If You Loved Me

by Marilyn Reynolds

  I look down at the ring on my finger, and on the other half of the ring on Tyler’s finger. I think of the promise the rings stand for, and I’ve never in my whole life felt so loved or so happy.

  Chapter

  16

  I’m barely out of bed Sunday morning when Tyler calls.

  “Did you sleep with your ring on last night?” he asks.

  “I’ll never take it off.”

  “Me either, except maybe to polish it now and then . . . Hey, listen. Shawna called me this morning to talk about the Habitat house plants.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah. She’d talked to Mr. Schaefer about all those dying plants. He said sure, take them. The only thing is, he wants them cleared out today, otherwise he plans to dump them and clear out that space.”

  “I’ve got Jackie’s phone number. Shall I call her and see if we can work over there this afternoon?”

  “Yeah, that’d be good. Mr. Schaefer said I could use one of the nursery trucks if we’d get that stuff out today.”

  “I’ll call Jackie and then call you right back.”

  Luckily, Jackie is home.

  “You kids sure work fast!” she says. “There’ll be someone working inside, so you can use the bathroom if you need to. No organized lunch there today, though. You’re on your own in the food department.”

  I call Tyler back and tell him we can get started.

  “We’re going to need all the help we can get with the planting. That stuff should go in the ground as soon as possible. Will Amber help? And your gramma?”

  “Grams?”

  “We need people who know what they’re doing—no offense to you and Amber,” he says with that laugh of his.

  I pick up Amber and we go to the nursery to help load plants onto the truck.

  “Wait!” she says as we round the corner of the storage shed.

  She backs up and pulls me back with her.

  “What’s he doing here?” she whispers.

  “Blake?” I whisper back.

  “Yeah, Blake! Is this some kind of trap?”

  “I didn’t even know he was going to be here. Tyler probably called him to help. What’s the big deal?”

  “I said I’d go out with him Saturday night, with you and Tyler. I didn’t say I’d be hanging out with him from here on out.”

  “Come on, Amber, get . . .”

  Blake turns the corner of the shed and practically runs into us. He backs up, looking at Amber.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi,” she says back.

  Blake walks to the side of the building and picks up some bungee cords, then goes back the way he came.

  “See, that was uneventful,” I tell Amber. “Come on.”

  We walk behind the shed, where Tyler and Blake are loading plants on the truck. Shawna is in the back of the truck, arranging plants as they lift them up to her. There’s a lot more than camellias.

  “Look,” Tyler says. “Two little orange trees and a lime, too.” “That’s really nice of your boss,” I say.

  “It’s a tax write-off for him. He couldn’t sell any of this stuff, anyway,” Shawna says, all cynical.

  “Never one to see the bright side, are you?” Tyler laughs.

  To my surprise, Shawna laughs, too.

  Amber and I go over to an area where there are about twenty scrawny plants lined up.

  “Do these go?” I ask Tyler.

  “Everything except the big fern at the end.”

  “Mr. Schaefer said the fern could go, too,” Shawna says.

  “You sure?” Tyler asks.

  Shawna nods her head.

  “I’m just going to check,” Tyler says, running into the old office to use the phone.

  Amber and I carry the plants to the truck bed and hand them up to Shawna. The citrus trees aren’t very big, for trees, but they’re still hard to wrestle onto the truck.

  Tyler comes out of the office, closing the rickety door behind him.

  “Okay, load the fern, too.”

  “Told you,” Shawna says, displaying the faintest of smiles.

  Finally, when everything is loaded, Tyler and Shawna and Blake get in the truck to go to the Habitat place, and Amber and I go back to my house to pick up Grams.

  When we get to the Habitat house the truck is already un­loaded.

  “We’ll plant all this stuff in the back,” Tyler says. “Then, in another month or so we can get material for the front.”

  By the time Tyler has finished his sentence, Grams has grabbed her gloves and tools from the trunk of her car and started working the soil near the side fence.

