by Becky Melby
Where was his gift of discernment back in October? April sighed and rubbed her hand across her eyes. “Maybe he’s got a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on.”
Yvonne stood and took her glass to the sink, only ten feet from the couch in the small apartment. “I have to get some sleep.” Putting her hands on her hips, she turned to face April. “Come to Bible study with me on Wednesday.”
April picked up the white four-foot-high bear and plopped it on the couch next to her. Leaning against it, she curled her feet beneath her. “I have to wash my hair that night.”
❧
She should have gone to bed. But Snow Bear made an inviting pillow, and she hadn’t had the energy to move after Yvonne left. Now, squinting at the time on the microwave in the tiny alcove known as her kitchen, April massaged the kink in her neck. It was 2:32. Two hours of heavy, dreamless sleep in the fetal position and now she was awake, but her right leg wasn’t. Dragging herself off the couch, she shook the pins and needles out. Her numb foot slid on something, and she looked down. Her orange vest from the cleanup. Pictures of a day she’d like to forget flashed in her head.
Seth Bachelor was only part of the reason the day had gone wrong—she’d started the morning in a lousy mood. Grief was a strange thing. She’d been upbeat all week, buoyed by the positive feedback from the water tower show. Making arrangements for next week’s Slice of Life with April Douglas had kept the adrenaline flowing and her time at the station busy. But from the moment she’d opened her eyes the day before, sadness had settled on her chest like a weighted vest.
Thoughts of Caitlyn permeated even the most inane details of her morning. Caitlyn writing “Happy Birthday, Ape” on the bathroom mirror with toothpaste. . .the food fight Caitlyn had started with scrambled eggs because April had used too much pepper. . .trying on wigs and turbans after they’d both shaved their heads before Caitlyn’s first round of chemo. And then, reliving moments from last year’s Cleanup Day and her sister’s words, “I’m gonna beat this thing.”
The way April had blown up about the ATV slamming into “her” pile of trash was evidence of her lousy frame of mind. Had she known who the driver was before she yelled, there would have been some sense to her outburst, at least in her mind. But the accident wasn’t his fault. The brakes had failed, and he’d deserved some slack under the circumstances. It wasn’t like her to go ballistic without first checking out the facts.
Yvonne’s protective defense of the man was interesting. “Seth’s really a nice guy.” She’d said it twice. April had been in a miserable mood at the cleanup, but that didn’t explain his bristling responses to her questions. So where was the truth in all the contradictions? Was Seth Bachelor a chameleon, showing his “nice guy” side only when it fit his purposes? Maybe she should show up at the Wednesday night study after all. . .seeing the other side would be fascinating.
Then again, maybe she should just wash her hair.
❧
A low and distant rumble woke April to semiconsciousness. Pale pink light seeped between the slats of her blinds. Dawn. Sunday. What was the rumble? Her eyes shot open; her hand groped toward the nightstand where her cell phone quivered against the alarm clock. “Hello?”
“April? It’s Jill. Sorry to wake you. I’m wondering if you’d be willing to do a live coverage.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Two kids from the high school were in a car accident last night. One of them was killed; the other’s in critical condition. Some of the students are holding a prayer vigil outside the hospital. Orlando’s going to cover the press conference with the highway patrol; I don’t have anyone else who can go to the hospital.”
“I can do it. Do you have the names of the kids?”
“Yeah. . .here somewhere. . .Dave Martin was the one who was killed. Brock Louis is the one in the hospital.”
“Oh, no.” Her heart skipped a beat. She sat up, throwing off the covers.
“April? Do you know them?”
“Brock was a friend of my sister’s. How bad is he?”
“I don’t have details. Critical is all I know. Can you do this?”
Her eyes closed, April lifted a prayer and took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
❧
Six o’clock on Sunday morning. The streets of Pine Bluff were silent, though a few hours from now they’d be brimming with early season tourists in search of breakfast. As she pulled out of her parking space and into the alley that paralleled Main Street, April turned on the radio. She preferred silence this early, but knew she needed something to reset her mood dial. KPOG’s six-to-nine slot was filled by Nick Joplin, an animated charismatic Christian who’d grown up in Warroad, just south of the Canadian border. Nick could talk faster than anyone April had ever met, though he didn’t touch caffeine. “Got a Holy Spirit buzz going on,” he claimed.
