. For someone who had lived on coffee and Diet Coke, it had been a difficult transition—but one Douglas hadn’t noticed.
Gennifer ordered her Fontina chicken . . .
“And for the young lady?”
Sarah closed her menu with a snap. “I’ll have the fettuccini . . .”
Pasta. Pasta is good.
“. . . alfredo.”
Great. Add a million grams of fat to my daughter’s burgeoning hips.
When the waiter left them, Douglas grinned. “Ready for your presents?”
“Sure.” Look of surprised pleasure ready. Set . . .
Douglas pulled a gift-wrapped box out of a small shopping bag and presented it to her. The shape was slightly off. So was the weight. She tore the paper away, revealing . . .
“A new PDA,” Douglas said.
“A new PDA,” Gennifer repeated. A gadget. A handheld, organizing gadget.
“You said you needed a new one.”
She had said that.
“Don’t you like it?”
So much for carefully orchestrated looks of pleasured surprise. “Thanks.”
“She hates it, Dad. Look at her,” Sarah said.
“Do you hate it?”
Yes. Completely. She didn’t want an office supply for her birthday. Not that she wanted a pearl necklace either, but—
Which led her to the main question: where was the necklace?
And worse yet: who was getting it?
Somehow she managed a smile. Somehow she did a better version of pleased while opening the Il Divo Christmas CD Sarah had gotten her (which she did like.) Somehow she ate dinner and said the right things at the right times.
But the questions remained, making even the temptation of dessert impossible.
* * *
While Douglas was in the walk-in closet getting ready for bed, Gennifer took a risk. As quietly as possible she pulled out his dresser drawers and felt around for the necklace. Nothing. She scanned the room, wondering where the box could have gone between this morning when she’d found it in the suitcase and—
The suitcase. She whipped around. It wasn’t by the window anymore. She moved to the closet. There it was, on the floor, opened, with a pair of khakis hanging out. Then she remembered. “You’re leaving again tomorrow, aren’t you?”
He hung up his suit coat. “You knew that.”
She knew that.
“Where are you going again?”
“Chicago. The main office. I may stay over. I may not have to.”
She looked at the suitcase. Was the necklace still inside? She took one of his favorite shirts off its hanger. “I’ll help you pack.”
He pulled her arm. “No. I’ll do it. I always do it.”
“But you get things wrinkled.”
“Since when?”
She had no defense. And no excuse to look in the suitcase.
He took her by the upper arms, and she started. A few inches down and he might have felt the dialysis portal in her arm. Long sleeves and dark rooms had kept it a secret so far. . . . “Are you coming to bed?”
It was the last thing she wanted to do. And yet . . . they’d always had a good sex life. She couldn’t mess with that.
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Rats.
* * *
Gennifer held her breath, gauging the breathing of her husband beside her. She jostled slightly to see if he reacted. When he didn’t, she slipped out of bed and went into the walk-in closet. She closed the d
oor behind her and flipped on the light. She even draped a blouse against the bottom of the door to keep the light from showing through to the other side.
The carry-on suitcase was upright, ready to roll out the door. She set it on its back, and started to unzip it. Should she do it quickly or inch the zipper along? Her nerves decided for her. She unzipped the case in one movement, then paused, listening for any sound from the bedroom. Douglas’s snore was a balm.
She opened the case. Her fingers began their exploration, pausing on the red herring of his grooming kit. But then they found their mark, halfway down, amid the carefully folded shirts and pants. The burgundy box. Opening it was salt in the wound, but she did it anyway. The pearls shone back at her. The question of her husband’s choice in jewelry was moot. Her preference was moot.
Because these gems were not for her. He’d bought them for someone else.
And bought her a Palm Pilot.
“Gen?”
She slid the box in between the clothes and dropped the lid. She kicked the blouse into the corner, slipped off the light, and opened the door. “What?”
“What are you doing? It’s one fifteen.”
“I’m getting a sweatshirt. I’m cold. Go back to sleep.”
He mumbled something and turned over, satisfied. She closed the door most of the way and went back to the suitcase, zipping it shut an inch at a time. She set it upright, grabbed a sweatshirt, and pulled it over her head.
She was cold all right. Cold and very confused.
* * *
She was cold and very confused.
Margery lay on her side in the backseat of the car, thankful that unlike newer models, this old clunker had a flat bench. She could even tuck the seat-belt clasps into the seat, out of the way. Small blessings.
With one last check of the parking lot of Hilltop Park, she tucked an old jacket she’d found in the trunk over her bare knees. Next, she adjusted her purse to use as a pillow, moving the straps out of the way. She tried it out with her hand, and when she felt her comb poking outward, she adjusted it so the surface was as smooth as possible. That prepared, she draped the sleeves of her jacket over a shoulder and carefully descended into a sleeping position. A position for sleep—if sleep would come.
Her mind raced. Her to-do list had moved far beyond the usual list of daily living to include such things as Win Mick back and Pay Gladys back and Get back home.