  “We could space these camellias out in a kind of border along this ugly chain link fence, don’t you think, Tyler? It’ll give it a lot of color when the bushes get bigger.”

  He laughs. “Why did I ask your gramma to help if I wanted to be the design boss?” he says to me.

  “You got a better idea?” Grams says with a smile.

  “Well, no,” Tyler says.

  Grams starts moving the camellias over by the fence, where she thinks they should be planted.

  Blake unloads bags of potting soil and cedar chips.

  “Did Schaefer say we could have those, too?” Shawna asks Tyler.

  “Yep,” Tyler says.

  Grams digs a hole for the first camellia.

  “Just do it the way your gramma does,” Tyler says.

  Amber and I go over by the fence and dig holes for the next two bushes.

  “The hole needs to be about three times as big as the plant’s root system. That way you can add plenty of good soil mix, so the roots will have good stuff to grow into.”

  Amber and I make the holes bigger. Then, with more advice from Grams, we add the soil mix, ease the plants from their pots, then into the holes, add more soil mix, then water, and finally add cedar chips to the top.

  “That helps keep moisture in and the soil temperature more even, so the roots won’t freeze in the winter or burn in the summer.”

  “How do you know so much?” Amber asks.

  “I’m old,” Grams says. “Haven’t you heard of the wisdom of the ages?”

  Even though there are six of us working, it’s nearly dark by the time we get everything planted. It all looks pretty scraggly. I’m not sure any of it will live, but Tyler and Grams are convinced it will.

  “Lauren and I can stop by in the middle of the week to see if anything needs watering,” Tyler says.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I can do that easy,” Shawna says. “I live just around the corner.”

  Grams offers to take us all to Barb ’n Edie’s — an offer no one refuses. We load tools and empty pots back onto the truck, then take turns in the bathrooms, scrubbing our hands clear up to our elbows.

  When I go to get into Grams’ car, Amber and Blake are already there.

  “I decided to leave room for you so you could ride with Tyler in the truck,” Blake says. “Nice guy, huh?”

  “Yeah. What a sacrifice for you to ride with Amber.”

  We laugh, then I climb into the truck beside Tyler and Shawna gets in after me.

  “This is great,” Tyler says as he backs out of the driveway. “I know where I can get some river rock to put in over by the patio, next to the lime tree. It’ll add visual interest.”

  Shawna starts talking about a “water feature.”

  “You mean a fountain?” I ask.

  “Yeah, or a kind of riverbed look, just touched by water on the surface.”

  “Like at that demo garden we saw on the video?” Tyler asks.

  “Yeah. How hard would that be?”

  “Not hard, but expensive.”

  They start talking about how something like that might be put together. They both seem to know a lot about things I’ve never even thought about.

  “The kids’d probably tear up one of those riverbed things in no time,” Shawna says.

  “Not necessarily,” Tyler says. “Stop th
inking the worst.”

  “The world is full of worst,” Shawna says, falling back into her old posture with her hair hiding her face.

  “And the best,” Tyler says, reaching for my hand and rubbing his thumb across my ring, smiling.

  It’s easy to get into Barb ’n Edie’s on a Sunday evening.

  “Order whatever you want,” Grams says. “I just won the lottery.”

  “Really?” Shawna asks, all astounded like.

  “No,” Grams smiles. “Just pretend I did.”

  Shawna smiles back at Grams, a nice, un-Shawna-like smile.

  Blake and Amber and Shawna sit on one side of the table, and Grams and Tyler and I sit on the other. We talk about the whole Habitat for Humanity project, and how important it is for people to help each other out. Grams tells stories she’d heard from her father, about how people shared their food during the depression. Blake tells about the old guy who lives next door to him, who volunteers at a homeless shelter, keeping it clean and helping out wherever he can. I watch Amber watching Blake as he talks. I think he’s right. She likes him.

