Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

  “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I felt like some company,” Adriane says, setting bags of food on my coffee table. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  I catch a sound of sadness in her voice. Hmm. “I’m starved,” I say with a little too much cheer. “I’ll get some plates.”

  “Are you ready for New York?” Addy asks, coming into the kitchen behind me and opening the cabinet for glasses.

  “The question is, are they ready for me?” I grin at her over my shoulder.

  She laughs. “Now you’re talking. Myers-Smith won’t know what hit them.”

  “Well, let’s not go too far. I do want them to hire me.”

  “Oh, yes, right.”

  I grab a tapered candle from the mantel before we settle on the couch for dinner.

  “Nice touch,” Adriane says as I light the candle. She pulls open the first food bag and amazing aromas waft through the house.

  “Oh, yum, yum, yum. This is a great New York sendoff.” I choose the mushroom-smothered sirloin from one of the cartons.

  “Can you imagine that in a month or two you could be living in New York or Chicago?” Adriane spears a chicken breast and drops it onto her plate.

  “No, I can’t, but living in a big metropolitan city would be fabulous.”

  She nods, cutting her chicken into small bites. “I loved growing up near New York City, but now you couldn’t drag me away from the beach.”

  I laugh. “I never got into the beach.” I notice Adriane is shoving her food around the plate without eating.

  I set my fork and knife down. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  She peers up at me and with a wobbly sigh, puts her plate on the coffee table and covers her face with her hands.

  “Adriane, what’s wrong?” For a moment I feel her sadness. I scoot over next to her.

  She weeps without a word for several minutes. I hug her shoulders.

  When she sits up and wipes her face with her napkin, she tells me with a half laugh, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your evening with my tears.”

  “Please, you’ve endured my whining lately. Did you get a book rejection or something?”

  She blows her nose and crashes against the back of the couch. “Of course not. For that, you’d be driving me to the E.R.”

  I smile. “A thousand pardons, then.”

  “You know my story, right?”

  “Which one? Fact or fiction?”

  She lifts her hands to her head and squeezes the short ends of her hair between her fingers. “Fact. My family.”

  “Uh-oh.” Adriane’s family picture is in the dictionary under dysfunctional. “What’d they do this time? And who?” I ask.

  “My brother.”

  I nod. “The one who works at Kennedy Space Center?”

  “Yes. We were supposed to meet at Carraba’s for his birthday dinner. My treat.” Her voice quivers and she bats away tears.

  “He didn’t show, did he?”

  She pinches her lips, sniffles and shakes her head.

  “Sugar, I’m sorry. How rude.”

  Through her tears she explains, “You and I think so, but when I called him to see where he was, he got mad and defensive. Said he didn’t feel like a sermon on his birthday.”

  I grimace. “What does that mean?”

  “That he’s paranoid.” She laughs. “He’s so defensive if I even mention God or church. He claims I’m shoving it down his throat. But believe me, I’m very careful what I say around him.”

  I hand her another napkin-tissue. “Sometimes the silent sermons are the worst.”

  She blows her nose again, nodding. “I guess so. For all the grief I’m getting I might as well say the words.”

  I grab her hands. “Let’s pray, give the situation over to Jesus and eat this great food before it gets cold.”

  She looks at me, the whites of her big brown eyes streaked with red. “Thank you, Macy.”

  “Any time, friend, any time.”

  We pray and take a moment to wait on God. Adriane’s breathing slows and I can tell she’s being filled with His peace. After a few minutes she retrieves her plate, smiles at me and picks up a big bite of chicken.

  I grin and return to my steak. With pleasure.

  Midchew, Adriane absently reaches for the Beauty High reunion flyer dangling from under a pile of mail on the end table. “‘Emcee and host, Macy Moore, Most Likely To Succeed.’”

  “Please, don’t torment me. I’m enjoying my dinner.”

  “Who’s Joley?” She points to one of the contact names on the bottom of the flyer. “I like that name. It’d be great for a heroine.”

  “She’s a classmate and on the reunion committee. Back in the day, she was Dylan’s girlfriend.”

