by Darien Gee
Edie pops a ginger candy into her mouth and then decides on a second one to be safe. “Richard, first of all, it’s not that interesting. I highly doubt anyone would be as remotely riveted as you. Second of all, it’s not morning sickness because I feel nauseous all of the time.” Case in point—it’s 10:00 P.M. “Third, if you insinuate one more time that this is all in my head, I will personally put you out of my misery and then tell the police it was hormones.”
Richard gives a chuckle. He weaves his fingers through Edie’s. “So …” he begins quietly.
She groans, knowing what’s coming. “Richard, if this is going to be one of those ‘we should get married because of the baby’ conversations, I don’t want to have it.” Edie shakes her hand free and burrows under the covers, her back to him. She just wants to sleep. All of the time, unfortunately.
Richard leans over her. “Edie, we’ve never had that conversation. I know your feelings on this. And I respect them.”
Her voice wafts out from under the down comforter. “So why do I feel like we’re going to have this conversation now?”
He gently tugs at the edge of the comforter until it falls away from Edie’s fingers. “Because I need you to respect my feelings on this. Do you even know what my feelings are? We’ve known for three days that you’re pregnant, and we haven’t once talked about the future.”
“The future.” Edie says the words with a frown.
“Yes, the future. Our future.”
“You want the future? Fine.” Edie tosses off the blankets and props herself up on her elbows. “Here’s the future. In nine months we’re going to have a baby. Which means I have nine months to try and launch my pathetic career as a journalist before I become one of those breastfeeding mothers in Birkenstocks who hangs out by the bulk bins at the health food store. Is that future enough for you?”
Richard looks put out. “It’s enough of your future. I’m not exactly clear as to how I fit into the equation.”
“You’re the guy who’ll be changing diapers and getting up in the middle of the night with a bottle.”
“Edie.” Richard looks pissed now. “It goes without saying that I will be the guy changing diapers and getting up in the middle of the night. I don’t have a problem with that, and you know it. But I do have a problem with you thinking that’s all there is. What about marriage, Edie? I want to marry you. I know you want to marry me. So what the hell are we waiting for?”
Edie stares up at the ceiling. She doesn’t know how she can make him understand. She’s not discontent with her life or with Avalon exactly, but all of her alumni magazines show former classmates bragging about their successes, their publications, their good works, and it’s starting to get to her. The only thing that doesn’t bother her is hearing about people’s growing families. To that she just rolls her eyes and thinks, Better you than me. She finds it ironic that the gods messed this one up and gave her the one thing she cares least about.
“Richard, I just want to focus on work for a little while longer. It’s easy for you—you took over an existing medical practice and boom—office, patients, a secretary, a nurse, even an aquarium. You’re Dr. Richard. Everybody loves you.” She doesn’t begrudge Richard’s popularity but it’s Richard’s, not hers. “I just want to do my thing, make my mark. And reporting on a whack job who’s been secretly stealing people’s newspapers and switching their garden hoses isn’t going to wow the major papers.”
Richard falls back against the pillows, frustrated. He throws an arm over his face and grits his teeth. “Edie … Edie … Edie …” He says her name like a mantra.
“Richard, I just want one big story,” she begs. “And I think I have it, with this Amish Friendship Bread stuff. And I found something else, too. There’s a sweet bread, Hemin, circulating among believers of Saint Pio of Pietrelcina, also known as Padre Pio. You make this holy bread, read the prayer that comes with it, and, of course, split up the starter and share it with other people. Naturally the Vatican and official Padre Pio prayer groups deny this, but it doesn’t stop people from giving it a try, just in case. The instructions differ a bit from Amish Friendship Bread, but it’s basically the exact same thing. You should hear the stories of all the ‘supposed’ miracles that people …”
“Enough. Stop.” Richard gently grasps her chin and turns her to face him. “I don’t care about Hemin bread or Padre Pio, Edie.”
