by Casey Dawes
“Annie Gerhard. Nice to meet you.”
She turned, rested her head against plastic fuselage and closed her eyes, hoping the woman would take the hint. Six-thirty in the morning was too early to be on a plane, and definitely too early to be that cheerful. She shifted to get more comfortable, propping her head up with her sweater. Soon the murmur of voices around her lulled her to sleep.
The engine’s roar during take-off brought her back to consciousness. Half-awake, she rehashed the previous evening.
David had been moody the entire night, barely saying a word while they finished dinner and loaded his bags into her car. When they’d gotten to Elizabeth’s, he’d slammed the passenger door, yanked open the rear door, and grabbed his stuff, slammed that door, too, and stalked toward Elizabeth’s front door.
She caught up with him on the doorstep. “What’s wrong with you? Stop acting like this!”
“I’m not moving to New Jersey.”
“You’ll do what I tell you.”
“I’ll sleep on Dad’s floor. I’ll run away. I’m not moving.”
The door opened. Elizabeth looked at each of them. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” David and Annie chorused.
“I can see that. C’mon in.”
“Thanks for letting me stay,” David said, plunging past Elizabeth toward the spare room he always used.
Annie poked her head into the room. “David, I’m leaving now.”
“Bye,” he said without turning away from his hand-held video game. She walked over to his chair, putting her hand on his shoulder.
“David, don’t be this way. I love you. I’m trying to do what’s best for both of us.”
“Then stay here.”
She took a deep breath. “We’ll talk some more when I get home. Give me a hug. You know I can’t get on a plane without a hug from you.”
He’d stood and thrown his arms around her in a half-hearted hug. “I love you, too, Mom.”
She’d said her good-byes to Elizabeth and hurried home, tears once again stinging her eyes. Life was getting to be too many good-byes.
She opened her eyes and stared out the plane window, shifting to relieve the stiffness in her neck. “Want anything?” a voice thundered in her ear.
“What?” Annie asked.
“Food. It’s eight dollars,” Carol, the woman sitting next to her said, gesturing to the aisle. A flight attendant was leaning over holding a paper box.
“I guess.” She fished out a ten-dollar bill from her purse, exchanging it for the box and change.
“Anything to drink? That appears to be free.”
“Oh. Coffee.”
“Good thing they don’t charge us for going to the bathroom … yet.”
Annie chuckled. “Actually, I just read that Ryan Air is going to charge to use the toilet.”
“Really?” Carol gasped. “Obviously the airline is run by a man with a big bladder.”
Annie’s chuckle turned into a laugh. She managed to get the tray table down before the attendant handed her the hot coffee. She opened the box and poked at the skinny egg burrito.
“I’ll try mine first,” Carol said. “If I don’t gag, you’ll know it’s safe.”
Annie had to grin. “Okay.” She watched as Carol unwrapped the paper from the burrito and took a bite.
“Safe,” she declared after she finished chewing. “I suppose now that we have to pay for it, they have to give us better food.” Annie bit into her own burrito.
“Why are you flying to Philly?” Carol asked.
“Job interview.”
“Opportunity or necessity?”
God, this woman was nosy. “Necessity.”
Carol’s laugh startled her. “Sorry. Occupational hazard. I’m a life coach — we’re trained to ask lots of questions. I should start every conversation by saying, ‘I ask too many questions. You don’t have to answer me!’” She laughed again.
“What’s a life coach?”
“Someone who asks lots of questions to help you realize that you have to do some work if you want to change your life. Then we hold you accountable for doing it.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Sometimes it is, but I love it. Watching people change is quite amazing. I guess I love it so much that I never quite leave it behind. I’ve become sensitive to people who hedge what they’re saying, trying not to reveal too much.”
“Like me.”
“Could be. We’ve got a long flight. What’s the story?”
Annie glanced over at the man in the aisle seat, who was engrossed in the latest best-selling business book. After a few moments of silence, she began, telling the total stranger in the seat next to her everything about her transfer and David’s reaction.
“Wow,” she said, finishing up the last sentence. “I usually don’t dump like that. Sorry.”
Carol waved her bejeweled hand. “It sounds difficult. I’m glad you felt safe enough to ‘dump.’ The economy’s been a bear. Many of my clients have experienced layoffs … they all react differently. The ones who do the best are the ones who use the opportunity to take a look at what they really want to do, regroup, and try something new.”
“More coffee?” the attendant asked.
“Sure,” said Carol, passing both cups for refills. When she handed a cup to Annie, she said, “I’d love to be able to help you, but this isn’t the time or place. I do most of my coaching by phone. If you want to talk about this more, give me a call.” She handed Annie a business card.
Annie put it in her purse.
The next hour of the flight passed quickly as Carol told Annie stories about her small town of Surf City on Long Beach Island, a smaller East Coast version of Santa Cruz, complete with tie-dye shops, surfers, and a lighthouse.
Somewhere over the Rockies, the drone of the engines, drama of the last few weeks, late night, and early morning trip to the airport caught up with Annie and her eyelids began to droop.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Carol said. “I’ll let you get back to your book, or take a nap.”
