Fighting for Anna

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  We coasted into the parking lot of the quaint town square in Fayetteville. It was a little after seven and already filling up. Bicycles and spandex were everywhere.

  I parked the Jetta. “If you want, you can take the car and go find a place to eat.”

  “Nah.” He pushed his door open. “I’m good.”

  I was used to going places with Adrian. He was not only well known on the triathlon scene, especially in Texas, but he was gorgeous. A blond Adonis. A Brad Pitt in his prime. But it turned out that was nothing compared to showing up with Rashidi. As I started unloading my bicycle, people stopped. Jaws dropped. Conversations ceased. Here in the continental United States, Rashidi’s island looks were exotic. He was dark and mysterious, new and sexy. And he was with me.

  I wanted to crawl back into the car and hide. Almost everyone here knew who I was. Adrian’s wife. The reluctant and really crappy Ironwoman. His coauthor, the media darling of Texas sports last year. Houston’s favorite daughter of the moment, looking like a harridan after a night of partying.

  Something drew my eyes down to my chest. There was a giant scarlet A painted across it. My mother’s voice in my head said, “No, Michele.” The A morphed into a T for Tlazol before my eyes. I closed them as Mom grew sterner. “I said no.”

  “Is that you, Mrs. Hanson?” A young man’s voice, and it sounded confused.

  I turned. Annabelle’s Jay. “Well, hello. What are you doing here?”

  He pointed toward the bathrooms. The tiny frame of Annabelle Hanson with her dandelion bloom of hair approached.

  I forgot about Rashidi and my scarlet letter. I ran to my stepdaughter. She ran toward me, silly and exaggerated. I picked her up and swung her around me, both of us laughing.

  When I’d put her down, I said, “You guys! You surprised me.”

  Annabelle beamed. “We did?”

  “I thought you had a concert.”

  Jay swung a long, ropey arm down and around Annabelle. He was as tall as she was short and his swimmer shoulders about as wide as she was tall.

  “The concert was last night. Belle really wanted to be here.”

  She poked him in the ribs. “And you said you’d do anything for me.”

  He blushed. “Just about.”

  A hand clasped me on the shoulder. I winced, feeling guilty I’d forgotten Rashidi.

  But it wasn’t him. “There you are, sunshine.”

  “Wallace!”

  My old friend looked like a glossy ad for Pearl Izumi bicycle wear in his ocean-waves-themed bike shorts and jersey. Just the perfect shade to bring out the blue in his eyes. After a bone cruncher of a bear hug, I introduced him to Annabelle and Jay.

  “Where’s Ethan?” I asked him.

  A model-thin ebony figure stepped from behind Wallace, who was roughly twice the second man’s size. I’d only met Ethan once—like with Rashidi, it had been at Emily’s wedding. Ethan was in street clothes, but his outfit was a shout in the library: neon-green-and-pink plaid shorts with a pink polo shirt and Top-Siders with pink ankle socks. After introductions and warm greetings, he threaded his arm through Wallace’s.

  “Aren’t you riding?” I asked him.

  He made a face. “I’d rather be eaten alive by fire ants.”

  “That’s how I feel.” Papa’s voice surprised me. He put an arm around my waist and squeezed me. “I managed to break away from my four-legged patients.”

  Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I laid my head on his shoulder. “Papa, you came.”

  “I did.”

  Annabelle squealed and dove into his other shoulder.

  Around me, people were looking at each other with smirks and raised eyebrows, their eyes just past me, to Rashidi.

  Before I could turn around and introduce him, he removed his toothpick and spoke in his most Continental voice. “Good morning. I’m Michele’s friend, Rashidi John.”

  Stunned silence met his announcement. I wanted to disappear, and I wiggled my nose, Bewitched style, because you just never know when it might start working, and I had nothing else to try.

  Annabelle broke the tension. “You’re the one who texts Michele.”

  “Yah, mon. She pities me. I had nothing to do and she said, ‘Come on, nothing like a small-town bicycle race at the crack of dawn on a hot Saturday for a good time!’”