“It’s 6:01 in beautiful downtown Pine Bluff. Daffodils bloomin’ by my back door this mornin’. Just gotta praise God for color right now. Thank You, Lord, for all the little added touches. It’s got its problems, for sure, but it’s a fine world You made us. A fine world.”
As always, Nick had her smiling in the first minute. When he played a praise song, she sang along.
Her 2001 Grand Prix knew the route from her apartment to the station and then to the hospital. How many times had she driven that circuit? But this wasn’t the time to reminisce. Lord, let me be a comfort. Let me respect their grief but find a way to share their story. She turned the music up and sang until she got to the hospital.
She’d expected maybe a dozen teens. . .a small prayer circle near the front entrance. What she saw raised goose bumps on her arms. The grassy area inside the circle drive was full, not just teens but adults and young children. Fifty people, maybe more. . .at six thirty on a Sunday morning.
Father God, be glorified in this place. Let Your presence be felt.
❧
There was something invigorating about Nick Joplin’s voice. Seth wasn’t the kind who needed three cups of coffee to get moving in the morning, and Nick’s voice and choice of contemporary and gospel music fit his energy level. It was a good way to start a Sunday morning.
He was whistling to “Give Me Words to Speak” as he stepped out the back door and dumped an empty dog food can into the garbage. Just looking at the dark green bag that lined the trash can stopped the song on his lips. Trash. He’d picked up more of it yesterday than he’d touched in all of his twenty-seven years. He slammed the aluminum lid harder than he needed to and went back into the house, giving the screen door a shove for good measure. Maynard looked up from his chicken liver hash, reprimanding him for disturbing his breakfast.
“Sorry, boy.” Seth ruffled the part-mastiff’s ears. “That’s what a woman’ll do to you.”
As he poured a cup of Highlander Grog coffee, his gaze landed on the flashing red light on the kitchen phone. Another reminder of what a woman could do. He’d looked at the caller ID when the call came last night but hadn’t picked up the phone. The last thing he needed to hear at the end of a frustrating day was Brenda Cadwell’s voice. As he knew it would, a text message on his cell phone had followed in minutes. His answer had been short and not so sweet.
Glowering at the annoying light on the phone, he headed for the bathroom where he turned on the shower radio along with the water, needing the music to keep his Sunday morning mind-set.
It didn’t work. Thoughts of yesterday’s fiasco flooded his mind. As if failing brakes and exploding garbage bags weren’t enough, he had to go and have a run-in with that woman. Sarcastic, defensive, grating. . .April Douglas had been all that and then some. What was it about him that attracted the good-looking ones with attitudes? Where were all the soft-spoken godly women hiding out? And why was self-absorption so in style these days? He’d fallen for the queen of me-centered beauties, literally, and until he found someone who was everything Miss-St.-Cloud-wannabe wasn’t, his last name would also describe his marital status.
> The shower radio was still on as he wiped the steam off the mirror. Humming to the music, he looked down at the book on the counter, a commentary on the book of Romans. This morning, the adult Sunday school class at church would be studying the last half of chapter 12, the part about showing kindness to your enemies. If there’d been a way to get out of this lesson, he would have, but it was his week to facilitate the discussion. Once again, the thought hit him that God had a sense of humor.
Back in January, when he’d signed the clipboard, he had no idea what the topic would be this week. If the Christian Education Committee knew the extent of his hypocrisy, they’d show him the door.
Seth waited for “Sunday’s Comin’ ” to end before reaching around the shower door to turn off the radio. As he touched the knob, Nick Joplin’s voice changed, suddenly somber. “Two local teens were involved in an accident on Highway 65 around midnight last night. David Martin, a senior at Pine Bluff High School, was pronounced dead at the scene. Another senior, Brock Louis, is in critical condition at Emerson Memorial. April Douglas is live at the hospital where students have been holding a prayer vigil since word of the accident got out during the night. April, I understand you know the young man who was injured.”
