Second Chance Friends

by Jennifer Scott

  Joanna reached up and found the water bottle, drank from it. “Kind of. I like her, and we’ve been getting together, but it’s nothing official yet. I really loved Stephen. I still do, actually. It was just a different kind of love. I think I just need some time. This is new to me. Not the part about liking girls, just the part about liking them in public.”

  “I see. It’s smart of you to give it some time,” her mom said, and started to say something else, but Joanna’s phone beeped in her ear.

  “Hang on, Mom, I’ve got another call.”

  She switched over. “Hello?”

  “Joanna?” Desperate. Breathy.

  “Maddie?”

  “I’m in labor. I can’t get ahold of Melinda.” She let out a wail that made Joanna hold the phone away from her ear. “Can you get me?”

  It took Joanna a moment to process what she was hearing. She had known this day would be coming soon, but not this soon. And she always assumed she would be getting the call from Melinda, with Maddie safely tucked away and labor-breathing in a hospital bed nearby. She never expected to be the one to get the call.

  “Where’s your mom?” she asked. “Are you alone?”

  “She’s home, sick. It’s just me. I’ve been having contractions all morning, and just all of a sudden it’s really bad. Please come? I’m scared.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Joanna said.

  She didn’t even bother to change out of her pajamas.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The baby was coming early. Karen hoped that was not a sign of something bad. A problem. She had wondered through most of the pregnancy if it was possible for the baby not to be affected by the tsunami of Maddie’s grief.

  The same elderly lady sat at the information desk—a different paperback this time—but Karen veered into the chapel before approaching her. Maybe it was because of Curt MacDonald’s miraculous recovery, but she felt that taking a moment to pray, or whatever you could call what she did inside this bare chapel, would be a good thing.

  To her surprise, Joanna was in the front row, sitting quietly.

  “Hey,” Karen whispered, sitting next to her. “Everything okay?”

  Joanna nodded. “As far as I know. Melinda got here, and things had slowed down, so I took a break. Thought I’d come here and . . .” She shrugged. “Can’t hurt, I guess. Right?”

  “This chapel worked a miracle for me once before,” Karen said, “so I’m not going to doubt you. How’s she doing?”

  “Pretty good, actually. She’s scared. She wants Michael, and that’s been pretty intense. Her mom can’t go in there because she’s got some sort of viral thing going on. So it’s a good thing we’re here. Otherwise, she’d really be alone. Can you imagine?”

  Karen stared at the candles. Only three or four were lit today. She made a mental note to find a dollar and light one for Maddie’s baby on her way out. A part of her wanted to stuff a whole wad of bills into the box and light every one. Get miracles for everyone. “I wonder if that’s why,” she said.

  “Why what?” Joanna asked.

  “If that’s why we were all there that day,” Karen said. “At the diner. I mean, don’t the odds seem strange to you? We were all there—we were the only ones there—all wrapped up in our own problems, and this thing happened. And we all went out there and we all did what we could to help without any one person taking charge. We all watched this man die.”

  “And we all kept coming back,” Joanna said.

  “Yeah,” Karen said. “Do you think it was meant to happen that way? That maybe we were purposely put there so we could help Maddie get through today?”

  “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right, it’s possible,” Joanna said. “We definitely are a weird little family.”

  “And growing,” Karen said.

  Joanna smiled. “And growing,” she repeated. “Right at this very moment.”

  • • •

  It was decided that Melinda would go into the delivery room with Maddie. She’d tried to spin it like she was the only one with medical knowledge, and who had delivered half a dozen babies on the job, and was used to blood and nakedness and all of that, but Karen suspected there was more to it. Somewhere along the line, Melinda had become the one closest to Maddie Routh. And it was only right—Melinda was the person who’d first suggested they find her, after all. It was a full-circle thing.

  But Melinda had also been the one to save Maddie when she’d tried to kill herself, and she’d been the one Maddie continually reached for throughout her recovery. She’d gone from the person afraid to park the car and approach Maddie’s house to the person coaching her through childbirth. Funny how life worked sometimes.

  Karen and Joanna sat in the waiting room, along with another family, who seemed to be very excited about their newest member being born. They whooped and hollered and giggled and paced around, balloons and gift bags adorning their chairs. Every few moments, it seemed another family member joined them. The waiting room was filling up.

  “So how’s your son doing?” Joanna asked.

  “Trial has been set. He’s got a new lawyer who seems to think they won’t give him too much time, and that he’ll get time served.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about that,” Joanna said.

  Karen absently opened a magazine, even though she had no intention of reading it. Maybe a part of her wasn’t happy, which made her sound like a terrible mother. But the truth was, Travis hadn’t learned a thing from this go-round, either. And she feared what that would mean for him. How much worse would it have to get—how much higher the stakes—before he would finally turn things around?

  “I’m happy that he’s taking care of it himself. But there will be some changes when he gets out. For one, he’s going to help me find my grandson. For another, he’s going to have to find his own place to stay, no more money from me. And he’s going to have to accept Marty.”

  Joanna grinned. “You guys are really becoming a thing, huh?”