  “Ah, the competition.”

  “Not even in the same league,” I confess.

  Adriane peers at me with her head tipped sideways. “Gorgeous?”

  “Very. Plus she’s nice and sweet—you know, altogether sickening. She’s married now.”

  “Really?”

  “To a millionaire car dealer.”

  Adriane laughs. “It’s always the way, isn’t it?”

  “Not in my life.”

  Adriane digs in the Carraba’s bag and retrieves a capped cup of butter. “For our bread,” she says, pointing to the other bag.

  I peer in to find a warm loaf of bread and a carton of alfredo noodles.

  As we fix ourselves up with the sides, Adriane ventures, “Tell me, why do you like Dylan?”

  “Like him?” I tear at the slice of thick bread. “He’s just a friend.”

  “Really?”

  Clearly Adriane is over her brother’s neglect and probing into my life.

  “You know, your eyes glaze over at the mention of his name and I bet your heart goes pitter-patter.”

  I make a face. “I beg your pardon—my heart never pitter-pats.”

  She laughs. “Oh, I think it does. Dylan, Dylan, Dylan.”

  “Stop,” I say, trying not to laugh. My mouth is full of bread.

  With a shake of her head, Adriane concludes, “He must be fabulous.”

  “In a word—” I sigh dreamily “—yes.” I don’t confess my next thought out loud because Adriane will reprimand me, but truthfully the Good Ship Dylan Braun has sailed. He lives in Beauty, I live here—maybe soon Chicago or New York.

  Adriane twirls noodles on the end of her fork. “Don’t you find it more than coincidence that he’s still single and you’re still single—”

  “No, I don’t. What are you implying?” I know what she’s implying, but I want to hear her silly little words.

  “That maybe there’s really something between you two.”

  Whoo, now that’s a load of silly words. I fidget, reaching for the Diet Coke bottle to refresh our glasses. Then I have a thought. “Remember that Oprah show?”

  Adriane furrows her brow. “Which Oprah show?”

  “The one with the authors of the book He’s Just Not That Into You.”

  “Right, yes. I met those authors at a book party in New York during my last visit.”

  “Very nice. Here’s my point. If Dylan wanted to pursue a relationship with me, he would.”

  “Hasn’t he?” She regards me and I sense another cockamamie theory brewing behind her beady little eyes. “He did come to visit you. That’s gotta mean something. Perhaps he’s waiting for you to give him the green light.”

  “There’s no light, Adriane. We aren’t even in the same city, let alone on the same street, the same block, looking at the same traffic light.”

  “Don’t be literal when I’m speaking symbolically. Just because you’re not in the same town doesn’t mean you should let love pass you by.”

  I smirk. “Oh, look who’s talking. Eat your dinner.”

  She shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

  “I know. Eat your dinner.”

  We finish eating and clean up, chatting about her next book, chatting abo
ut all the great things to see and do in Chicago, which reminds Adriane of a great shopping spree she had once at the St. Louis station, which then leads us to sing “Meet me in St. Louis,” which leads to watching the DVD.

  Curled up in my lounger, I try to shove all thoughts of Dylan from my pea brain while the opening credits of the movie flash across the screen. My attention needs to be on my career, not chasing down a high school crush.

  Meanwhile, Adriane stretches out on the couch, boldly singing along with Judy Garland, off-key. She makes me laugh.

  Midway through the movie Lucy calls to check in, and stresses her jealousy over the mini girls’ night.

  I tease her. “You can come over any time. Just be sure to let Jack know you picked us over him.”

  “It’s not fair. I want both.”

  I relay the conversation to Adriane who, as I suspected, expresses no sympathy. “You go on with your man. Leave us Single Saved Sisters alone.”

  Before she hangs up, Lucy demands, “Next time, call me.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And call me when you get to the city.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Don’t be smart. Bye.”

  I laugh. “Bye.”

  At midnight Adriane crawls off the couch with a yawn and carries her glass and plate to the kitchen. “You have to get up in a few hours, don’t you?”

