“Like you can’t forget her,” Melinda said quietly. “Right?” she said louder, forcing the other two to turn back to her. “Maddie Routh. You can’t forget about her. At least that’s how I feel. I came here today because I can’t stop wondering about the baby.”
“Me, too,” Joanna said. “I think about her all the time. I wonder if I could’ve saved her husband if I hadn’t been helping those kids.”
“You had to help the kids,” Karen said. “Who wouldn’t help the kids first? It’s natural. We all did.”
“I know,” Joanna said. “But I was the first one out there. And he died.”
They all gazed out the window again. Melinda would never forget how Maddie Routh had sobbed as her husband lost consciousness.
He’s gone, isn’t he? Talk to him. Michael! Michael, say something! Tell him. Tell him to stay with me. Tell him the baby needs him. Oh, God, she’d cried.
It’ll be okay, Melinda kept saying over and over again, because it was all she could say. She’d been trained to deal with these types of situations. She handled them every day. She knew how to save lives, and she knew when a life was too far gone to the other side to be saved. She’d seen the look in Michael Routh’s eyes so many times before, and it was never good news. Calm down. We’re going to get you out. Be calm, she’d repeated.
“I prayed with him,” Karen said, interrupting Melinda’s thoughts. “It was the weirdest thing. I haven’t been to church since I was ten years old. I never pray. But somehow I knew it was the only thing I could do for him. So I prayed the Lord’s Prayer, because it was the only prayer I could remember. Ever since, I’ve prayed it every night before bed.”
“I heard you,” Joanna said. “I thought that was what you were doing.”
“It still doesn’t help,” Karen said, and she picked up her coffee and took a long sip.
“Do you know anything about the baby?” Melinda asked. “Have you heard anything? Do they know anything here?”
Karen and Joanna shook their heads, and Joanna went back to eating, only the bites were very small and tentative now.
“I should go to work,” Karen said. “I can’t be late. I’ve got some favors I might need to call in.” She wadded up the napkin on her lap and placed it on the table.
“Where do you work?” Joanna asked.
“A law office,” Karen said. “But I’m not a lawyer, so you don’t have to start hating me.” She smiled wanly. “You?”
Joanna chewed, swallowed, seemed to consider what she might say. “I am unemployed at the moment. I kind of abandoned my job. My life, really. This is the only place I’ve been in a month. My parents are starting to worry I’ve died. I should call them.”
“Yes, you should,” Karen said. “Take it from me, it drives you a little crazy when you don’t hear from your adult kids.” She picked up her cell phone and waggled it in the air before dropping it into her purse. “Although I guess if my son’s worst problem was unemployment, I would throw a party.”
“Well, that’s probably not my worst problem,” Joanna said blandly. “But that’s a story for another day, I suppose.”
Melinda drained her orange juice, almost shocked to see it empty, and shook her head emphatically. “I’ve got to know,” she said. “I can’t just keep wondering forever what happened to him.”
“Who?” Joanna asked.
“The baby. Maddie Routh’s baby. I have to know if he survived. I want to at least be able to say he survived. Isn’t it eating you up?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘eating me up,’” Joanna said. She pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. “I mean, I’ve thought about them, but it’s not, you know, keeping me up at night.”
“It’s kept me up,” Karen said. “Not every night, but I’ve been up thinking about them.” She looked at Melinda. “You said ‘him.’ Do you know that it’s a boy?”
“No, that’s just what I was picturing,” Melinda said. She scooted the empty juice glass on the table between her fingers, knowing, but unable to admit to herself, that this was only partly about the Routh baby. It was mostly about her own. “But I can’t just keep picturing for the rest of my life. I can’t imagine myself at eighty years old, wondering whether the Routh baby is getting ready to retire, or died young, or—I don’t know—anything at all.” She pushed the glass away, exasperated, and leaned forward. “I can’t explain it, but I feel like when that crash happened, something happened to me. Or to us, maybe. The baby and me. Or, hell, I don’t know, maybe all of us.” She swirled her finger around to indicate herself, Joanna, and Karen. “A month and a half ago, I’d never met you before, but here I am sitting with you now, acting like a crazy person. I’m not sure how to put it in words, exactly. It’s just like—”
“It connected us,” Joanna said for her.
Melinda nodded. “In a sense, yeah.”
Karen’s phone beeped and she jumped. She reached into her purse, checked the caller ID, seemed torn, but then pressed a button to silence it and dropped it back into her purse.
“I thought you were waiting for that,” Joanna said.
Karen waved her off. “She’ll call back,” she said, though her face seemed to say otherwise, and it occurred to Melinda that she didn’t know these two ladies at all. Not really. So why did she feel like she could crash in on them at the diner whenever she felt like it, plop down in a booth with them, and start talking crazy stuff about the Routh baby? Was it that Joanna was right—that they were somehow connected by the crash? Because, try as Melinda might to make this meeting appropriately uncomfortable or awkward . . . it just wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to take you away from your phone call. I’m sure you have your own stuff to worry about, without me bringing up the crash over and over again.”
