“Dad,” I started, but what did I say? That I thought my dead mother was trying to communicate with us from the great beyond? With sewing machine plugs and old totes full of fabric, it hardly seemed likely, but then I thought about the odd writing on the bathroom mirror and the face in the window during that storm the night of her funeral. “Dad, we have to be careful,” I finally said. “Leaving something like that plugged in could burn out the motor and start a fire.”
“I know,” he sounded far away when he answered me. “I know.”
He started back down the hallway as I bent down to start cleaning up the fabric pieces scattered all over the floor. Alone there in the room, I closed my eyes and tried to see if I could feel her. I know it was stupid, I mean if she was really there, wouldn’t I know? Chills flashed across my chest, rippled down my back and the hair on my arms stood up on end, but aside from that I felt nothing at all. I stayed that way for a moment, hunkered down on the floor with my eyes closed, waiting for another sign. When nothing came, I stood up and looked around the room one last time before I backed out and closed the door.
Dad and I didn’t mention the sewing machine incident again. Even at dinner it was like we were both thinking the same thing, but didn’t want to make it reality by discussing it any further. For the most part, my father had always been a practical person, a non-believing in stuffy institutions like religion, he’d never have been caught dead talking about or to God, or any of that other nonsense. I wondered if the possibility of my mother reaching out to us would put a dent in his philosophy. Stranger things had been known to happen, like his recent fascination with church.
I started to protest when he said he was leaving to go down to the bowling alley with some guys from work that started a league, but in the end I realized it was probably better for him to start getting out more. If I was going back to the city by the end of the week, he was definitely going to need as much company as he could find.
He was pulling into his flannel as I walked my plate to the sink. “Hey, what did you do with The Standard?”
“The Standard?” He chuckled. “You really are a city slicker, aren’t you?”
I paused in mid-plate scrape to look over at him, “What’s so funny?”
“Janice, the Sonesville Standard went out of business over six months ago.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded as he stood up and began toward me with this plate. “Yes, ma’am. The new owners couldn’t get enough sponsors to keep the thing running, so they shut down.”
“That’s too bad,” I lamented, suddenly feeling guilty about all those times I’d referred to it as an inferior paper simply because it had been all I’d really known before moving to the city. “I was going to clip Mom’s obituary out.”
“It was actually in the Sun Daily last week. I know a guy at work that just piles ‘em up. I can ask if he’ll give me that day’s paper if you want.”
“I would like to have it,” I nodded.
“I’ll ask him tomorrow,” he started for the door, and then turned back to look at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to tag along? It’s probably been ages since you were bowling.”
“I’ll pass, Dad. Thanks anyway.” Bowling. It was the big thing to do in Sonesville. Hell, it was one of the only things to do in Sonesville.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “I’ll probably be back around ten or so.”
“Have fun.”
The moment he left, and I was alone in that kitchen, I had second thoughts about not going with him. Even though the majority of the afternoon’s shock wore off, I was still a little shaken over the whole thing, and then there was the whole question of that near-fainting episode while driving past the Standard building. That combined with actually fainting was starting to concern me. If it happened again while I was in town, I’d have to see a doctor, but if I could just make it until Sunday without another episode, I could put off seeing a doctor until I was back in the city.
I made my way into the living room, where I curled up on the couch with an afghan my mother knitted when I was just a little girl. I flipped through the channels looking for something to watch, finally settling on a historical documentary about Stonehenge. As I sunk back into the couch and drew the blanket up around my shoulders, I could smell her as clearly as if she were standing right beside me. A hint of lavender mixed with vanilla. It had been her favorite scent since I’d first found it for her at a bath and body boutique in the city. She’d used little else since.
Wrapped in the comfort of her smell, I closed my eyes and tried to feel her there again. There was even less in the way of a signal than there had been upstairs. Not even the hair on the back of my arms stood up.
“Maybe I’m going crazy,” I laughed. “And here I am talking to myself to prove it.”
I wondered if a possible haunting was the type of thing Troy meant when he’d said to call if I needed anything at all. Somehow I didn’t think so, and while I had no intention of actually calling him, I spent the next half hour entertaining myself with thoughts on how well that conversation would have gone over.
Chapter Ten
The Classic Cat’s Café was just outside of Sonesville, and a refreshing change of pace. I noted that several cars pulled in behind me, as I parked the car and drew in a deep breath. I’d spent much of my day cleaning house and trying to think up excuses to call Becky and back out of meeting up with her and her girlfriends. In the end the most worthwhile excuse I could muster was uncooperative hair, and even that hadn’t turned out so bad.
I leaned back in the seat and told myself one drink would satisfy my obligation to Becky, and then I could crawl back to the house like a wounded dog and wallow in my newfound state of confusion. Neither the fun we had the day before, or the fact that I really could use a night out with good company seemed powerful enough to dig through the funk that had overtaken me since the string of bizarre instances that followed me home from Becky’s Monday afternoon.
On the bright side, at least there hadn’t been any dizzy spells or weird fainty feelings, though I didn’t want to go counting any chickens before they hatched either.