  Karen couldn’t help but smile. The night before, things had gone to a whole new level. It had taken every ounce of courage that Karen had—and a stout shot of tequila—but she had made a promise to Antoinette.

  They’d been on her couch, watching TV as usual, when Marty leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head—something he did often.

  “Whatcha thinking?” he’d asked.

  Karen had swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I’m thinking you should kiss me,” she said, hating how she sounded. Rehearsed. Ridiculous.

  But he did kiss her again, and this time she’d run her hand through the back of his hair, and he’d pulled back questioningly, but she’d kissed him again. He’d leaned into her, knocking the TV remote to the floor, and she lay back, thrilled with the feeling of want, of being wanted. She’d forgotten so long ago how good it felt to have the weight of a man on top of her; it was almost like having it happen for the first time all over again. She’d kissed him with everything she had, not worrying about inexperience or mothering or heartbreak. She just focused on Marty Squire, not stopping him when his hands roamed.

  “You’re sure?” he’d asked before unbuttoning her shirt.

  She’d nodded. “More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.”

  She’d awakened in his arms this morning, filled with nothing but happiness. She’d hated having to leave him to come to the hospital. But she loved that when Joanna brought him up, she could remember the night before without feeling shame or guilt or as if she’d wrongly chosen herself over someone else. She just felt . . . good.

  “Yeah, I think it has potential,” she told Joanna. “What about you and Sutton?”

  Joanna scratched the back of her neck. “We’re working on it.”

  Just then the double doors opened and out came Melinda, looking flushed and dazed, a yellow p
aper gown and hat thrown over her clothes.

  Joanna and Karen both stood.

  “It’s a girl,” Melinda said. “A healthy, pink little girl.”

  She came to them, and they fell into a circle of hugs, all laughter and tears and clutching arms.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Melinda couldn’t get enough of the baby. She could think of nothing she wanted to do more than hold her. Count her fingers and toes over and over again. Run her hands across the soft spot on her head. Touch her cheek to see the reflexive yawn of her mouth. Smell her.

  She was beautiful and fragile and perfect. Anything could happen to her. Anything. She could be president or the person to cure cancer or she could end up like Karen’s son, Travis, or she could blink out of existence when she was six. But Melinda instantly knew, by the weight of her sweet little body, that whatever journey this baby went on, it would be worth it to take it with her. No matter when or how or if it ended.

  Maddie had mostly slept after the baby was born—conking out the way she had when she’d come home from the hospital after her last suicide attempt. But Melinda didn’t mind. She would sit with the baby as long as was needed. She didn’t want to ever put her down. Paul understood. He was waiting for her at home, but he knew this was something she had to do. He knew it was something she wanted to do.

  Karen and Joanna had gone home. Joanna had a dinner to get to at her parents’ house, and Karen wanted to turn in early before work the next day. Helen and Cleve had come and gone, surgical masks over their faces. Helen refused to hold the baby, in fear of getting her sick, but Cleve had held her, big tears soaking into the top of his mask. They both kissed the sleeping Maddie on the temple before leaving, their arms around each other’s waists.

  Finally, when dinner arrived, Maddie woke up.

  “Mommy’s awake,” Melinda said to the baby. She walked to Maddie’s bedside. “You want to hold her, sleepyhead?”

  Maddie yawned, nodded. She held out her arms and Melinda placed the baby in them. Maddie stared into her face for a long time as the infant squirmed and wriggled. She would be waking up soon, wanting to eat. “She looks like him,” Maddie said. She brushed the baby’s nose lightly with her fingertip. “Right here. He would have been so upset that she got his nose. He always thought it was big.”

  “I think it’s perfect,” Melinda said.

  “It is, isn’t it? I think I was most worried that I wouldn’t be able to see him in her at all. Like, if I couldn’t find him in her, it would be proof that he was completely forever gone. But there he is, right in the middle of her face.”

  “You’ll see him every time you look at her,” Melinda said. “You’ll be surprised how many things she’ll do that will remind you of him.”

  “I hope so.” She went silent, running her fingers along the contours of the baby’s face, arms, hands, seemingly mesmerized by the shape of her child.

  “Have you thought of a name for her yet?” Melinda asked.

  Maddie nodded. “Rose. Tea Rose Routh. But I’ll call her Rose for short.”

  Tea Rose. A unique name for a unique baby born in the most unique circumstances. Ordinarily, Melinda might have snubbed her nose at such uniqueness. Might have thought it too theatrical, kitschy. But somehow it really fit this baby. Somehow it was not theatrical or kitschy at all, but more of a badge. Look what I survived, the badge seemed to say. Look who I am.

  “Rose,” Melinda repeated. She smiled and wiggled the baby’s fist with her finger. “Hello, Rose.”

  “You think Michael would like it?” Maddie asked.

  Melinda reached over and clutched Maddie’s hand with hers. “I think he would love it.”

  EPILOGUE

  Baby’s First Birthday

  When . . . April 30th

  Where . . . At our house, a backyard party

  Who Was There . . .

  They say you have friends for a reason, friends for a season, and friends for a lifetime. From the moment I met your father, Michael Routh, at a fraternity fund-raiser my sophomore year in college, I knew he would be my friend for a lifetime. I just didn’t understand that the lifetime would be so short.