Edie squirms. “Okay, but …”
“Hush.” There’s a determined look on his face, one that Edie hasn’t seen before. “I know you hate surprises, so consider this fair warning: I will be planning a special dinner soon in which I intend to ask a particular question.”
“Oh, Richard.” Edie can’t hide the crestfallen expression on her face. She loves in principle that her boyfriend of eight years is a romantic, but she has made it clear that she hates surprises, especially surprises that might result in any kind of photo opportunity. “Can’t you just wait a little longer?”
“No, I most certainly cannot.” He says this firmly. “Consider yourself lucky that I’m even giving you a heads-up. This is not exactly how I wanted to do it, but I want you to have time to think about this and who knows, maybe even get excited about it.”
Edie never played dress-up where she pictured herself as a bride or getting married. She’s not against it, she just doesn’t think it’s something every couple has to do. And for eight years things have been going so well. Why wreck it?
She’s almost forgotten that she’s pregnant (could there be a bigger wrecking ball?) until a wave of nausea makes her clap her hand to her mouth. It passes.
“So essentially this is the proposal before the proposal,” she recaps, swallowing hard.
“No. I’m not proposing that I propose to you. I am going to propose to you, Edith Whitting Gallagher.” Richard pushes himself out of bed and pads into the hallway, probably to get a late-night snack, or to make more toast for Edie. “So be ready.”
Connie Colls, 21
Laundromat Attendant
The Avalon Wash and Dry is the town’s only self-service laundry facility. Located on the corner of Main and Grove, the Avalon Wash and Dry boasts eight top loaders, thirty-eight front loaders, and thirty-six dryers. Hours are from 5:00 A.M. to 11:00 P.M. every day, including holidays.
Connie Colls started working at the Wash and Dry in high school. It was the perfect part-time job—sweeping and cleaning, stocking vending machines with change and small packets of detergent and dryer sheets, calling in broken machines. When she graduated high school with no real job prospects, Connie accepted a full-time position as the daytime Laundromat attendant.
She knows it’s not as glamorous as some of the things her classmates have gone on to do, but Connie is happy. It’s an easy job, and one that she does well. The pay isn’t great and the benefits are lousy, but there are perks that keep things interesting.
She makes money on the side by helping her customers fold their laundry or taking their laundry out when the cycle is done. She’s technically not supposed to do this, but seeing how she knows pretty much everyone who comes in here, she’s not too worried about getting into trouble.
Other than that, there’s not very much going on. Prompted by her own boredom, Connie suggested the addition of a few soda and water vending machines. She set up an informal kid’s area for toddlers and little kids so that tired moms could have a moment of peace to fold their laundry. There’s a lend-and-leave bookshelf and two neat stacks of magazines and newspapers. Connie painted the walls a light and airy sea foam green, replacing all of the hand-printed signs with ones printed from her computer. She added a couple more with clever puns, including one that said, “It’s a dirty world out there—let us help you clean up!” It was her idea to offer free Wi-Fi (which lets her surf the Web at her leisure) and install a television in one corner that plays funny movies. Both have been big hits with the customers.
Connie is good at being inconspicuous. Her customers know she�
�s there, but in a way she’s considered part of the scenery—she doesn’t really count. Which means that they’ll say whatever it is they want to say in front of her. Connie jots down interesting anecdotes in a little notebook that she keeps in the back room, thinking that someday she might write a book. My Life in a Laundromat or maybe something catchier like It All Comes Out in the Wash. Something like that.
She knows business is good, because each week there are a few more new customers and the old ones keep coming back. Sometimes there’s a wait for the machines. The owner seems happy each time he visits, and the last time he brought someone with him. They both praised her, said she was doing an amazing job, and when the owner was leaving he gave Connie a thumbs-up.
Her latest idea was the community bulletin board. She bought a framed corkboard and hung it under the clock, and in less than twelve hours it was filled with business cards. In twenty-four hours she had flyers, too.