  Everyone laughed and welcomed him. I felt as awkward as I had at sixteen in my white debutante gown. Me, the short dark one adrift in a sea of willowy blondes.

  Wallace pointed at me. “Michele, you and I need to get moving.”

  I realized we had a cruise ship full of guests in need of direction. “Why don’t you guys head to Espressions in Round Top? It’s on our route. Wallace and I can drop in and say hi.”

  Annabelle clapped. “I love that place.”

  I handed Rashidi my keys, and Wallace and I walked our bicycles toward the starting line.

  Wallace spoke through the side of his mouth. “What’s going on with you and the dreadlocked Taye Diggs, there, missy?”

  It wasn’t as uncomfortable to me as Annabelle meeting Rashidi had been, but close. Wallace had been a regular in the triathlon scene in Houston—before he was transferred to Amarillo with Child Protective Services—and Adrian had introduced us.

  “Not what you think.”

  “And why isn’t it? He’s yummy.”

  I side-eyed him. “Too soon.”

  “Hasn’t it been a year?” Wallace asked.

  “Not even eleven months.”

  “You’re going to have to start living again at some point.”

  “I am living. See, this is Michele living—racing bicycles.”

  He shook his head. “This is Michele hungover, toting her hot date from the night before.”

  “Not a date.”

  He squinted and slipped on his sunglasses, then smiled wide. “You may not be ready, but Rashidi is.”

  “Just friends.”

  “Doesn’t make me wrong.”

  “How’s it going with Ethan?”

  “Transparent redirection. And he’s wonderful.”

  “When and where are you guys getting married? I need to put it on my calendar.”

  “I think we’re going to wait for the Supreme Court. We don’t want to have to run out of state like we’re a dirty little secret.”

  “Good plan,” I said.

  He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “We tried to get a cake for our engagement party. It didn’t go well.”

  “What happened?”

  “The baker declined on the basis of religious beliefs.”

  “Oh no!”

  “The funny thing is, I understand. Religion is a protected right. I just think there’s a lot of things religious people pull from the Bible that eventually get shit-canned. Multiple wives. Killing your children. Owning slaves. Hmm?”

  A man pushed his bicycle through the crowd. He lost his balance and knocked his bike over, landing on me.

  “Argh!” I fell into Wallace.

  “Whoa, there.” Wallace caught me before I hit the ground.

  The other guy was prone, tangled up in our bikes. He stared up at me. “Michele Lopez Hanson?”

  I squinted in the bright sun, trying to get a better look at his face.

  “It’s me, Blake Cooper.” The dark-haired, fit Dr. Blake Cooper owned a sports injury clinic in Houston. He and his staff had helped me through injuries on my way to the Ironman. And he’d hit on me, until I made it clear he should stop.

  “B-B-Blake, hello.” Heat rushed to my face. I could see Rashidi with the rest of our cheering section, standing on the sidewalk ringing the square. Wallace was covering his mouth, hiding a laugh. Blake was grinning as he climbed to his feet and righted his bicycle. I was dying.

  “Great to see you, Michele.”

  “You, too.”

  “I’d love to take you to lunch sometime.”

  “I’m not living in Houston.”

  “Do you still have the
same number?”

  “Um . . .”

  Wallace cut in. “Yes, she does.”

  “Great!” Blake said. “I’ll call. We can catch up.”

  The starting gun fired, cutting off conversation. I clipped in and began to pedal.

  The pack made its way out of town at a leisurely pace, with a few hotshots sprinting out ahead. Even at this speed, my body struggled to warm up. My heart was sprinting when it should have been jogging. I couldn’t catch my breath, and I realized I was anaerobic.

  Wallace sat straight up, steering with his fingertips. “The only reason I’m not grilling you about Blake is because you look rough. Are you okay?”

  “I’m not sure. It isn’t going well.”

  He nodded. “You must have drunk your body weight in something.”

  “It’s more than that. Long story.”

  He frowned, and I focused on the ground in front of my front wheel. I wished that it was Adrian beside me. I could confess my fear that at forty-one my body was betraying me as if I was twice that age. If it was getting this bad this young, how much worse would it be later? How much longer would I be able to be active and do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted?

