Baggage Check (15 page)

“I—”

“Eleven guys bigger than me were trying to kill me every week, but you were the most terrifying damn thing on that field. I always wanted to come talk to you, but I was scared shitless.”

He took a sheepish glance at the steering wheel. “I didn't talk to girls much back then. Believe it or not, I was painfully shy—don't worry, it went away. Plus, everyone knew you were off-limits. Cory was our quarterback and you were his little sister. I'd be surprised if any guys talked to you the whole time we were in high school, even after…”

He trailed off.

Stunned, Rebecca could not eke out a word.

“He loved you, you know,” he said. “Cory. I'd be willing to bet he didn't tell you a lot, knowing him, but he was so proud of you. Most guys griped about their families and younger siblings—God, I'm ashamed of some of the things I said about David—but Cory never said a word against you. He called you ‘my little sis,' even in the locker room, always said you were a genius and you'd be the first person in your family to graduate from college. Maybe that's part of why I was drawn to you. You were his treasure.”

“I—I don't know what to say,” she said, a lump in her throat like a rock.

“You don't have to say anything, Becky. I just wanted you to know. You may not know me, but I know you. It's okay that there's some guy in Atlanta, and it's okay if your feelings just aren't … whatever. I will be here if you, or your family, need anything. Anything. I'm not a romantic, I'll give you that. But I know something about loyalty. Even if I didn't like you, which against my better judgment I do, I owe it to your brother.”

Rebecca was still leaning on the open car door, and could not bring herself to speak. He watched her for a minute, his brown eyes intense. “Go get some sleep,” he said finally. “You have a lot to worry about with your parents and stuff. Call me if you come back in town. Or I guess, with your record, I'll know you're back when I pull you over doing fifty-five in a fifteen or something.”

She laughed, trying not to cry, grateful to him. For giving her Cory back, even for a moment. And then for releasing her to mourn in her hotel room alone.

BY MARCI THOMPSON STILLWELL

BLOG: THE CARE AND FEEDING OF A SUBURBAN HUSBAND

{ Entry #175: Sunshine & Sweet Surprises }

Monday, June 20, 2016

Hi, friends! Marci here, back from the beach, refreshed and exhausted. Have you ever noticed how sometimes a vacation is more tiring than normal life? I'll keep this short for now, since I need to go clean the sand out of my suitcase and snuggle with Munchkin, who I missed more than I imagined possible. The good news is, now I know that I can be away from her for a couple of days and not have a nervous breakdown.

And vice versa. Uh-oh.

I guess you could say I am reluctantly thrilled that everything went well, and even more thrilled that I got to combine my girls' weekend and some time away with SubHub. Yep! That was one of my surprises—he and some friends crashed our girls' weekend, and it was so much fun. There were a few more sweet surprises this weekend, some of which I'll be able to share with you in time. For now I'll just say that you never know what might happen at the beach.

Someone else surprised me this weekend, both by demonstrating a generous spirit I never knew she had, and by disappearing abruptly before the trip was over. She left a note saying that she needed to leave for work, and I don't want to call her out on that if she doesn't want to explain further. She doesn't owe me (or the rest of her friends) an explanation. And yet, part of me finds something doesn't quite add up about her departure.

Do you have a friend like that in your life? Someone you just can't seem to put your finger on? I wrote last time about “characters” in our stories that we just can't seem to put in a traditional role—those who seem neither wholly good nor fully evil. I guess maybe some people see me that way, too, maybe even this person who stole away from our beach party in the middle of the night.

I don't know about you, dear readers, but when people in my life behave in ways that are … well, let's just call it unusual, I often immediately assume I did something wrong. What does that say about me?

Anyway, if that friend of mine happens to be reading this blog, I hope she'll let me know if I did anything to offend or upset her. No matter what, I'd like her to know that all her friends, myself and SubHub included, are here for her if she decides to reach out and tell us more.