Connie is careful to look through the board and remove any items that have expired or no longer seem useful. She hates the cheesy business opportunities (WORK FROM HOME! EARN $100,000 IN ONE MONTH!) and yanks those off the board right away. She likes the ones giving away cute puppies, the colorful flyers for yoga classes, the moving sales with lists of items going cheap or “OBO.” The bottom line for Connie is that whatever is on the board has to be of service to the community. She’s adamant about that.
A couple of months ago someone posted a question on a small card.
MY AMISH FRIENDSHIP BREAD STARTER GREW MOLD! WHY?? Another card quickly followed, written by another person.
WHY CAN’T I USE METAL FOR MY AFB STARTER?
And then,
I HAVE AFB STARTER COMING OUT OF MY EARS! CAN I FREEZE IT?
The responses filled the cards—some in pencil, some in pen, all in different handwriting. Then there were more cards, and more responses, until half of the community board was taken up with questions about Amish Friendship Bread.
The cards kept coming. Recipes, too. Yeast-free. Chocolate chip applesauce. Carrot coconut. Rhubarb muffins. Lemon poppy seed. All using the Amish Friendship Bread starter.
Connie finally came up with a solution. She went to the drugstore and bought two large index boxes, one for questions and techniques, another for recipes. She left a stack of blank cards and pens nearby for people to copy their favorite recipes or leave a new one.
Within a week, both boxes were filled. So Connie bought two more boxes.
She was starting to notice that women were coming in not just to do laundry, but to consult one or both of the boxes. Connie quickly added free coffee to the list of amenities for Laundromat patrons. Oftentimes two or three women would meet while waiting for their laundry to dry. They’d bring in different variations of the bread and share them, exchanging questions or commenting on whether one box of pudding was really enough or if whole wheat flour contained enough gluten to make the recipe work properly. Connie didn’t really understand these discussions, but was more than happy to participate in any necessary taste tests. Soon she could count on a mid-morning and mid-afternoon snack, and sometimes a loaf to take home. She declined the many opportunities to take a bag of starter—it wasn’t really her thing.
But helping coordinate the many women who did want a bag of starter, or who needed to get rid of their starter, was her thing. She quickly and easily hooked people up, letting them know what day the starter was on and how to care for it. She knew what to do and what not to do, and while she never spoke from experience (she let people know this up front), she also overheard enough to give good advice. She was like a lawyer who had never been in a car accident or subject to a lawsuit themselves. Just because she never actually made Amish Friendship Bread didn’t mean that she couldn’t tell people how to do it right.
Then the owner had come in a couple of days ago, his mouth agape at the bevy of chatting ladies poring over recipes and sipping the free coffee as they folded their laundry. He seemed genuinely sorry to tell Connie that he was giving her two weeks’ notice. He had sold the business to a man from the city who already had ten successful Laundromats throughout the state. He was going to convert the Avalon Wash and Dry into a 1930s-themed Laundromat with laundry debit cards instead of coins. Dry cleaning pick-up and drop-off. Open twenty-four hours. It would be a complete overhaul using a proven formula. He was going to bring in a manager from one of his other operations to oversee the change, and they wouldn’t be needing Connie anymore.
“I’m really sorry,” the owner said to Connie. He handed her a card that said THANKS FOR A GREAT JOB and inside there was a hundred-dollar bill. Connie said thank you, but she could tell his mind was already on other things, like a vacation to someplace exotic or the new car he would be buying. He’d made his money, with Connie’s help and brilliant ideas, and he was now hanging her out to dry. Pun intended.
The new manager comes in this week with the Laundromat’s new signage and has already told Connie that the bulletin board must go. They don’t want clutter. So today, the bulletin board and the Amish Friendship Bread boxes, which are stuffed to overflowing, must find a new home. She wants to put them some place where people can freely gather and consult the cards at their leisure. She tried to put the boxes into the safekeeping of one of the regulars, but no one wanted the responsibility.
She’ll try the library first, and while she’s there she might pick up catalogs for the community colleges in Freeport and Rockford. Connie doesn’t want to be at the mercy of a fickle employer anymore—she wants to have some options. Some real responsibility, with opportunities to grow. A career maybe.
