All in One Place

by Carolyne Aarsen

  I reached into my back pocket for a package of gum I had bought on my way home and felt a piece of paper. Amelia's phone number. I remembered her look of fear in the restaurant that afternoon and thought it might be worth a try to call her. If they had caller ID, Helen's number would show up, not mine.

  She answered on the third ring. “Hello?” Her voice was breathless. Tentative.

  “Hey. It's me—Terra.” I burrowed back into the bed pillows, getting comfy, feeling magnanimous. From the little bit I'd seen, the poor girl could use a friend.

  “You called. You actually called.”

  “This is me. Calling you. Present tense.”

  “Oh. This is so great. Thanks so much. I didn't think you would.”

  Her enthusiasm was way out of proportion to the simple act of my punching in her number and connecting, but it made me glad I'd made the feeble effort.

  “Do you have time to talk?”

  “Rod said he was going to be gone for a while, but I never know how long that might be. Madison is finally asleep, so we can talk.”

  “Okay.” And of course, as soon as someone spoke the fateful words we can talk, my mind emptied of coherent thought. I could have tried small talk, but that seemed silly, given how I'd got her phone number. So I took the plunge. “So, I'm guessing things aren't too great in your life?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were crying when you gave me your phone number, even though you barely know me.”

  Silence. Then a slowly indrawn breath. “I just want a friend.” Her voice broke. “I don't know anybody in this town, and you seem really nice.”

  That was the first time I'd been accused of that. But her quietly spoken compliment warmed my heart. And surprised me. “What about the people you met up with at the Pump and Grill?”

  Another sigh. “I shouldn't have gone there. I just hope Rod doesn't find out.”

  “What does Rod do?”

  “He owns a furniture store. He keeps really busy and makes good money. He takes good care of me. Takes really good care of me. Buys me stuff all the time—flowers, cute little unicorns. I like unicorns.”

  “He and that Jack guy. The cop. Do they know each other?”

  “Yeah. They grew up together. They both like horses. Rod wants to get some, but he doesn't have time. Says if you don't get out and hustle, you don't make the money. He works really, really hard…” Amelia drew in a breath. She sounded shaky, overly defensive of Rod, and my red flags were waving hard enough to attract every one of Dan's bulls.

  “Amelia, are you okay? Is something wrong?”

  “Well, yeah…” She paused. I waited. “Maybe.” Another pause, then a swift indrawn breath. “Oh, no. Rod is back. I gotta go. He wasn't supposed to be back for an hour yet.”

  “I'd like to talk to you—”

  “Meet me at the Harland Hotel bar. Tomorrow night. I'll have the car.”

  If I was supposed to be turning my life around, going to another bar was pretty much a 180. But I couldn't recommend any other places. “I'll be there.”

  And then I was holding the phone, listening to a dial tone and wondering about the note of fear in her voice.

  “Molson Canadian,” I said to the bartender as I slipped onto an empty stool. I didn't see Amelia and wondered if she was going to show.

  Work had gone better today. Cor and Father Sam had shown up again, and Jack didn't show up at all.

  I'd mastered eating on time and hadn't gotten stung for anyone's bill.

  On Helen's advice, I carried the unpaid bill from yesterday with me wherever I went. Harland wasn't that big. I just might run into my dine-and-dash kids again.

  Mathilde had yelled at me four times. In any other situation, I would have bailed. But for now, I had too much riding on the job and sticking around Harland. Leslie, her kids, the money I owed her. I wondered what she was doing right then.

  Her life had found a pattern and rhythm I couldn't catch. I thought I had found it with Eric, but that turned out to be one of the bigger missteps in my chaotic life.

  And here I was, not even a drop of alcohol in me and already getting maudlin. Any minute, I was going to be pouring out my life's story to the disinterested bartender.

  Though smoke hung in the air like a cloud and country music thumped out of the jukebox, the clientele looked more upscale than what I'd seen on my first social outing in Harland. A lot of the customers wore blue jeans, but I also saw a couple of suits, a few dresses.