  I follow with my own dishes. “Yeah, but I can sleep on the plane.” I hug her. “I’m so glad you came over.”

  She kisses my cheek. “Me, too. I had a great time. Thank you so much. This was much better than being with my grumpy brother.” She slings her purse over her shoulder. “Good luck in New York.”

  “I’ll take Manhattan.”

  She smiles. “You’re a shining star in my life, Macy. Maybe I will write a book about you.”

  “Oh, please. You want to stay published, don’t you?”

  When she opens the door, the April night seems atypically cold and has me rethinking the strappy sandals I packed. Maybe I should go with heels.

  “I can’t find my keys,” Adriane says, searching her bag. “I must have dropped them on the counter.” She runs inside to see.

  I wait for her by the door, shivering, but I’m amazingly content. Content in body, content in soul and spirit. What a great way to end the weekend and start the week.

  When the phone rings, I holler for Adriane to pick it up, fully expecting it to be Lucy demanding an update on our evening.

  Adriane hands me the cordless with a puzzled expression. “I don’t know who it is,” she whispers.

  I take the phone. “Hello.”

  “Macy, it’s Elaine.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m in so much pain.” I hear her wheezing and moaning.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Adriane insists on going with me, and as we scurry toward Mrs. Woodward’s walk, I update Adriane on my neighbor’s recurring condition. “She was supposed to have gallbladder surgery, but for some reason it never got scheduled.”

  I suspect Mrs. W. avoided confirming the date and time. The front door is unlocked, so we let ourselves in. Elaine Woodward is curled up on the couch, sweating and pale.

  I make a command decision. “You’re going to the E.R.”

  She’s in so much pain she can’t lift her head, but she has the moxie to protest. “No, no, it’ll pass. Just stay with me.” Mrs. Woodward’s hand trembles as she touches my arm. Her skin is hot on mine.

  “Could be rupturing,” Adriane whispers in my ear.

  “I concur, Doctor.”

  She grins at me, then kneels in front of Mrs. Woodward, brushing a gray curl away from the older woman’s face, and speaks with extraordinary tenderness. This is a rare side of the wounded, pessimistic Adriane Fox. “Hi, Mrs. Woodward. I’m a friend of Macy’s. Your gallbladder could be rupturing. You need to go to the hospital.”

  “Macy?” Mrs. Woodward strains to open her eyes. Her dull eyes search the room until she sees me.

  “We’re taking you to the E.R. No questions,” I say.

  She gives me a slight nod. “No ambulance. Macy, you drive me.”

  “Fine.” I run home to get my car while Adriane helps Mrs. Woodward off with her slippers and on with her shoes. I’m so glad she is here to help. I’ve known Addy for many years, but never felt this close to her. I’m grateful for tonight. Amazing how the tragedies in our lives bind us together with cords of camaraderie.

  They’re walking out as I pull up. Adriane holds Mrs. Woodward steady as she eases down into the passenger seat. She groans and gasps.

  As I shut the door, Adriane whispers in my ear. “Let me take her. You’ve got the interview. I just turned in a manuscript and for once don’t have a looming deadline. Let me help.”

  I slip behind the wheel and check the car clock. Twelve-fifteen. By the time I get Mrs. Woodward checked in and wait around, it’s going to be the wee hours of the morning. My flight is in six hours. Suddenly I don’t feel so good.

  I smooth my hand on Mrs. Woodward’s arm. She feels so thin and frail under my palm. “I’m supposed to fly to New York in a few hours. Would it be all right if Adriane takes you? She’s one of my best friends. She’ll take great care of you.”

  She presses her hands to her cheeks and shakes her head.

  Adriane kneels and offers, “It’s not a problem, Mrs. Woodward. I can stay as long as you need me.”

  Mrs. Woodward shakes her head again. I’m about to make another command decision, since she’s sort of done this to herself. New York is the biggest opportunity of my life. I’m sorry she can’t have what she wants, but at least she’ll be taken care of in the hospital. And Adriane will be with her. It’s not as if I’m leaving her alone.