 

16

Rebecca stared at the endless line of I-20 stretched out before her, foot numb on the gas pedal, every inch bringing her closer to Atlanta. She had crossed the Georgia-Alabama line fifteen minutes before, and she could already feel things changing around her as she drove. The air was different (or was she imagining that she could already see Atlanta's smog line on the horizon?), the trees were different, the names of streets. Her own apartment, and the clean shower inside, called to her from forty minutes ahead like a beacon. Even though she had put on her beach flip-flops, held her breath, and showered at the Super 8 before meeting Dad and Sonia that morning, she still felt grimy.

Tom Petty came on the radio, and Rebecca cranked it.
I'm technically on vacation, might as well enjoy it.
She glanced at the clock. Her flight crew would be in Columbus, Ohio, now, doing preboarding. She'd been tracking their schedule all day without really intending to do so. It was simply the automatic thought that came to her each time she looked at the clock. Even though Val had called to say the alternate was taking her shift and not to worry about anything, not worrying was not exactly Rebecca's specialty.

Besides, being concerned about an airline that had run without her successfully for sixty-odd years was simpler than thinking about the train wreck that was her life. For one thing, her supposedly closest girlfriends were more comfortable reaching out to her via anonymous blog mention than a phone call. And if Rebecca was honest, that feeling was pretty mutual, at least with Marci. Still, it irked her to be called out publicly like that. What irked her even more was the niggling suspicion that maybe she deserved the betrayal, having called and confided in Marci's husband instead of any of the girls.

But Rebecca couldn't analyze the workings of her messed-up friendships now. Her family life was screwed up enough to occupy her brain all the way down I-20. And back. It shouldn't have surprised her, she knew, that her father had not been at his tiny rental bungalow when she stopped by midmorning on her way out of town. She had known, hadn't she, that Sonia had her own huge, rambling house on Grimmer's Lake. Why would they squeeze into Dad's plain, single-bedroom bachelor pad when Sonia's wealthy ex-husband had provided a picturesque home five times as large?

So it was Sonia who had answered the door at Rebecca's second stop, wearing a shiny lavender robe and holding some kind of rat-like dog with its little nails painted hot pink. She had invited Rebecca in with a smile, which Rebecca strained to return. Sonia had put on a pot of coffee, pulled some canned biscuits out of the oven, and then—to her credit—politely remembered something urgent she needed to do in another room.

Rebecca's father wore sweatpants and an old USPS Tour de France T-shirt, a little too comfortable in this strange house for Rebecca's taste. Their conversation was short and tense, marked with lowered voices and furtive glances toward the back of the house where Sonia had busied herself with something and could occasionally be heard talking to the little dog. It was as though they were talking about her father's mistress in his wife's house, rather than the other way around.

“Listen, Becky,” Richard said, after she had presented everything she'd learned at the hospital and asked for his help.

“Rebecca,” she corrected. “I prefer Rebecca.”

“Fine, Rebecca,” her dad went on. “You know how much I love you. And your mom, too.”

“I can see that,” Rebecca said, glancing around Sonia's well-appointed kitchen.

He ignored her. “I will always love your mother, Rebecca, whether you choose to believe that or not. But I've fought this battle before. I have been paying the mortgage on that house since you and Cory were little. It ought to be paid off, except we had to borrow against it when your mother … anyway, it doesn't matter. Water under the bridge. In eight more months, it will be paid off. I plan to file a quit claim, giving it to her outright. It's hers.”

“How does that help?” Rebecca said.

“It might not help,” he admitted. “I'm telling you what I can do.”

There was something in his tone, a coldness she'd never felt from her father before.

“You've been there?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Okay, so you see what it's like. Until I moved out, I was fighting that mess every day of my life. I woke up early to bag up trash and throw it in the Dumpster at the post office before I started my route. I stayed up late, after your mother was asleep, throwing things away and cleaning under things. I want you to know, I never expected when we got married that your mother would be an immaculate housekeeper. I didn't care about that. But the way things got, Rebecca. She never wanted to throw anything away. There was always some purpose everything could serve. Everything. Used paper towels and old newspapers, empty syrup containers. We started getting insects and I kept spray in every room.