“Thanks. And thanks for listening.”
She stared out the window at the snowcapped mountains for a long while and tried closing her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Carol’s words echoed in her head: The ones who do the best are the ones who use the opportunity to take a look at what they really want to do, regroup, and try something new.
What did she really want to do?
When she’d become pregnant with David, Annie’d stayed in school long enough to finish the spring semester. Fred had been in his sophomore year working toward a philosophy major while she’d been a freshman music major. At night she’d sung folk music in small clubs and house concerts in the area; she’d begun to build up a following and began to write her first songs, until pregnancy forced her to give that up. No room for both a baby and a guitar on her lap.
After David was born, Fred used it as an excuse to drop out of college. He spent most of his days hanging out with surfers, travelers, and other tellers of tall tales while she worked as a temporary secretary to pay for necessities. When he got a night bartending job at a local beach hangout, he started drinking more heavily. Each night he came home later, heaving himself up the porch steps to their apartment, loud groans accompanying every heavy footstep. In the beginning he came right to bed; later a clinking glass, the slam of the refrigerator door, and the low drone of the television announced his homecoming.
After a few months of waking up to him sprawled on the couch, dirty dishes everywhere, she reached her first breaking point. “It’s like my dad,” she told him. “Drinking every night. You’re going through half a gallon of vodka a week. It can’t be healthy. Maybe you should see someone.”
Fred’s f
ace turned red. “You’re always on me about something. First it was finish school, then get a job. Now you’re bellyaching about how much time I spend relaxing. You’re not my mother. Hell, you’re sounding like your mother. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” He’d slammed out of the apartment, coming home even later after work that night.
She was not going to be like her mother. She’d hired her first babysitter, begun night classes at the local college, and upped her exercise routine, believing if she worked harder, he’d stop drinking. She’d been sure of it. Maybe he’d even love her again.
It hadn’t worked. No matter what she did, he’d continued to drink. The only affection she’d gotten from him was a slobbery alcoholic kiss after groping her breasts in the kitchen. When he had come to bed, he’d passed out snoring the moment his head hit the pillow. She’d learned to be grateful for the loss of consciousness.
An ache that threatened to engulf her opened in her chest. I lost myself. It was his insanity and I bought into it, believing his version of the truth. It was lies, all lies. Piercing pain brought tears to her eyes. Not now. Not on a plane. Later. She slammed the door shut on memories, using the napkin to wipe the dampness from her eyes.
“Tears are okay,” Carol said. “It’s the ones we don’t shed that cause us problems.” She patted Annie’s arm. “Call me. We’ll talk.”
Annie gave her a wan smile. She spent the rest of the trip reading her book, staring out the window, and napping. Her mental door remained tightly shut. Carol must have sensed her need to be quiet, because she stayed immersed in her own book or chatted with the man in the aisle.
“Coffee cups?” asked the flight attendant as the head attendant droned on about arrival times, transfer gates, and baggage locations.
At baggage claim, Carol said good-bye. “I travel light. Good luck with your trip. Please call me if you think I can help you. I’d really like to do that.” Giving Annie a brief hug, she whisked off to the exit.
Budding trees crowded the soft rises between the airport and the Delaware River. Driving her rental car over the bridge from Pennsylvania into New Jersey, Annie looked at the broad stretch of water coursing to the ocean, no other bridges in sight. It probably looked the same when Washington crossed it.
Her easy trip continued for another half hour, before she got to a construction zone where signs announced the conversion of one of the highway’s rotaries into an overpass. Roads went every which way, concrete dividers leading the jammed traffic through the maze of bright yellow construction trucks, piles of dirt and ditches. Her breath shortened as she tried to concentrate on finding the right path through stop-and-go traffic. Horns blared around her; cars zipped past.
From her right, a silver sports car cut in front of her and stopped. She slammed on her brakes, praying they’d take. Tires squealed. A horn blared behind her.
“Don’t honk at me!” she screamed. “That jerk cut me off.”
The rental skidded to a stop, inches from the sports car bumper, before stalling out. Shaking, she rested her head on the steering wheel. Gathering her breath, she looked up to glare at the driver in front of her.
Blaring horns sounded behind her. She turned the key. Nothing happened. She tried again. The noises behind her got louder. One of the construction workers came to the side of the road, signaling her to move ahead. She turned the key again. Nothing.
A tap on her window made her jump. She looked up to see a short, thin man in a business suit, shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging down. He pointed at her gear shift. “Put it in Park,” he mouthed.
“What?” she asked, trying to roll down the window. It didn’t budge. Damn electric everything. She looked up again, concentrating.
“Put it in Park.”
“Oh.”
She shifted into Park. Turning the key, she was rewarded by the beautiful hum of a starting engine. The construction worker wildly gestured for her to move. She shifted to Drive and moved ahead.
Chills ran through her body. That was too close. True, it would have been minor, but still … What am I doing driving through this mess in New Jersey?