“I do, Nick, and I have to echo what I’ve been hearing from the people gathered here this morning. Brock is the kind of guy who never plays favorites; he makes everybody, teachers and students alike, feel. . .like. . . ,” her voice faltered, “like a friend.” Several seconds passed. “Dave Martin was one of those friends. He and Brock had been buddies since grade school. The kids, the faculty, and the staff are reeling from the loss. Allison Johansen was at the party Dave and Brock attended last night. Allison, I know it’s not easy for you to talk right now, but can you give us some idea what Dave would want us to remember about his life?”
Seth stood, towel wrapped around his waist, fingers resting on the radio knob, transfixed by the tenderness in April Douglas’s voice.
Maybe he’d been wrong about her.
Four
Riverdance. . .at the Orpheum Theater in Minneapolis. She’d waited a long time for this.
April stood in front of her full-length mirror as she blow-dried her hair. On the back of the closet door hung the black dress with white polka dots she’d be wearing tonight. For once, she and Yvonne had agreed on a point of fashion—they were both wearing black and white.
Anticipation of Friday had carried her through a difficult week. She’d gone to the memorial service for Dave Martin on Thursday. She’d never met the boy, but neither had many of the twelve hundred people who had packed the high school auditorium and overflowed onto the football field. The senior class, Caitlyn’s class, had filled row after row of folding chairs in the same space they would occupy at graduation just two weeks from now. Sitting in the bleachers, just as she had for so many basketball games, April had tried not to let her thoughts center on her own grief, but it had been an impossible task. In the third row, right behind Dave Martin’s family, a single chair sat empty. Caitlyn’s two best friends sat on either side.
As of Tuesday, Brock was in stable condition. April had gone to see him after he’d been moved from intensive care. When she’d held her hand out to him, he’d gripped it weakly and smiled through the tears that dampened his pillow. “Caitlyn’s whipping Dave at one-on-one up there,” he’d said. Through her own tears, April had agreed.
God has a way of taking our tarnished dreams and turning them into something beautiful. She didn’t even know where that phrase had come from, but it was becoming a daily chant. She plugged in her curling iron and picked up her digital recorder.
“When Caitlyn and I ordered our tickets for Riverdance, we both knew there was a good chance I’d be going without her, but maybe the pretending gave her a few more days, or maybe it just gave her a little more to smile about in the”—the phone rang—“time she had left.”
Snapping off the recorder, she lunged across the bed for the phone. “Hello.”
“You know I didn’t mean that remark.”
Almost two weeks had passed since the “My daughter, the next Oprah” comment. April tucked the phone against her shoulder and picked a black bracelet from the jumble of jewelry on her dresser. This wasn’t the time for confrontation. Nothing was going to undo the delicious anticipation of a night at the Orpheum. “How are you, Mom?”
“It’s been a hard week.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Do you know what it’s like when your only living daughter doesn’t come to see you? Do you know what it’s like when your ex-husband calls you out of the blue just to say you were a lousy wife?”
“Dad called?” Sickeningly familiar tension squeezed her abdominal muscles.
“Over a week ago. Not that you care.”
Another too-familiar sensation took over. Her pulse picked up speed, and her ribs wouldn’t expand enough to take in air. “Mom, I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to go.”
“You’re getting ready, aren’t you? You’re going anyway, even without Caitlyn.”
Fingers choking the receiver, April sank onto the bed. “Yes. I’m going anyway. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hit the button that disconnected her from her mother.
Her hair was only partially curled when the phone rang again. The hoarse voice on the other end was only barely recognizable.
“Yvonne? What’s wrong? Are you crying?”
“No.” A coughing spell crackled through the receiver. “I’m sick.”
“What? You were fine this morning!” April glanced at the clock, ashamed that her thoughts were totally selfish.
“I know. It came on so suddenly.”
Sure of the answer, she asked, anyway. “Do you feel good enough to go?”