  I know I’ve written so much about him in this journal already, Rose, and maybe you’re even sick of hearing about him. Maybe you wish I’d write more about you, so that you can look back and know who you were. Were you born with the stubborn cowlick that will cause you all kinds of problems when you’re a teenager and you want your hair to just obey? (Yes, you were.) Did you always sleep on your back with your fists flung up alongside your ears? (Yes, you did.) Was your voice always so deep and melodic and full? (Yes, it was.) But, for me, it’s not that easy. Because when I see that cowlick, I think of your father’s cowlick, in a different spot, but just as unruly. When I watch you sleep or listen to your voice, he is there. He is always there. And so it’s not easy for me to separate you from your father. And I feel as if I need to say it when I think of him, because I’m the only one who can. If you’re reading this, hoping to get a glimpse into who you were, know that you were him.

  He would have been so excited for today, Rose. He would have hired ponies or bounce houses or ponies and bounce houses and magicians and jugglers and a whole damn carnival if he thought it would make you happy. I don’t know how I know that, except to say that I know he would have done those things for me, and he wanted you just as much as he ever wanted me. He loved you just as much, too. Maybe even more.

  So even though technically he wasn’t here for your first birthday party, I’m writing about him anyway. He was the first to arrive. I saw him, as soon as I opened my eyes this morning. He was standing at the foot of my bed, grinning that goofy grin of his, the one that meant he was either excited about something or up to no good. It hit me like a punch to the chest, Rose, because I realized he had been grinning that same way right before he died. The last thing he knew, in full consciousness, was that he was excited for something. That something was you. Realizing this makes me love you even more.

  So he was here, and he brought the best gift either of us could have ever asked for: comfort.

  But, aside from your father, your first birthday party was filled with lots of family and friends. Gammy and Pappy, the silly names my parents had given themselves, were there. They brought so many gifts, we had to save some to open later, after the party. Stuffed toys and dolls and blocks and—your favorite—a little red wagon. Oh, how your eyes lit up when you saw that wagon. You immediately climbed in, the ruffles on the seat of your panties showing out from under your dress as you struggled to get footing. You wanted a ride, and Gammy took you around the yard so many times I thought you might get dizzy.

  Gammy is your best friend, Rose. “Gammy” was actually your first word. Not “mama,” and certainly not “dada.” “Gammy.” I didn’t mind. I understood.

  I spent the first four months of your life wanting to kill myself. What little progress I’d made during the last months of pregnancy just seemed to fly out the window as hormones and reality slammed into me. I had no money. I had no husband. I had no future, yet I was supposed to give you, this beautiful precious girl with eyes full of hope and expectation, a future.

  I barely got out of bed. I wasn’t sleeping. I was lying there thinking of all the ways I could die. I was lying there wishing for it. But, dammit, I couldn’t do it. Because you were counting on me, and I knew what it was like to have the one person you counted on ripped away from you. It was a pain I would be surprised to survive. It was a pain I would never want to repeat.

  I tried imagining what your life would be like if I died. Gammy and Pappy would take care of you. Of course they would. They wouldn’t hesitate for a second. But no matter how hard they loved you, no matter how much they treated you like one of their own, you never would be their own. You would have nobody to remember your first flutter of movement. And you would always wonder. You would wonde
r about me the way I wonder about your father—Is he okay? Did he know I loved him? What would he have been like in twenty, thirty, forty years? But you would also be wondering about yourself. Why would my mother choose death over being with me? you would be forced to think. Am I so bad?

  What a horrible thing to have to speculate on about yourself.

  So I got up. I started helping out where I could. My meds started kicking in. And when I’d catch you in profile, I would see him, and the grief would hit with such intensity, I would have to disappear into my room and try to remember the way he sounded when he said my name.

  Eventually, I stopped being able to hear it. That was when I knew it was time to move on.

  Thank God, Gammy was as willing to let you go as I was to let her have you.

  Our neighbors, Yvonne and Richard, came to your party, too. They brought their little boy, Austin, who is older than you by a few months. You were cute together, even though you fought bitterly over your new toys. Still, I hadn’t ever really talked to Yvonne and Richard much. They were always two pairs of curious eyeballs trying not to be noticeable across the yards when I was sulking on the back porch in my nightgown or when I was screaming and throwing breakable things at nobody or even that time the ambulance had to come and take us away—you in my belly, and me covered in drying stained bathwater. The fact that they were willing to embrace me when I was ready to be embraced said a lot about them. They brought you a piggy bank. It’s one of those kinds that you have to break to open. I’ve been tucking notes in there. Just little things, like something cute that you said that your father would have laughed at, or a little encouraging quote just in case you should need one. I want you to open that bank someday and find that the riches inside aren’t the bills with the presidents’ faces on them.

  Your father’s entire family came to the party, too—aunts, uncles, cousins, the whole shebang. It was overwhelming—there were at least twenty of them—but I was happy to see you interact with them. Michael loved his family, and I saw ghosts of him wisping around their conversations. His mother would periodically look off into the distance, hands propped on her hips, teeth working her lower lip.