  “You go ahead,” I said. I wasn’t going to hold him back. He would wave me on if the situation was reversed.

  “If you’re sure.”

  I nodded.

  Wallace saluted me. “I’ll see you in Round Top?”

  “Perfect.”

  His ocean-waves jersey surged ahead of me as he wove in and out of traffic and chased the leaders. I breathed easier with nothing to prove and no one’s ride to mess up. However, my car was in Round Top, and I had to get there by pedaling. The next twenty-seven miles were a hellish ordeal. It never got any better. I drank coconut water and sucked down chocolate Gu trying to spark some energy, but nothing worked. I popped three more Excedrin, but I knew they weren’t the cure for what was ailing me. I’d tried every over-the-counter painkiller available over the last few months. Orally and topically. I’d tried yoga and meditation. Nothing was working. Nothing. Riding in the back middle of the riders, I barely took notice of the countryside. I quit worrying about wind resistance and gave in to my pain and sat up.

  An interminable length of time later, I passed the Junk Gypsy world headquarters. I finally dropped down on my handlebars again as I gasped my way to the top of the hill into Round Top. Wallace was standing on the side of the road in front of Espressions. Sweating, overheated, and demoralized, I clipped out when I reached him.

  “I’m toast. You go on without me.”

  He touched my elbow lightly. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad.”

  I smiled with all the perkiness I could muster. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. And next time I see you, no excuses about not going on with your life. Adrian wouldn’t have wanted you to die with him.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes.

  We hugged, tight and sweaty.

  “Ride safe.”

  “Always.”

  He rode away, standing up in his pedals. I was glad to see him go, because what he’d said, however kindly meant, stung. He was wrong, and as much as I loved him, I didn’t want to hear it. I knew Adrian would want me to be his forever. If the roles were reversed, I would want him to be mine forever, too. I reached for my butterfly necklace. It was shockingly, inexplicably cold, and I dropped it back on my chest.

  I leaned La Mariposa against the outside wall of Espressions. Inside, I found Rashidi, Papa, Jay, Ethan, and Annabelle gazing in rapt attention at the most recognizable man in Texas. Boyd Herrington, the U.S. senator Rashidi and I had seen at Home Sweet Farm the night before, was holding court, and looking good doing it. He had just enough gray at the temples to look wise and distinguished.

  I waved to John, the proprietor and occasionally the resident musician for Espressions.

  John boomed, “Welcome back, Michele.”

  Annabelle jumped up. “Hi, Michele. We didn’t know you guys were here yet.”

  Ethan stood, too. “Where’s Wallace?”

  “He went on ahead. He’ll pass by again in about fifteen minutes.”

  Ethan lowered back into his chair. “Sounds good.”

  “I’m going to call it a day, though. I’m not feeling well.”

  Rashidi had an open chair right beside him, and he shoved it back so I could get in it. “Will coffee help?”

  “Maybe.” I gave him a tepid grin.

  “They have yummy scones.” Annabelle sat back down.

  Papa shoved a plate across the table at me, and I eyed the scones, which had some kind of berries in them. I needed to pass. The white poison of processed sugar. My hand snaked out and snatched one anyway. The statesman at the end of the table nodded in approval.

  “Best scones this side of the pond. I’m Boyd.” He half rose and stuck his hand out.

  I shook and mumbled through a bite of the blueberry confection, “Nice to meet you,” holding a hand over my mouth to catch the crumbs falling from my lips.

  Papa leaned toward me. “Senator Herrington has just been telling us about his presidential campaign.”

  “Potential presidential campaign.” The senator put a hand out, palm down, like he was minimizing his statement.

  “How exciting.” I licked crumbs from my lips. “When will you announce?”

  “In a couple of months, if at all. We’ve got a lot of fundraising to do first.”

  Annabelle bounced in her chair. “I’m going to work on his campaign, or whatever, in Austin. Isn’t that so cool?”

  “What about you, young man?” Senator Herrington turned toward Jay. “Do you have an interest in politics?”