It was just going on eight o’clock and cars seemed to swarm into the parking lot from all directions. I was starting to ask myself what I let Becky talk me into when a tap on the window alerted me to her excited presence beside the car.
“Yay!” She bounced on the balls of her feet and daintily clapped her hands like a little girl. I stepped out of the car and she latched onto me and squeezed my forearm. “I knew you’d come. We are going to have so much fun, Janice, I promise you.”
I didn’t have the heart to make her frown with the truth about how many different ways I’d thought up to blow her off. “Boy, this place packs them in,” I noted as a group of women swarmed by, huddled together against the crisp evening breeze.
“It’s karaoke night,” she explained. “A little behind the times, but still a load of fun. And they have the best hot wings in three counties!”
“Nice.”
She looped her arm through mine and tucked her hands into the pockets of her rhinestone studded jean jacket. Together we started toward the bar, while Becky went on about karaoke. “Anne Marie is a real Patsy Cline, let me tell you. Out of us all, she’s probably the only one that can really sing, but the rest of us sure have fun trying.”
All of my notions about Becky had already gone up in smoke after spending the afternoon with her the day before, but there she was creating new ones already. Where I once saw her wilted against the shadows, now I could only imagine her shining from the center of every group she touched. Her amazing smile and eagerness for fun were contagious, and though I still had reservations about how much fun karaoke and hot wings could be, I had a feeling Becky was going to make sure I never doubted her idea of a good time again.
We flashed our IDs at the bouncer and then pressed body by body through the crowded bar until we reached a table near the back. Three women leaned
toward the center of the table and took turns smelling a tropical drink.
“Coconut milk, no pineapple juice,” said the one in the middle. She was obviously older than the other two, probably in her late thirties or early forties, and though she was definitely on the plus-sized side, she was probably one of the most attractive women in the entire bar. “Trust me, doll,” and to top it off, she had one of those rich, New York accents that could melt butter. “It’s coconut milk.”
The two women who framed her were two different shades of blonde and seemed closer to mine and Becky’s age, if not younger.
“Ladies,” Becky’s arm swished behind my back and pushed me toward the table. “This is Janice, Chandra’s daughter.”
They all started talking at once, a melee of chatter about my mother, how they felt as though they already knew me having scrapbooked with her. Finally the New York doll in the middle cleared her throat, and said, “Janice, Honey, your mother was the light of our scrapbooking get-togethers.”
“Hear, hear,” the natural, caramel-blond on her left lifted her glass. “Her laughter and her blueberry streusel cake are going to be sorely missed.”
The platinum-blond to her right raised a glass as well, and the three of them chimed together, “To Chandra,” and then took a drink.
“I see you three didn’t waste any time getting started.” Becky shook her head and pulled out a chair for me.
“I’ve been waiting for this night since last Wednesday morning,” New York said, raising a cigarette to her lips and then lighting it. Her nails were perfectly manicured, only adding to the stunning persona she cast, and while smoking in general always seemed so silly to me, it made her classier somehow. “How rude are we?” she lowered the smoldering cigarette. “Janice, I’m Lydia, this is Anne Marie,” she tilted her head to the right.
“And I’m Tracy, your friendly neighborhood designated driver.”
“This week anyway,” Anne Marie laughed.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I sunk down into the chair beside Becky.
Before anyone had the chance to say anything else, a waitress appeared and asked what Becky and I were drinking. I was no stranger to alcohol, but I didn’t drink on a regular basis, so I started out with a bottle of Yuengling Lager.
“And can I see a menu, please?”
“Sure thing,” she slipped away from the table, returning us to the awkward state that always seems to occur when someone new infiltrates a comfortable group.
“So, Janice,” Tracy started. “You write for the Tribune-Review? That must be some job.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “It’s a good job.” I managed to refrain from adding that my boss was a maniacal tyrant who cared about nothing beyond deadlines, and since my mother died I was beginning to doubt my place at the Tribune.
Lydia shook her head, “I bet, I bet. All that excitement, and you a firsthand witness.” She shook her head. “I haven’t had an exciting job in so long that I swear, I could start working as a supermodel and two weeks into it, it’d probably bore the hell out of me.”
“Not me,” Tracy flipped her hair dramatically. “I’d stomp that runway until it crumbled to the ground.”
Laughter circled around the table.
“Didn’t you go to school for journalism, Janice?” Becky asked.
“Yep,” I beamed excitement, not even realizing that my mother probably told them my entire history over scrapbook scissors and photo corners.
“How did you manage to get into such a big paper right out of school?” Lydia asked.
“Well, one of the professors I worked with on both the university magazine and newspaper just so happened to be friends with the editor. I probably only got into the interview on his recommendation alone, but Cal and I hit it off real well, and he sort of took me under his wing.”
“Oh, wow,” Becky said. “Sounds like you were in the right place at the right time.”
