The Perfect Stranger

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  We exchanged those same vows I’d eavesdropped upon and sighed over as a hopelessly romantic preteen. We promised to stay together for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health . . .

  Sickness.

  Health.

  Those weighty words don’t make much impact when you’re a starry-­eyed twelve-­year-­old dreaming of fairy-­tale endings—­or even when you’re a lace-­clad bride embarking on happily ever after.

  Sometimes, dreams come true.

  Sometimes, your worst nightmare becomes reality . . . then fades away, the way nightmares do the morning after.

  My husband and I will celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary tomorrow. Some years have been better than we expected, and a few of them have been much worse, but I choose to believe the best are yet to come.

  —­Excerpt from Landry’s blog, The Breast Cancer Diaries

  Chapter 6

  Early Saturday morning—­before the sun comes up—­Rob drives Landry to the airport.

  Sitting in the front seat beside him, clutching the full stainless steel coffee mug he handed her back in the kitchen, she gazes at the darkened landscape through the passenger’s side window, resting her temple against the glass.

  She wants to tell him to turn around and go home.

  I’ve changed my mind.

  I don’t want to go to Cincinnati.

  I never wanted to go.

  I’m only doing it because I feel like I have to. Because it’s the right thing, the brave thing—­the hard thing. Because that’s the role model I want to be for my children.

  In this case, for her daughter. Addison is the one who’s interested in what’s going on with her right now. Tucker is in his own little adolescent world, caught up in video games, friends, his first job, and, most likely, summer girls. He knows Landry lost a friend, knows she’s flying up North for the memorial ser­vice today, but asked no questions and has said very little about it, other than to look up from his iPhone long enough to offer an obligatory, “Sorry about your friend, Mom.”

  That’s okay. He’s a kid.

  So is Addison, really. But Addie keeps asking if she’s all right. She always does her chores without being asked, but the last ­couple of days she’s gone out of her way to take care of things around the house, to make things easier.

  It reminds Landry of the morning, years ago, when Addie made her breakfast in bed while she was in the midst of treatment. French toast. Landry’s never been fond of sweets in the morning, and she’d woken up terribly nauseated that particular day. But she choked down the syrup-­and-­powdered-­sugar-­drenched French toast and asked for seconds.

  Addison beamed. “I’m so glad you like it, Mommy. I knew a good breakfast would make you feel better.”

  My sweet, kind, caring girl, Landry thought then—­and thought it again late last night, when she went into her daughter’s room to kiss her good-­night and good-­bye for the weekend.

  “I just got paid, so I bought you some magazines at work this afternoon,” Addie said, handing over a bag from the hotel gift shop. “Good Hollywood gossipy ones, the kind you like, to keep you busy on the plane.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, sweetie. Don’t spend your money on me.”

  “I like to. You spend your money on me. Oh, and I made you this. Wear it with your black dress tomorrow.”

  Addison handed her an onyx bracelet featuring two silver beads etched with the initials MH.

  She could barely thank her daughter over the lump in her throat, and gave her a long, hard hug.

  “She loved jewelry,” she told Addie. “Meredith did. She blogged about that. She said that’s how she got into the habit of wearing earrings and necklaces to bed, because it made her head feel less naked after she lost all her hair.”

  “Oh, Mom . . . Poor Meredith. I wish I could have made that bracelet for her instead of . . . well, I was thinking of it as a memorial bracelet for you, but now . . .”

  “I know. You’re so sweet, Addie.”

  “So are you. You’re being a good friend. Meredith would be glad you’re going to be there for the ser­vice tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure she would be.”

  If the tables were turned, Landry knows, Meredith would be the first to get on a plane. That knowledge has been a motivating factor.

  “Who all is going for sure?”

  Landry told her the two she’s certain about: A-­Okay and Elena. Jaycee has a business commitment in New York and can’t possibly get away.

  “I know it’s going to be a sad weekend for y’all, but it’ll be nice to meet your friends in person, Mom—­don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure it will be,” she said, because that was the easiest answer.

  In truth—­she’s not so sure.

  Everyone’s ambivalent about meeting under these circumstances. All this time, whenever they’ve talked about arranging an in-­person get-­together, Meredith was at the heart of the discussion. It’s impossible to imagine meeting at last without her there.

  Landry spoke to A-­Okay again on Thursday, and to Elena as well, after Meredith’s daughter posted the weekend funeral arrangements on her mother’s blog.

  Elena, with her thick New England accent, was a pleasant surprise when she called that afternoon. They don’t have much in common—­Elena is a decade younger, never-­married schoolteacher—­yet they chatted for over an hour, not just about Meredith, but about Landry’s kids and Elena’s first grade class, about travel and food and clothes and books and the sad state of Elena’s love life.

  “When you live in a small town and work in a small town elementary school, it’s not easy to find a decent, eligible guy without baggage—­especially when you have more than your share of it.”

  “Of . . . ?” She was having a hard time following Elena’s rapid-­fire speech and thick New England accent.