  It is warm and bright here in Barb ’n Edie’s, and, having worked hard all day, the food is even more tasty than usual. I have that feeling again, like I had at the football game last night, that everything is right, and that I belong. I glance at Shawna, who’s folding and refolding a paper napkin. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. I wonder if she ever gets that feeling, that everything is right, and that she belongs. Sometimes I feel so sorry for her, and other times she annoys me to pieces.

  Once, just before we leave, I think I get a glimpse of the red Honda driving slowly by. Even that doesn’t take away my feeling of well-being.

  As we leave Barb ’n Edie’s Tyler grabs my hand and squeezes three times. I squeeze back. He gives me a quick, okay for Grams to see, peck on the cheek.

  “Call you later,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  He and Blake and Shawna get in the truck to take it back to the nursery.

  Grams and I take Amber home, then go home ourselves.

  “You have such nice friends,” Grams tells me.

  “Not like Marcia,” 1 say.

  “Not at all.”

  “What about Shawna?” I ask.

  “What I think about Shawna is that she’s developed a very hard shell for some reason or another, but that she’s very kindhearted on the inside. Is that what you think?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I’m getting to like her some, now that I’m getting to know her.”

  “Tell me this, though. It looks as if your friend Amber’s found a boyfriend.”

  “Was it obvious?”

  Grams just smiles—then suddenly her expression changes.

  “Oh, goodness,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I just remembered, I’ve got several shovels that belong to the nursery in the trunk of my car. Remember, we were keeping them there because it was handy?”

  I glance at the clock. “I’ll take them back. If I hurry, I’ll bet they’ll still be there,” I say, happy for an excuse to see Tyler one more time.

  “I don’t think that’s what Dennis meant when he said to observe extreme caution.”

  “Oh, Grams. I’ll stay in the car with the doors locked. I won’t even get out unless Tyler’s still at the nursery. It’ll be okay,” I assure her.

  “Well . . . be back in thirty minutes or I’m calling the police,” she says, tossing me her keys.

  Chapter

  17

  When I get to the nursery I’m happy to see that Tyler’s car is still there. The tools and empty pots have been unloaded from the truck bed, but no one seems to be around. They’ve got to be here somewhere, though. I park next to Tyler’s car and walk through rows of plants. There is a bright security light out front, but I can barely see where I’m going here in the dark. It is dead quiet.

  “Tyler!” I yell.

  No answer. Where can they be? I hear a car on the street and wonder if it’s the red Honda. I walk faster. Maybe they’re using the phone or something. I’m almost running now, to the old office where I see a dim light.

  I stop at the window, cup my hands and look inside. I can barely see, but I see too much.

  Shawna is on her back, on the ratty couch, with Tyler on top. His bare butt shows white in the faint light. His jeans are down around his thighs. An empty foil condom wrapper lies crumpled on the floor. I am frozen at the window, wanting not to look, unable to turn away. Shawna’s bare legs are wrapped around Tyler’s ankles and he is pushing, pushing, pushing until the spell is broken by his groan of pleasure. The sound no one else was supposed to hear.

  “No!” I scream. “No! No!”

  Tyler looks up quickly, startled, and I turn and run. I jump into the car, slam it into reverse, peel backward, slam it into drive and spin gravel to the gate.

  “LAUREN!” I hear Tyler’s frantic call, and press harder on the accelerator.

  In my mirror I see him standing in the driveway, holding his unfastened pants up with one hand and waving frantically with the other. I know he is yelling at the top of his lungs, but the sound of my pushed-to-the-limit engine drowns him out.

  Tears stream down my face.

  “No! No! Why? Why?”

  I yell all the way home, to no one, and turn into the driveway without slowing. I jam on the brakes and squeal to a stop, inches from the closed garage door. I run into the back door and collide with Grams, who is rushing to meet me.

  “What is it?” she asks. “The red car—was he chasing you? I’m calling Dennis right now.”