  I gave the bartender a vague smile when he set my drink on a cocktail napkin in front of me.

  “This is a nicer place, ain't it?”

  She spoke quietly, but I still jumped.

  Amelia eased herself onto the bar stool beside me and waggled her fingers at the bartender. “Rye and seven,” she called once she got his attention.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I'm okay.” Though it was warm in the bar, Amelia kept her denim jacket on. Underneath it she wore a sparkly halter top that barely skimmed the beltline of her low-rise blue jeans. She fiddled with her dangly earring, then blew her breath down as if cooling herself off.

  “How did you get into town?”

  “Rod's gone overnight to Missoula. Some estate sale he was hoping to score some antique furniture from.” She gave me a wan smile. “So I'm using the car.”

  “I'm glad you didn't bring the baby here.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” I caught a note of quiet desperation in her voice and let the issue rest. She didn't need me cross-examining her about her baby. Truth to tell, the girl looked a little spooked.

  “So why did you want to meet here?”

  Amelia shrugged. “I like being at the bar. I don't know many other places to go. I'm not from around here.”

  “Where are you from if you're not from around here?” I asked.

  “Boise, Idaho. I met a guy there. We dated for a while, and then, well, I got pregnant…” She gave me an apologetic smile. “So he talked me into moving here with him. I thought we were going to get married.”

  “And, big surprise, you didn't.”

  “No. He left me here high and dry. Not the romance I dreamed about when I was a kid.” She swirled the ice around in her drink. “At least I have Madison.”

  Her pensive smile when she said her daughter's name penetrated my very soul.

  I took a big swallow of beer. “Where does Rod come into the picture?”

  “I met him one evening at a restaurant. He was good to me. But, well…” Amelia tapped her fingers on the bar, distracted by the Dixie Chicks singing in the background. “So, how do you like Harland?”

  “In my rearview mirror.” But as soon as I said the words, I realized that wasn't fair. I had scurried to Harland quick enough when I needed a place to lay low for a while. It wasn't the town's fault that the population included guys like Ralph to whom the word no was nothing more than a momentary inconvenience.

  “I thought you didn't have a car…”

  “Not anymore.” I thought briefly of the little Triumph Eric had bought me, then thought about the Triumph Eric had sold shortly before I left.

  “Harland seems like a pretty good place to raise kids. That's what people say.”

  “My sister, Leslie, thinks so. She was originally only going to stay here for a year, but now it looks like she's here to stay.”

  “She works in the hospital, doesn't she?”

  “Yeah. How do you know?”

  “I've had to take Madison to the hospital once in a while. She gets sick a lot. Rod thinks I'm too fussy, thinks I spoil her. But I love her, you know? And they always want to do these tests on her, and it makes her cry.”

  I thought of the appointment Leslie had alluded to. The one that, I guessed, Amelia was supposed to have kept the day we met.

  “And Rod, well, sometimes I think he's not real good with Madison because she's not his baby. I heard this guy on Oprah—he said that sometimes the stepfather isn't as connected to th
e baby because it isn't his.”

  “That can happen.” Or even if it is his…

  “Rod doesn't fuss with Madison much. But, you know, he's a guy.” Amelia half turned to me. “What did you think of Rod?”

  Lousy tipper. But I diplomatically kept that to myself. Most girls didn't appreciate disparaging comments about their boyfriend du jour, no matter how sleazy he was. “He strikes me as a definite kind of guy.”

  “He knows what he wants, that's for sure.” Amelia bit her lip.

  I waited, sensing that she wanted to say more.

  She glanced around, as if checking to see who might be interested in our conversation, then leaned a little closer to me. “I saw Jack talking to you before he left the restaurant. Was that about the bar thing?”

  “No. He just wanted to talk.”

  Amelia ran her fingernail up and down a gouge in the wood of the bar. “I'm sorry about that Ralph guy,” she said. “I didn't think he would act like that.” She gave me a wan smile. “How much trouble did you get in?”

  How much trouble? Let me count the ways.