Karen shook her head. “But it’s not as if I wouldn’t think about it if you didn’t bring it up. I’m the one who’s here every day, remember? And, yes, I have my own stuff. A lot of stuff. But this is important. I think I understand what you’re saying about that baby. I feel it, too.”
Joanna pushed her barely touched plate away from her. “I do, too,” she said. “But what are we going to do about it? It’s not like we can find Maddie Routh and just demand to know how the pregnancy is going.”
Melinda leaned back against the booth, chewing her upper lip. Karen hoisted her chin up with her palm and looked out the window again. Joanna picked up her fork and idly swirled it through the gravy on her plate. Time ticked by, and even the waitress seemed to hover, but not interrupt.
“Well, why can’t we?” Melinda finally asked. “Really. Why can’t we look her up? It can’t be that hard to find her. We know her first and last name.”
“What if she’s had her number made private after the crash?” Joanna asked.
“Then we’ll have to look harder. We’ll ask around.”
“And then we just show up?” Karen asked, though it didn’t sound like she was arguing.
Melinda shrugged. “Why not?”
“It’s not like we want to hurt her,” Joanna said.
“No,” Melinda agreed. “We want to help her. Don’t we? Or am I just being selfish?”
“Of course we do,” Karen said. “I’m sure she could use some help, with Michael being gone.”
“And if she’s offended or whatever, we’ll just go away. We’ll see that she’s all right, and then we’ll leave her alone.”
“Yes, definitely,” Karen said, pointing at Joanna. “I think it’s really important that we give her the right to privacy. She’s still mourning.”
“Of course,” Melinda said.
Karen’s phone rang again. She grabbed it and checked the ID. “I should probably take it this time,” she said. “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow?”
Melinda and Joanna both nodded. “Sounds like a plan,” Joanna said.
Karen scooted out of the booth, answering her phone as she went, and after a few awkward minutes Joanna and Melinda both agreed it was best that they move on with their day. Melinda tried not to think about what that meant for her—her anxiety over meeting Paul at the fertility clinic had abated, but she was sure it would be back. She went to the cash register and paid for her juice, then plunged outside, calling a good-bye to Joanna over her shoulder.
She gave the divots only a glance as she walked by on her way to her car. The divots seemed unimportant now.
Now that they had a plan to see Maddie herself.
SIX
Joanna could hear the strains of “Luck Be a Lady” before she even got close to the amphitheater. She hummed along as she walked the paved park trail, yanking the visor of her baseball cap farther down over her eyes and pushing the oversized sunglasses up on her nose, adjusting the hem of her runner’s shorts, in which she always felt so exposed and uncomfortable. She much preferred maxidresses and flip-flops to this getup.
She probably looked ridiculous. She didn’t fit in with the other park-goers at all. She wasn’t health-conscious, nor was she a young mother looking for some fresh air and a way to exhaust a busy toddler. She’d never been great at blending in with her surroundings—which she always considered a by-product of feeling constantly hidden within her own life—but right now she looked like the stalker she was as she plodded along the trail toward the piano chords.
She knew the production by heart. She’d been one of the Hot Box girls in her high school production, a part with which she’d never felt comfortable—giggly and shimmying and wrapping feather boas around herself. She’d secretly pined to play Adelaide, and so when the community theater announced its plans to run Guys and Dolls for its fall season finale, she’d jumped at the chance to audition. She’d turned her East Coast accent up to its highest decibels, had put extra swagger in her hips, had mooned over Nathan Detroit like no one else.
Instead, they’d cast her in the part of straitlaced, straight-faced, stern, and sexless Sarah Brown. She’d been disappointed, but more than that, she’d felt exposed, as if everyone knew she could never pull off a sex kitten role, swooning for a man. She might as well have been wearing a neon sign that flashed the words CLOSET LESBIAN across her chest. And then, of course, she felt ashamed of herself for finding the prospect so distasteful.
She’d considered turning down the part, actually. Even though she knew all of Sarah Brown’s songs and could follow the fold as straight-faced as a nun. But then she saw who was cast in Adelaide’s part, and the result was so mesmerizing, she couldn’t have argued with it if she tried.
Sutton Harris. Long, swoopy hair the color of decadent dark chocolate, skin so smooth and white it invited touch, and an easy smile. Sutton looked amazing in sweatpants tied loose and rolled up at the cuffs, and she looked amazing in jeans with jewels on the back pockets, and she looked amazing in her Hot Box dresses, and she even managed to make feather boas not look ridiculous.
Joanna knew instantly that she was in trouble. She’d felt this once before, for a girl named Alyria in college.
Alyria Payne—a name meant for the stage, and that was exactly where Joanna had met her. And where she’d fallen in love with her, as well. On the set of Little Shop of Horrors, in which neither of them had much more than a bit part.