Clearing the congestion, she obeyed the GPS voice, turning down a two-lane road through rolling countryside. She could see colonial farms with sprawling fieldstone and clapboard houses, mismatched extensions hanging like poor relations on a wealthy landowner. She felt her racing pulse slow with the more peaceful drive. The soothing green of great lawns, sprinkled with sleek-looking horses and miles of white fences, entranced her. It won’t be too bad.
The easy ride let her mind drift. She wondered what the corporate dinner would be like. She hated functions like that, all the posturing and eagerness of the corporate climbers.
When she’d heard of the event, Elizabeth had hunted through her own closet for the right dress and shoes to send with her.
“I can’t wear that!” Annie told her when her friend had held out the green silk spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress and strappy sandals. “It’s too … too … ”
“Chic?”
“No. Clingy. Besides, it’ll never fit me.”
“Ah, yes. You need this.” Elizabeth pulled a spandex tube from one of her drawers. “Put this underneath. It hides everything.”
“I’m still not wearing this dress. It’s unprofessional — inappropriate. What about a bra?”
“You don’t wear one.”
Annie laughed. “You can get away without wearing a bra, I can’t.”
Elizabeth stared at Annie’s well-rounded chest and shook her head. “Don’t you have a strapless one?”
“I think I have one in the back of a drawer somewhere.”
“Well find it. Or get yourself a new one. You’ll knock ’em dead in this dress. It’s the perfect color.”
“I’m not looking for a date. I’m looking for a job.”
“Believe me, honey, the process is the same.”
Annie had taken the dress to stop her friend from hounding her, but she had no intention of wearing it. One of her business pantsuits would do fine.
She breathed a sigh of relief when saw the church spires vying with the tree line on a small rise ahead. The road took a final dip through trimmed grass athletic fields before crossing a stone bridge over a narrow lake to reach the town. Ivy-covered walls lined the sidewalks where historic signs pointed to the gates of Princeton University, founded in 1746, well over a hundred years older than the oldest California university. Prompted by her GPS, she turned down Nassau Street. Quaint shops with colorful awnings lined the right, while the high Princeton wall continued on the left. A few more turns brought her to her hotel.
After unpacking, Annie grabbed her coat and purse and headed out to explore the streets of town. She slipped into the Ma Chérie Boutique, which boasted a unique blend of clothing, jewelry, and accessories, and found an inexpensive but classy set of earrings that she knew would please Elizabeth as a thank-you gift.
Around six, she found an attractive-looking restaurant on Hullfish Street. Mediterra’s looked like her kind of place — casual with a good menu and wine list. She grabbed a newspaper from the foyer and followed the waitress to her table.
She was finishing the last of her broiled chicken when she spotted the advertisement. She called for the check and the waitress assured her that Walnut Lane was only a fifteen-minute walk. After she slipped into the restroom to freshen her make-up and run a brush through her hair, she left the restaurant and stepped briskly up the hill to the church.
Chapter 9
Craggy-trunked trees laced with snowy white blossoms glowed under street lamps on Wiggins Street, softening the stern lines of solid brick buildings with formal white trim. The buildings marched up the slight slope giving way to colonial clapboard homes determined to protect the privacy of the families within. In an odd way, the place reminded Annie of her younger years in
the car-factory towns of Michigan and a slight chill swept through her in spite of the hint of warm spring in the air. No wonder she’d escaped to the pale stucco and flamboyant foliage of California.
As she emerged to the top of the hill, she saw her destination. The A-frame church, gleaming glass windows reflecting the evening sun, looked like it had been plucked from the ski slopes of Vail, a conspicuous act of defiance against the conservative Presbyterian town fathers.
She followed the sidewalk around the building and headed down the flight of steps to the basement, anticipation heating her body. It had been a long time since she’d done this.
She paid her small fee to the attendant, selected a folding chair by an aisle, and settled in. The utilitarian hall was set up like every other church coffeehouse she’d seen: mikes, stands, guitars and assorted electrical equipment scattered across the platform that stood in for a stage. She remembered the restlessness before a performance, her nerves showing up in meaningless pacing and fidgeting fingers followed by the total peace of beginning, connecting with the audience, the give and take of voices reminiscent of a choral antiphon. Maybe someday she’d have the courage to step on a stage again.
The aroma of coffee drew her to a table on the side of the room. Homemade oatmeal cookies with plump raisins compelled her to forget her dietary resolve. Returning to her place, she opened the newspaper she’d carried from dinner and bit into the sweet confection, savoring the melting sugar on her tongue. She’d finished her forbidden treat and was absorbed in the local gossip when her arm was jostled, tossing her empty paper plate to the floor, scattering cookie crumbs across the linoleum.
“Tight in here, isn’t it?” The man sat in the chair in front of her, glancing at the floor. “They’ll get it later. Kick it under the chair.” He turned back to the front and snapped open his newspaper.
She bent down to get the plate, although she couldn’t do much about the crumbs. Putting her paper and coat on the chair to hold her seat, she dumped her garbage in the trash and looked around for somewhere else to sit. The room had filled up fast; the singer must be popular. Short of clambering over dozens of knees to a center seat, she was stuck where she was. Maybe he won’t be a jerk through the entire concert. Maybe pigs can fly.