  My sister gets to bail me out of jail, Jack gets to file a report on me, which will probably get put into the archives, and my face will be plastered in post offices all over Montana with a warning to keep any impressionable children away from me. My brother-in-law thinks, because of said moment in sheriff's office, that I'm not to be trusted, and his mother probably would prefer not to think of me at all.

  “It was okay.” I waved away her concern. “You don't need to worry about Jack,” I assured her.

  “That's good.” She pressed her finger deeper into the gouge, bending her bright pink fingernail. “Because Rod and Jack grew up in this town together. They're old friends. Jack takes Rod's side every time.”

  I frowned. “Every time what?”

  She pressed her lips together, as if regretting this momentary lapse.

  “Every time what, Amelia?”

  She sighed, then darted a quick, sidelong glance. “Every time Rod hurts me.”

  I knew she was going to say that. Her nervous air around Rod, her hesitation to talk about him, the little quirks she had—all pointed to a situation I understood.

  Yet to hear her speak those words still caught me like a fist to the stomach. Something I, unfortunately, had experienced on a less-metaphorical level. “You don't need to stay with him,” I urged, keeping my voice low, trying to keep control as my anger grew like a slow, dangerous storm. “You need to move out.”

  “He's not always like that,” Amelia said with an edge of desperation in her voice. “Sometimes he can be really nice. And he always feels really bad afterward.”

  If she only knew how clichéd she sounded.

  “And he brings you flowers and buys presents, right?” Try as I might, I could not keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  “But it's not always his fault,” she said, laying her hand on my arm, willing me to understand this classic relationship. The trouble was, I did understand, and there but for the grace of God, whom I didn't really believe in, went I.

  “It's not always yours either,” I said, choosing my words with deliberation. Attacking Rod was the wrong move. If she sensed my outrage, she would pull back. She needed to trust me.

  Amelia blinked, her brown eyes looking as innocent as her little daughter's. I felt a surge of protectiveness that surprised me.

  “Why does he do it, then?”

  “Because deep inside, Rod isn't happy with himself. Maybe he was hit by his own father, and maybe he thinks that's how you're supposed to act when things don't go your way.” I was pleased with how reasonable I sounded, considering that all I wanted to do was get a good solid grip on Rod's windpipe and various other parts of his anatomy. “And the real problem comes when he starts getting angry with Madison.”

  “He hasn't. Not yet.”

  Her “not yet” gave me more information than she realized.

  “Has he been angry with her?”

  She pressed her hand to her heart in a gesture of protectiveness, and I knew I had her. “Sometimes. When she cries too much.” Her hand clenched in a fist, and her gaze flicked away from me as if she was ashamed to look me in the eye. “What can I do?” she whispered.

  “Move out.”

  Amelia frowned and lowered her hand, then shook her head as I sensed her withdrawing. “I can't do that. I… just can't. I… I love him.”

  Frustration bubbled under the surface. I had moved too hard, too fast. I had made her defensive.

  “It's good that you love him,” I said, forcing a fake calm into my voice. “But sometimes love means doing things that seem hard.”

  “Where would I go? I can't move out. He would—” Her voice broke. She started crying and I patted her lightly on the shoulder, trying not to make eye contact with any of the curious patrons of the bar.

  “It's okay, Amelia. You don't have to. It was just an idea.” I hoped I hadn't broken the fragile trust between us.

  “You won't tell Rod about this, will you?” She palmed her tears off her cheeks.

  And round and round we go. I just hoped that each time we did, I could bring her a little farther away from thinking she had no options.

  “Of course not.”

  She almost sagged in relief. “Good. I can't move out. I got nowhere to go.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They told me not to come back unless I was married.”

  Stuck. How ironic that her life was a “before” snapshot of my own situation.

  But I left. I made a decision.

  I ran away. I didn't confront Eric. Didn't stop him…

  Amelia sniffed a few more times, then dug into her purse. “Sorry,” she whispered. She pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “Is my mascara running?”

  “You look fine.”