  “The coach would never let Jay have time off.” Annabelle patted Jay’s hand. “He’s going to the Olympics.”

  Jay was a likely contender in distance freestyle, although he still had to qualify.

  “Belle!” Jay protested.

  “What? It’s true.”

  Jay’s face splotched red. “You’re gonna jinx me.”

  The senator changed the subject. Deft. “Michele, your very proud family has been telling me all about you.”

  “They’re awfully sweet.” I snagged a strawberry from the garnish on the scone plate.

  “You’re one of my neighbors, I hear.”

  “Am I? I live between here and Giddings.”

  “She calls it Nowheresville.” Annabelle giggled. “Because that’s totally where it is.” I had shared the moniker with the kids in a group text earlier that week. Clearly, Annabelle liked it.

  The senator smiled graciously. “And you’re writing a book, I understand?”

  “It’s not her first one. She has a best seller that she wrote with my dad.” Annabelle’s enthusiasm was sweet. And a little embarrassing. Jay and I glanced at each other. I smiled at him.

  “Yes. A biography about a local woman.”

  “Who left you her farm.”

  Even Herrington had heard all about me. “Yes.”

  Annabelle gasped. I hadn’t told the kids or Papa yet. “Really?” She socked Jay. “We’ve got a farm!”

  The senator fished a card from his wallet and handed it to me. “Fantastic. Seeing as we’re nearly neighbors, feel free to reach out to me.”

  I pulled at my sticky top, feeling uncomfortable that the senator was focusing on my family and me, and that our guests were so quiet. “Thank you. Afraid I don’t have mine on me.”

  “Oh, I know the Becker place. Plus, I have a very industrious staff. If I need to find you, they can.”

  Just as I was about to change the subject to include Ethan and Rashidi, the senator rose to his feet. And as if he were the King of Siam, we all stood with him as he bestowed the honor of his grand goodbye upon us.

  ***

  Annabelle was dying to show Jay the Quacker, and Papa wanted to see Gidget’s place, too. I led a caravan toward Nowheresville, and Rashidi chatted with me easily as we drove. W
hen we arrived, I stood in the clearing and swept my arm in a circle, encompassing the pond, the forest, and the decrepit trailer.

  Papa got out of his 1960 Shelby Cobra, a ride he reserved for nonworking time. “You look like your abuela, but this trailer is more like your mother’s Mississippi side of the family.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Papa continued, “It’s so remote, Itzpa. I worry about you.”

  I recoiled at his use of my nickname. I was no Itzpa anymore. “It’s what Adrian and I wanted.”

  Annabelle interrupted, “It’s great for bicycling.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Roads with very little traffic and broad shoulders.”

  Rashidi was walking around the Quacker, inspecting it. “You not afraid a’tall. Like Katie,” he drawled.

  Instead of responding, I thought of all the things I was afraid of: forgetting Adrian, losing Sam or Annabelle or my father, not living up to my mother’s expectations, having to live another fifty years feeling this empty.

  Annabelle put both arms around Jay’s waist. “Dad said she dives head first with both arms swinging.”

  Papa laughed out loud. “Michele’s won every fight she was ever in, and she was always the smallest one.”

  I opened the door to divert their attention. “Hurry in or the AC will cut off. And you don’t want that to happen.”

  Rashidi entered first. “Living small is all the rage.”

  Annabelle and Jay followed Rashidi in.

  I put a hand on Papa’s arm to detain him. “Annabelle, can you show the guys how everything works in there?”

  “Sure,” she chirped.

  I shut the door. “Can I talk to you for a second, Papa?”

  His eyes widened. “Of course.”

  “I put a new message out, looking for my brother.”

  His face grew serious. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Nothing.” I watched a cardinal on the little bird feeder I had assembled two weeks before. It was empty. I’d have to move the feeder and fill it over at Gidget’s. Another male cardinal lit on a different perch. “I can’t believe I have a brother.”

  “Does that make you happy?” he asked.

  “A little. But also, sad. It’s like losing something I never had.”