  “Baggage. It’s hard for a guy to deal with the fact that I’m scarred—­in more ways than one.” She pronounced hard and scarred as “hahd” and “scahd.”

  “Everyone has baggage,” she said. “And the right guy will be able to deal with it.”

  “I guess. But I haven’t found him yet.” Elena sighed, then changed the subject back to the memorial ser­vice. “If you go, I’ll go.”

  “I’m going.”

  “Then I’ll get a flight. There are some great fare sales out of Boston right now. I just can’t go until Saturday morning. I have a staff banquet Friday night.”

  Landry assured her that was fine, then hung up and called A-­Okay, who picked up this time on the first ring.

  That conversation was more stilted, but only because Kay isn’t as outgoing a person as Elena. She’s friendly in her own reserved way, though, and before they hung up, she said she’d drive down to Cincinnati on Saturday.

  “Drive? Really?”

  “It’s only a ­couple of hours from here.”

  “Wow. I guess I don’t know my midwestern geography very well.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t know my southern geography either. I’ve never even been south of Indiana.”

  “Really? You’ll have to come down and visit sometime,” Landry heard herself offering.

  Kay was noncommittal. “That would be nice. I’ll have to do that sometime.”

  All they have to do is get through this weekend in Cincinnati. If the three of them hit it off, great. If they don’t, they can go back to being online acquaintances, as long as the lack of anonymity doesn’t change things going forward.

  “Jittery about flying?” Rob asks, glancing over at Landry as he flicks the turn signal for the airport exit.

  “Me? No! I’m not afraid to fly.”

  She used to be, years ago, for a while. After September eleventh.

  Before cancer.

  Once you�
��ve had cancer, phobias over mundane things like commercial air travel tend to fall by the wayside. You no longer worry about being killed in a plane crash. In the grand scheme of things—­when you’re in the midst of fighting cancer, uncertain about what lies ahead—­that might seem like the more merciful option.

  Thank goodness those dark days are over.

  As far as I’m concerned, remission is the same thing as cured, Meredith wrote once on her blog.

  It isn’t really. Not as far as most doctors are concerned. Cancer is a complicated disease; far too complex to be discussed in simplistic terms.

  But Landry knew what she meant.

  And now that she’s been in remission for years, and her odds for a recurrence are low and shrinking by the day . . .

  Yes. She’s as cured as she’s ever going to be. Her illness is behind her now. She’s stronger than she’s ever been.

  She refuses to live the rest of her life looking over her shoulder as if a deadly predator is gaining on her. She’d rather focus optimistically on the future, with every reason to expect to live a long, healthy life just as her grandmother did.

  Family history is in her favor. So are medical statistics for stage one cancer detected as early as hers was.

  “Good,” Rob is saying as he guides the SUV onto Airport Boulevard. “You shouldn’t be afraid to fly. We’ve done enough of it over the years.”

  Yes. All those winter ski trips to the Rockies, spring beach breaks in the Caribbean, long weekends in Mexico, summer vacations in Europe . . .

  They may not be jet-­setters, but they’ve certainly done their share of traveling.

  Together, that is.

  “I’m just not used to going off alone,” she tells him.

  “I know you’re not. But it will be good for you. All you ever do is stay home and take care of the kids and me and the house . . .”

  “I like doing those things.” Ordinary days. Ordinary nights. They’re a blessing.

  “I know you do,” Rob says, “but everyone needs a change of scenery.”

  “It’s not just that. It’s not like this is a pleasure trip. It’s something I need to do.”

  Every time she feels a hint of misgiving about what lies ahead, she remembers something she learned in Sunday school as a little girl, and later taught her own children as well.

  When faced with a difficult decision or challenging situation, it can be helpful to ask yourself what Jesus would do if he were in your shoes. The answer might just guide you to the right path.

  Now, for Landry, the question had become not just, What would Jesus do? but also, What would Meredith do?

  Meredith was no saint—­Landry knows she’d have been the first to laugh at that notion. But she was centered, and judicious.

  Five minutes later she and Rob are out of the car in front of the terminal, the rear flashers blinking red in the darkness. Rob wanted to park and come in with her, but that seems silly.

  She already checked in for the flight online. The printout containing her boarding pass is folded in her pocket, along with all the details of her car rental and the hotel reservation for Cincinnati. All she has to do inside is go through the TSA checkpoint to the gate. It’s not as if Rob can accompany her down there and wait until she boards.

  “I’d rather you get right back home to the kids,” she tells him, as if the kids aren’t going to sleep for at least another ­couple of hours, even Addison.

  Now that she’s leaving, she just wants to leave. A prolonged good-­bye would make it even harder.

  Rob takes her rolling bag out of the back, sets it on the ground, pulls up the handle. “There you go.”

  “Thanks.” She removes her boarding pass from the packet of papers and shoves the rest back into her pocket. “Tell the kids I said good-­bye, and I’ll call y’all when I land.”