“Sounds more to me like she’s following her calling,” Lydia said. “You’re one of those disgustingly brilliant people who were born knowing what she wanted to do with her life, and every step of the way has probably been incredibly easy based on that knowing.”
“Lydia,” Becky’s laughter was full of scolding disbelief, but I didn’t mind. I actually admired how bold she was.
“No, it’s okay.” I smiled to show her I wasn’t offended. “It’s true. When I was eight years old, I got one of those plastic Fisher Price typewriters for my birthday and started making household newspapers for my dad to read when he came home from work.”
“That is so cute,” Becky leaned sideways to admire me thoughtfully. “Your mom told stories about you all the time, but that’s one she never mentioned.”
“Thank God for that.” I reached for my beer and swallowed the bitter reality that rose in the back of my throat like an emotional onset. “I can’t believe half of the things she did mention sometimes.”
“She loved you so much,” Becky reached over and laid her hand on top of mine.
Lydia blew cigarette smoke up the side of her face from a looped lower lip and shook her head. “You don’t know me from Eve, Honey, but I knew your mama, and Becky’s right. There was never a woman more proud of her daughter than she was of you.”
“You’re going to make her cry, Lydia,” Tracy leaned into Lydia’s shoulder.
“And then she won’t want to party with us ever again,” Anne Marie added.
Becky perked up and blurted out, “Ooh, Janice, Lydia used to be a Rockette in New York City. Isn’t that cool?”
“Oh yeah?” Just one look at her and I easily imagined her in that former glory, the charisma and grace still clung to her like a silk scarf.
“Yeah,” she winked, “but I gave it all up for two kids, a lazy husband and a cozy job in real estate.”
“Doesn’t she make motherhood sound glamorous?” Anne Marie’s laughter actually managed to make me feel closer to a table full of strangers, and it was the second time in the last two days I felt a sense of companionship that had been seriously lacking from my life.
The one beer I’d promised myself would be enough turned into two, and then there were the mixed drinks, and against my better judgment, I even found myself up on stage with the other ladies laughing hysterically through “Love Shack” by the B52’s. The weight of Becky’s arm across my shoulders felt so comfortable, and maybe it was the alcohol, but I almost broke down and cried when she leaned in and said, “I am so happy you came out with me tonight. I’m having so much fun with you.”
“Me too,” I hugged her neck.
I felt looser and freer than I had in years, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when the fates threw a strange wrench into the evening just around the time the crowd started to dissipate. The karaoke DJ started to pack up around eleven, and one of the kitchen staff took over the music for the night. It wasn’t even half-past eleven when Lydia decided to call it a night. Under the guise of stopping at the bathroom on the way back, we walked her out to wait for her cab with her. Huddled close together under the awning, Becky’s and my breath poured out of us like smoke as Lydia ducked into her taxi.
“I mean it, girl,” Lydia reached out and took my hand. “Next time you’re in town, we’re gonna do this again.”
“Absolutely,” I promised, swaying unsteadily close to Becky.
The shadowed outline of a man came walking toward the entrance, and though I couldn’t see him clearly, I knew that it was Troy and my knees buckled just a little from that strange weakness that seemed to come over me in his presence. I wasn’t drunk, but I was tipsy enough to feel the self-conscious tendrils of my curious line of questioning at Becky’s the day before trickling down my spine. She hovered beside me, saying goodbye to Lydia, and I hoped like hell she wasn’t drunk enough to spill my secret crush.
“Ladies,” he tipped his hat as he approached. He seemed to pause in his recognition of us before he tilted his head slightly to the left and added, “Janice.” The mischiev
ous presence of his grin brought to light those to-die-for dimples, and I couldn’t stop my fingers from clutching tighter to the sleeve of Becky’s jean jacket.
Ladies… and then Janice? What was that supposed to mean?
“Hey, Troy,” Becky pushed the taxi door shut and swayed back into me.
Lydia waved to us from within as the car pulled away, and I used her departure as an excuse to look away from Troy. I could sense his gaze on me, though I could barely see it from the corner of my eye.
Troy stepped up onto the curb, and though I was desperately avoiding eye contact it was growing more impossible by the minute. “You bring Janice for the karaoke?”
Becky grinned. “Among other things. Why don’t you come on in and buy us a last round of drinks?”
I couldn’t believe what she was doing, or even worse, what she was insinuating. I tried to remember how it happened the day before, at what point she’d broached the subject about us going out together, if it was before or after I brought up Troy. My memory swam against the alcoholic current as we slipped back into the bar, and I excused us from Troy to draw Becky into the bathroom. Behind closed doors, I checked the stalls for privacy, and then turned to face Becky.
“Becky Kaufman, you knew he was going to be here?”
“No,” worry-lines creased her brow as she lifted a hand to her temple and shook her head. “I mean, I didn’t know for certain, but I had a hunch.”
“Becky!”
“What? Please, Janice, don’t be mad.”
“Mad? Becky, those questions I asked about him yesterday… the comments too, that was just between us.”
“Of course it was. It still is. I swear, I didn’t even tell Marty, and I tell him everything.”
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