  “I just wish I could figure out what to do with my life. It's such a mess.”

  I patted her on the shoulder, unable to offer any sterling words of wisdom, my life being the train wreck it was. I'd scooted out of Seattle with hopes of ducking below Eric's radar while spending time with Leslie. Then, when I figured my past had settled down, I would move on to greener pastures with a blue sky above me and not a care in the world.

  At least that was phase one of the life plan I'd scribbled out on a napkin one rainy afternoon at a Starbucks.

  “I wish there was something I could do for you,” I said, as I glanced around the bar.

  Amelia gave me a trembling smile. “You know, that's the nicest thing I've heard since I came here. Thanks.”

  Her tentative appreciation gave my bruised ego a tender boost. Leslie should see this. Might make her realize I wasn't such a loser after all.

  “Are you meeting someone else here?” Amelia asked.

  “No. Just seeing if I know anyone.” I thought I might see those boys who had ducked out on paying their bill at the diner. “But I should get going.” I resisted the urge to tell her that she should as well. I wasn't her mother.

  “Will I see you around?” she asked.

  “I'm at the restaurant most days. Stop by next time you have a chance, or call me. I'll give you the number.” I dug through my purse, but the only paper I found was an old Visa bill, and I had nothing to write with but a lipstick pencil. “Here's Helen's phone number and address,” I said, writing it carefully on the bill. “If you ever need my help or just need to talk, call, okay? Otherwise, I'll be at the diner if I'm not home.”

  Amelia took it with a grateful smile. “Thanks a bunch. It was nice talking to you.”

  I laid my hand on her shoulder. “You don't have to stay with him, you know. You do have a choice.”

  She nodded as she slipped the paper into a zippered compartment of her purse, but I could tell she wasn't convinced. “Yeah. I guess I do,” she said. But as I gathered up my purse to leave, she caught my arm and gave me a sheepish grin. “I want to stay awhile yet, but I forgot my wallet…”

 
; “Don't worry. I'll get the tab.” I signaled the bartender and paid for both our drinks, resisting the urge to slip her a few more bills. I didn't need to encourage her drinking, in spite of her desire to linger. As I slipped off the stool, a bellowing laugh caught my attention. A group of young kids had slipped in while I was having my heart-to-heart with Amelia.

  I recognized one of them.

  My smile was triumphant as I zipped open my purse and pulled out the unpaid restaurant bill. This was going to be so good. I straightened my jacket, smoothed out my lipstick, and with my smile intact, walked over.

  “Hello, youngsters. How are you doing?”

  The boy I recognized turned his head with that lazy “I don't care” sneer spoiled teenage boys all over North America seem to have adopted as their signature look.

  “I'll have a…”

  His eyes drifted upward. I held the unpaid bill suspended between us as his sneer stiffened and shifted into fearful recognition.

  “Yes. It's me. The voice of your conscience.” I waved the bill back and forth, savoring the moment. “You owe me nineteen dollars and seventy-five cents. Plus a fifteen percent tip, which makes twenty-two dollars and seventy-two cents, plus a five-dollar delivery charge, on top of which I could add an idiot charge. But I'm feeling gracious, so your grand total is twenty-seven dollars and seventy-two cents.” I slapped the bill on the table. “Which I'll round up, for ease of payment, to twenty-eight dollars.”

  I love my work.

  “But… You gotta be kidding… You can't do this…”

  “I can. And I will. Pay up, punk.” I held my hand out, knowing full well that when push came to shove, this little twerp wouldn't. Push or shove, that is.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” his friend said. “This is crazy.”

  I turned to take him on and found myself looking directly into the wide-open, overdone raccoon eyes of Gloria's daughter, Tabitha.

  Chapter Seven

  Okay. So I felt a little smug. The VandeKeeres with their family moments and their praying and churchgoing couldn't keep this little minx out of trouble.

  But my smug moment was doused when I remembered Leslie's concern and Wilma's comment about praying for her. This girl had all the support and opportunities that Leslie and I never had. And she was royally messing it up.