  “Call me when you get to the gate,” he says. “Just so I know you got through security okay.”

  “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried. Don’t you worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” she returns, but allows herself to lean on him, briefly, when he hugs her good-­bye.

  “I’ll miss you,” he says as she starts to lift her bag up over a puddle by the curb. “And Landry—­be careful.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got it. It’s not heavy.”

  “I don’t mean with the bag.”

  For a moment their eyes connect. “I know,” she tells him.

  He’s still worried that what happened to Meredith is no random crime. Yet there’s been nothing in the news reports to suggest otherwise. The police are still investigating. No mention of questioning suspects or anything suggesting that an arrest might be imminent.

  Whoever killed Meredith is still, presumably, out there somewhere.

  Rob doesn’t like that.

  She doesn’t like it either, but . . .

  It has nothing to do with her. It doesn’t make her less safe.

  Chin up. Strength training.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assures Rob, “and the next thing we know, you’ll be picking me up right here. I’ll only be gone for two days. Well, less than that. Really, it’s just a matter of hours, when you think about it.”

  But a lot can happen in a matter of hours.

  A lot can happen in a matter of minutes, in a matter of seconds.

  Suddenly, it all seems so . . . precarious.

  Why on earth is she leaving her husband and children to spend a weekend with a bunch of strangers in the wake of a murder?

  Rob looks at his watch. “You’d better get going. I love you, Babe.”

  “I love you, too.” Landry turns away quickly so that he won’t see the uncertainty—­or the tears—­in her eyes.

  Kay had left home early—­much earlier than necessary—­in the hope that there wouldn’t be much traffic heading south out of Indianapolis on Interstate 74 at this hour on a Saturday morning.

  She should have known better. This was a busy corridor at any hour on any day of the week. Headlights constantly bear down in her rearview mirror; taillights whiz past at dizzying velocity.

  How do they all drive so fast?

  Glancing at the dashboard, she’s astonished to see the speedometer hovering at forty-­two miles per hour.

  Maybe the better question would be why are you driving so slowly?

  It felt as though she was going the speed limit, if not above.

  She presses the gas pedal.

  The needle goes up, up, up . . .

  Now it feels as though the car is careening dangerously.

  Oops. She hits the brake.

  Behind her a car honks. Its headlights swerve out around her, and even in the darkness she sees the silhouetted driver giving her the finger.

  “What?” she shouts. “What do you want from me?”

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  She used to be such a competent driver, unfazed by darkness or traffic or weather. She drove to work in Terre Haute and regularly transported her mother to and from the specialist’s office up in Chicago without batting an eye.

  Now her eyesight is worse, thanks to advancing age. All these headaches . . . she probably needs glasses for distance, too, not just for reading.

  Plus—­because she didn’t sleep a wink last night, thinking about Meredith and about the weekend ahead—­her nerves are shot and her reflexes are slow.

  But you’d better get your act together. Now is not a good time to fall apart.

  In the rearview mirror Kay sees an unbroken string of headlights in the left lane and the glare of a semi bearing down behind her in the right.

  Her hands tighten on the wheel. She holds her breath as the lights come closer, blinding her. The truck is about to barrel into her car . . .

  But then the ligh
ts swoop away as the driver cuts off someone in the left lane to get out around her.

  More angry horns, more rude gestures.

  This is a mistake. She’s much too exhausted, too frazzled, to be driving. She’s risking her life to go to a funeral.

  She’d told BamaBelle—­Landry—­that it was only a ­couple of hours away, as if it were no big deal to get behind the wheel and hit the highway.

  It’s not as if she’s never done it before. She spent all those years commuting a full hour in each direction from the western suburbs to the prison, sometimes in harsh winter blizzards or tornado weather.

  The drive to Ohio was the least of her worries—­at that point, anyway, when she was on the phone with Landry.

  She was far more concerned with the prospect of coming face-­to-­face with BamaBelle and Elena, and whoever else might show up in Cincinnati. Concerned . . . but not enough to say no.

  That sweet southern drawl was so convincing.

  And Landry’s right: they do owe it to Meredith.

  Oh, Meredith . . .

  Tears sting Kay’s eyes, blurring the string of taillights through the windshield.

  She wipes them away, and notices the first tints of pink sky, low above the flat horizon.

  Okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s only one day. Twenty-­four hours from now she’ll be heading in the opposite direction. The nightmare of Meredith’s funeral will be behind her.

  She reserved a room at the same hotel where Landry and Elena are staying, about a mile away from the funeral home where Meredith’s ser­vice is being held. She prepaid the reservation on her credit card, even, because the rate was considerably cheaper that way and frugality is a hard habit to break.

  Mother always said not to waste dollars or even pennies today because you might need them tomorrow. She lived that rule to her dying day. Never treated herself, let alone her daughter, to a vacation or even dinner in a nice restaurant. Never spent money on anything but cigarettes. She didn’t consider that a waste.