Not that Joanna was terribly surprised that she’d fallen in love with Alyria. She’d had stirrings of feelings for girls as far back as middle school. Hell, maybe even further, if she wanted to be really honest with herself. But she’d always dated boys. It wasn’t difficult. She was blond and athletic and cute, and when she put on makeup, she was actually sort of pretty without even really trying. The harder part was making boys believe that she had some deep moral grounds for being so hands-off. In truth, she just didn’t understand what was so exciting about kissing boys. They seemed so big and clumsy and rough, while girls’ lips looked soft and inviting and flavored with sweet glosses.
Just to be sure, she’d finally let it happen with a boy, her junior year in high school. Dusty Caine, whom she’d dated for more months than even seemed possible, and who seemed to take it more and more personally each day that she wouldn’t put out for him. She’d finally let him take her one afternoon on his living room floor while his parents were at work. He’d fumbled around on her, sucking and pinching and grabbing and twisting like a monkey trying to open a jar of pickles, and then there’d been pain between her legs, but before she could even register it, he was collapsing on top of her, gasping for sweet Jesus. And then it was over.
She knew then for sure. Or at least she thought she did. She never understood why it was all so confusing.
Still, it wasn’t a surprise when she found herself sitting on the makeup table, back pressed against the mirror, kissing Alyria and feeling all the things she never felt with Dusty. She was in lust. Worse, she was completely and totally in love. With a girl.
And it scared the crap out of her.
She’d quit the production. And then, when Alyria had taken to waiting for her in the parking lot before class, she’d quit school entirely. It had nearly broken her parents’ hearts, and had frightened her, but being afraid of what would happen to her future, careerwise, was nowhere near as scary as what could happen to her lovewise. Dear God, her mother was dying to plan her a wedding, was positively dripping with grandchild fever.
Joanna had never gone back to school, not even after Alyria had moved on. Instead, she’d gotten a job waiting tables at LaEats and had artfully hung out in Waiting Mode. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, and she had a gut-yanking feeling that maybe what she was waiting for was to become un-gay, even though she knew it was ridiculous and pointless. Even if she could convince herself that she was no longer in love with Alyria (and she could), there would always be another Alyria. There would always be another girl.
Still. She’d felt herself aging. Stagnating. She missed the theater. She missed the fake accents and the heavy makeup and the silent catastrophes that took place backstage during performances. She missed late-night fried egg dinners after closing night. She’d missed acting.
Two seasons ago, she tried out for the community theater, which had been auditioning for an outdoor summer performance of The Music Man. She got the part of Mrs. Paroo. She had kept her head down and fallen in love with nobody. She was as sexless as she’d pretended to be in high school. She’d tried out for the next production, and the next one, and by the time Guys and Dolls came around, she wasn’t even vigilant about her colleagues on the stage anymore.
And then, boom. There was Sutton. Sutton as beautiful, sweet Adelaide.
Joanna picked up her pace as she reached the end of the trail that was closest to the amphitheater, until she was actually at a jog. She wasn’t doing this to fit in; rather, she was hearing the opening notes of “A Bushel and a Peck” and couldn’t contain herself. She was like a dog hearing the telltale garage door rumble of her owner coming home.
She veered off the trail and through the grass, up the short hill that obscured the theater from the path and vice versa. She felt her quads burn as she powered up the hill, her breath coming in hard and uneven now. But the moment she popped over the top of the hill and saw the stage, she stopped, bending forward with her hands on her knees, trying to steady her breathing.
She was too far away to make out details, but she was close enough to see the cascading hair. They were practicing in costume now, and Sutton’s dress was tight and leggy. Joanna felt even more breathless at just the sight of her. It had been more than a month, but the feelings clearly hadn’t changed.
Slowly, she walked toward the amphitheater, glancing around to make sure nobody noticed her. There was a smattering of onlookers perched in the seats—what Joanna would have derided as freeloaders once upon a time, but whom she now was grateful for, as she would stand out less.
&nb
sp; She sank into a seat near the back, watching intently as Sutton shook her hips and crossed her arms over her chest, flirty, owning the Adelaide role. Once, she could have sworn that Sutton had seen her there—that her eyes had lingered just a little too long in her direction, and that her smile had gotten just a little too relaxed—and she slid down farther in her plastic seat. But then Stan had stormed onto the stage, stopping the music abruptly, and had taken Sutton into quiet, wildly gesturing consult, and Joanna’s fears subsided. She watched as they started the number over, stopping and restarting it again two more times, and had to sit on her hands to keep from applauding when Sutton was finally finished and allowed to leave the stage.
She probably should have left then. But she couldn’t tear herself away, partly because she was afraid the moment she’d leave, Sutton would come back onstage, and she’d miss a chance to study her one more time.
She’d been so engrossed in watching the girl who’d replaced her screw up all her lines and look totally wooden onstage, she didn’t even notice that someone was approaching her from the aisle.
“Joanna?” she heard whispered, and her head whipped to the side.
Sutton was coming toward her, in full makeup, her costume swishing against the seats. Joanna’s heart plummeted somewhere beneath her feet, and she felt all her blood leave her head. She felt dizzy and had to remind herself to take a breath.
She plastered a smile on her face. “Sutton. Hey,” she whispered back. “You were amazing. As usual.”
Second Chance Friends Page 6