“No. I’m so sorry. But I found someone else to go with you.”
April flopped onto the bed, facedown, talking into the spread. “I don’t want to go with anyone else.”
“I know, but you can’t not go, and it would be no fun at all to go alone. Be ready at four, just like we planned. I made five o’clock reservations at JP’s for dinner.”
“With who?”
Another coughing fit erupted in her ear. She waited as Yvonne wheezed, sputtered, and gasped. “I think I’m going to throw u—” The line went dead.
❧
She gave Yvonne enough time to do what she had to do in the bathroom and then walked across the hall. With a warning knock, she turned the door handle. It didn’t budge. That was weird. Since theirs were the only two apartments and the door at the bottom of the stairs had a dead bolt, they rarely locked their doors. “Yvonne? You okay?”
Seconds passed, and then a weak voice said, “I’ll be fine. Just the flu. I don’t want you getting it.”
“Can I bring you anything? I’ve got a can of chicken soup I can heat up.”
“No. No foo—” The muffled sound of the bathroom door slamming covered her words.
By three thirty, April had worn a path in the berber carpeting between her bedroom and her front door. Dressed in the polka-dot dress and Yvonne’s sling-back black shoes, she paced the living room, talking out loud to the two fish in separate bowls on a table beneath her front window. “She can’t leave me hanging like this. Willy, you wouldn’t do that to Splash, would you? Of course not, and you guys hate each other.” Once more, she walked across the hall, heels clacking on the old wood floor. “Hey, I know you feel like death warmed over, but you have to at least tell me who I’m going with.”
She waited, wondering if she could possibly have been heard over the sound of the movie on the other side of the door. She recognized the dialogue and Matthew McConaughey’s voice. Yvonne was watching The Wedding Planner. Finally, the door opened, but only a few inches. Yvonne’s pale face appeared in the crack above the brass door chain. “It’s a date. Unlock the downstairs door and have fun.” The door slammed in April’s face.
❧
This was not good. This was worse than not good.
While Yvonne was engaged to one of the most charming men April had ever met, her taste in guy friends was not so great.
Halfway across the hall, a horrifying thought hit like a cherry bomb going off in her head. She wouldn’t dare. . . . “Yvonne!” Backtracking, she pounded on the door. “Tell me you wouldn’t set me up with Seth Bachelor!”
A weak laugh came from behind the door. “Huh. . .why didn’t I think of that? You’re so paranoid! It’s Friday. Seth does the six o’clock news.”
April’s fist unclenched and slid along the door as an exaggerated sigh poured out of her.
But her relief was fleeting. Yvonne’s New Year’s Eve party came to mind in high-def. At least twenty of Yvonne’s friends from the Cities had crowded into the tiny apartment April was now locked out of. True, she probably shouldn’t have gone in the first place. It was just six weeks after Caitlyn died, and she wasn’t up for a party. So maybe, just like last Saturday, her mood had colored her opinions. But still. . .her frame of mind hadn’t influenced the main topics of discussion that night. Was brown really the new black? Did one really need live plants in each room to get the right flow of positive energy?
April unlocked the downstairs door, tromped back up to her apartment, shut her door with a controlled click, and proceeded to stomp her feet like a two-year-old. In the midst of her tantrum, her gaze landed on the black purse that concealed her digital recorder. She’d planned to record her impressions of Riverdance for tomorrow’s show, but why not start now? Surely someday, she’d want to do a segment on blind dates gone wrong. Slipping the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she dug out her hands-free microphone, hooked the recorder at her neckline, and began to talk as she paced.
“My best friend feels sorry for me. She’s never voiced that sentiment, of course, but I can tell. Case in point. . .when she suddenly came down with the flu today—today when we have tickets for Riverdance at the Orpheum—she set me up on a blind date with one of her friends. I’ve been looking forward to this day for months, and now, frankly, I’m scared stiff. I’ve met her guy friends. Please, no offense to any of you, but you’re not my type. I love Yvonne dearly, but her criteria for friend picking are way different than mine.