She tries not to be angry at the owner for selling. After all, it was a good job while it lasted, and she learned a thing or two. More important, she had fun. She saved a little money, got to watch all the latest releases from Netflix, met a lot of good people. The customers are livid on her behalf but she tells them not to be. She knows they need a place to do their laundry, and she doesn’t want them to feel guilty about coming to the new place.
In the three and a half years that Connie has worked at the Wash and Dry, she’s come to realize that life is a bit like doing laundry—you have to separate the darks from the lights. One’s not necessarily better than the other—they’re just different. They have different needs, require different levels of care. She knows plenty of customers who don’t give it much thought and throw all their laundry in together, and maybe that’s the chaotic part of life that just happens, that no matter how hard you try, you can’t always keep things separate. A red sock gets mixed in with a load of whites, or a delicate black top gets washed in hot water by accident. These things happen. All you can do is learn from it and move on. Tell your husband to enjoy his pink underwear, give your shrunken top to your little sister or niece. But it doesn’t mean that you stop sorting your laundry. You keep sorting—lights from darks, darks from lights—and hope for the best.
CHAPTER 15
Mark pushes the grocery cart through the store, Gracie trailing beside him with her own mini version. She can only put lightweight items in her plastic cart, like tea boxes or bags of marshmallows, but that suits her just fine. It takes longer to do the shopping this way, but Gracie is happy, and it gets them out of the house so Julia can have more time to herself.
Today, however, Mark is steaming. He’s been on a low simmer ever since that afternoon he kissed Julia, when she had recoiled as if he had been a stranger. No, correct that—a stranger probably wouldn’t have evoked that response. That was clearly reserved for Mark.
Mark loads up on the bad starches, cheap carbs he knows he’ll regret later. Well, more time in the gym then, which is quickly becoming his home away from home. White bread, pasta, crackers, chips. He throws in a sour cream dip just for the hell of it, and suddenly has a craving for nachos smothered with cheese and jalapeños.
Gracie is chatting animatedly to her stuffed elephant, Troy, who’s sitting in the doll-size seat of her grocery cart. Troy is an elephant who
thinks he’s a bird. Right now she thinks it’s important to humor Troy and then, when the time is right, she’ll break the news to him gently.
Mark glances at her, worried that this imaginary play might be a mask for a more serious problem. He pictures the family therapist shaking his head and telling him that Gracie’s lost touch with reality. She is now permanently damaged, unable to function in the real world, which is full of bad things and parents who fight and who don’t know how to kiss. Even the admiring looks from other shoppers and the occasional coos don’t soothe him.
He turns the corner. Rows of Hostess snacks come into view, junk he hasn’t eaten since he was a kid. Boxes of Ho Hos, Twinkies, Ding Dongs, and Sno Balls end up in his cart. Even Gracie is frowning. But Mark doesn’t care.
Julia is gone for the next two days, having some “down time” with one of her tea shop friends. Mark doesn’t know where she is or what she’s doing. As usual. Why should she tell Mark anything? He’s just the husband.
A box of powdered Donettes sails into the cart. Mark pushes on.
After the grocery store, they’re going to go to Avalon Video and rent the latest Disney movie. Some feel-good piece of la-la-land goodness that can only happen in the Disney studios. You want special effects? Try getting your wife to kiss you. You’ll have to pull the whole tech team together for that one.
Julia used to get on her soapbox about the Disney epic cartoons. Did Mark ever notice how almost every movie had only one parent? And that it’s the mother who’s usually missing or killed off? Cinderella, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, Pocahontas, The Little Mermaid, Bambi, even The Fox and the Hound. Mark had offered to write a letter but Julia wasn’t humored.
The next aisle is frozen foods. He’ll pick up one of those supposedly healthy organic TV dinners for Gracie and some Hot Pockets for himself. They’ve been advertising those new panini-style sandwiches—maybe he’ll try one of those.