  “Look, Mrs. Woodward, I have an important job interview—”

  She touches my hand with hers. I’m shocked to find it wet with her tears. Suddenly I’m hit with how overwhelmed she is, how scared and lonely. I can’t do it. I can’t leave her. For once, it’s not about me.

  “I’ll take her.” I start the engine.

  “Macy, are you sure?” Adriane asks. “You’ll miss your flight, your big opportunity.”

  I tip my head toward Mrs. Woodward. “No, this is my big opportunity.”

  All the traffic lights are green and I make it to the hospital in record time. The E.R. staff tend to Mrs. Woodward with an uncanny swiftness and wheel her into surgery within an hour of our arrival. Adriane calls my cell for an update as I doze in the waiting room.

  “She’s in surgery.” I yawn between each word.

  “Do you need anything?” In contrast to me, Adriane is wide-awake.

  “No, I’m good. I’ll just sleep in the waiting room until they tell me she’s okay and in her room.”

  “Let me know what I can do. Really, Macy, I don’t have anything else scheduled and Mrs. Woodward is such a darling.”

  “She is, isn’t she? I’ll call you later.”

  By midmorning I drive home, exhausted and sore, as if I’d run into a brick wall. My hair is oily and stinky, my face grimy and my breath hideous.

  My sweet, darling neighbor came through the operation without complication and is tucked away in a private room until tomorrow. She looked pale and weak when I said goodbye, but the shadow of the Grim Reaper no longer tainted her round cheeks.

  “Thank you so much, Macy.” She warmed my heart with a kiss on my hand. “You missed your flight.”

  “Not a problem. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  Being with her in a time of crisis reminds me what life is supposed to be about. It takes the edge off recent events and trumpets, “It’s not all about you, Macy Moore.” Mrs. Woodward is one of the precious diamonds I’ve found in the rubble.

  “Can you take a flight tonight?”

  “I could,” I said with a nod, “if you don’t need me.”

  “I can manage. Perhaps Dan Montgomery can come
by if I need, or that dear boy Drag.”

  “I’d like my friend Adriane to pick you up tomorrow. Would that be okay with you?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes, she’s lovely.”

  “She thinks you’re pretty special, too.”

  I pull into my garage. Exhausted, I prop myself against the kitchen counter and dial the airlines, hoping I can change my flight to the 7:00 p.m.

  Fortunately, I can. With a stopover, I’ll arrive in New York in the early-morning hours, but I’ll make the interview.

  With the excitement of emergency surgery waning, sleep beckons me. But there’s no time for a nap. I drag myself up to the shower, debating about calling a cab or leaving my car at the airport.

  I condition my hair, which is in desperate need of a cut. Though I have plenty of time to drive to Orlando to get one of Michele’s masterpieces, I can’t justify spending the money these days.

  I slip into a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and run down to Drag’s.

  I knock three times, loudly. Once again he answers looking the way I feel.

  “Macy…s’up?”

  “I took Mrs. Woodward to the E.R. last night.”

  “Dude, what happened?”

  “Gallbladder.”

  “Whoa, is she okay?” His uncombed, bleached-by-the-sun blond locks swing freely as he bobs his head.

  “She’s fine, but I’m going out of town tonight. Can you look in on Mrs. Woodward again?” Waves of sleep surf over me.

  “Absolutely.”

  “My friend Adriane will pick her up from the hospital tomorrow, but you’ll need to look in on her until Wednesday when I get back.”

  “No prob, Macy. I’ll watch out for the old lady.”

  “Thanks, Drag.”

  “Hey.” He leans against the door frame. “I’ve been reading about that dude King David.”

  His declaration catches me off guard. “Really?”

  “He was one bad dude, raiding and pillaging. Wrote a lot about God, though.”

  “The Bible says he loved the Lord with all his heart.”

  “He had a funny way of showing it.”

  “Keep reading.” I’m curious how and when he picked up a Bible, but I don’t ask. It’s strange to think our pavement conversation had such an impact on him.