  “No, it’s not that,” I manage to gasp.

  I squeeze past Grams and run into my bedroom, my safe place, and flop face down on the bed.

  Grams follows right behind. “What is it? What is it?”

  I shake my head, sobbing.

  “Did you see the red car?”

  I shake my head.

  “Were you in an accident? Is someone hurt?”

  I shake my head again, heaving so hard with sobs it seems I could break apart. Grams gives my shoulders a shake.

  “Lauren, you’ve got to talk to me! I can’t help you if you won’t talk!”

  But I know she can’t help anyway, and I can’t talk. I can’t put words to it. I can only cry. And cry. And cry.

  Grams sits on my bed next to me for a long time, rubbing my back. Finally, my sobs subside.

  “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, maybe?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, I think I could use a cup of tea,” Grams says.

  When she’s gone, I turn over and look around my room. It’s strange, how the whole world can change but things still look the same. I yank off the promise ring and throw it against the window. It bounces off the glass and lands on my desk. I turn my face to the wall and curl up, tight. I don’t want to feel. I don’t want to think.

  “Lauren? . . . Lauren?” My grandmother is calling to me. It sounds as if she’s calling from a distance, even though she is sitting on my bed and rubbing my back.

  “Tyler’s here. He wants to see you.”

  “No!”

  “He’s upset.”

  “No!!” I say, trying to curl tighter, into a smaller ball.

  I hear mumbling in the other room but I make myself not hear. I don’t want to hear words—especially not Tyler’s words. I concentrate on hearing my own breathing, sensing the emptiness within me.

  Sometime late, when there are no traffic noises in the distance, Grams comes into my room. I pretend to be asleep. She puts her gentle, cool hand on my forehead, as if I might have a fever. What I have, though, is the opposite of a fever. There is no warmth in me now, only a deep, silent, chill.

  Grams leaves, and I breathe, empty, through the night. Mostly I’m in a place without thought, but sometimes a question breaks through. Why? What happened? How did he stop loving me so fast? And with Shawna??? Mark was right when he called her a dog.
Doggie Shawna. How could Tyler do that to me?

  I open my eyes with the early morning light. Except for the ring at the edge of my desk, taunting me, everything still looks the same—my same, safe room. The ring can stay right where it is, a reminder that there are no true promises. I learned that a long time ago, when Marcia promised to make a life for us when she got out of prison. All those broken promises written on prison-issue lined paper. There are no true promises. I forgot that for a while, with Tyler. I won’t forget again.

  Grams comes in early in the morning.

  “I want to talk with you before you go to school,” she says.

  “I’m not going to school.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Yes.”

  I am sick at the thought of walking into creative writing and sitting next to Shawna and Tyler in our Habitat group, as if nothing has happened. I am sick at the thought of seeing them in class, and worse, of seeing them in my mind together, and hearing his moan of pleasure.

  I am sick.

  Grams leaves and comes back with a cup of tea for each of us. She sets mine on my bedside table, then sits in my desk chair, facing me. She picks up the “promise” ring, then sets it down.

  “I don’t know what’s upset you so,” Grams says. “I know it has something to do with Tyler, and I know he’s plenty upset, too.”

  She takes a sip of tea and sits watching me. I keep my eye on the bird feeder outside the window, somewhere over and beyond Grams’ right shoulder.

  “Talking might help,” she says.

  “It won’t.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  I’ve already been surprised, I think. I don’t want to talk about it. I turn back with my face to the wall. For a while I hear Grams taking sips of tea. Then, eventually, she sighs and leaves the room.

  Sometime when the sun is shining softly on the pansies in the flower bed outside my window, I hear Grams on the phone.

  “No. I’m sorry, I can’t be there today . . . My granddaughter is ill . . . Well, you’ll just have to find a substitute for the substitute I guess.”

  Later in the morning Grams comes to my door to offer soft-boiled eggs, which is what I always used to eat when I was sick.