“You talked to one doctor yesterday. I went to three of them. At first your mom went with me, and we even tried marriage counseling for a while—”

“Daddy.” Rebecca put her hand on his, and he shrugged her away, angrily wiping his eyes.

“Your mother didn't want you to know. God only knows why. Anyway, honey, I don't want you to think I'm abandoning you with this, but I have done all I can do. I have cleaned that damn house and pissed into the wind with your mother for years. Even after I moved out, I came back and cleaned. She started screaming at me, and then she wouldn't let me in anymore, or if she did, she'd watch me like a hawk to make sure I didn't ‘steal' anything.”

“Oh, Dad, I didn't know—”

“Of course you didn't know,” he said. His voice was icy. “You were in Atlanta. Living your life away from this town. But now you're back to tell me what my duty is to my wife. Like I don't know.”

It would have been better if he had slapped her. He must have seen the hurt on her face, because he softened then. “Sweetheart, I'm sorry. You did what you had to do. I wouldn't have wanted anything different for you, and I still don't. I'm proud of you. I know you want to help, but your mom is a grown woman. She's sick, and she's in pain, but she has to want help before we can give it to her.”

“What about the house?” Rebecca asked, staring at her lap.

“I don't know what to tell you,” he said. “I poured my life into that house. I still write a check every month so your mother doesn't lose it. But maybe it's time to let it go.”

“But then…” Rebecca's voice faltered. “Where will she go?”

Her dad squeezed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair. It was a gesture she remembered from her earliest years, whenever he was faced with something serious. She had seen it the most in the months after Cory died. “I don't know,” he said, softly. “I've asked myself that question every day for years and haven't come up with an answer.”

“Babe,” Sonia called from the hallway. “Babe, I hate to interrupt, but don't forget that we have that meeting today.”

“Yeah,” Rebecca's father answered, his voice cracking. To his daughter, he said, “I don't have an answer right now. We'll talk more about it later. I want to help you, but I just don't know what I can do.”

Sonia entered and put her hands on his shoulders, letting them slide down the front of his chest in a gesture that was nauseatingly intimate and affectionate. But Rebecca saw her father's countenance change then; some darkness lifted from his worn face and he managed a tired smile. She sighed.

“Becky, I hope you don't mind,” Sonia trilled.

“Rebecca,” she and her dad said simultaneously.

“Oh, right! I guess I always think of you from when you were little. I helped teach your second-grade Sunday school class, remember? I was just a teenager then myself.…”

When no one commented on this bit of nostalgia, Sonia went on. “Anyway, your dad and I have a meeting at church to go to this afternoon, and then we're going to play golf. It's the last day of his vacation, and you know how few days off your father gets.”

“I do,” Rebecca said.

“You're welcome to join us,” Sonia said brightly. “I'm sure we could find a fourth.”

“No, thanks,” she said. “I have to go figure out how I'm going to help my mother.” There was just the slightest bite on the word
mother,
but Sonia pretended not to notice.
At least she has some sense in her head,
Rebecca thought.

She pulled off onto the exit for her apartment, and numbly pressed the keys for the gate code. Except for one houseplant that looked wilted, things were exactly as she'd left them. The maid service had been there; they came every other week. The check she always left them on the granite counter was missing and everything gleamed with extra shine. She watered the plant and wheeled her carry-on bag into the laundry room, emptying the clothes into the washer and stripping herself down while she was at it. She had to laugh when she pulled out the velvet purple bag, and was tempted to throw it away. But Valerie had spent at least sixty dollars on this thing. It seemed a shame to just throw it out.

The shower was long and hot and glorious. Clean marble tile walls were a vast improvement over the fiberglass tub and low ceiling of the Super 8 in Oreville, Alabama. Afterward, Rebecca sat on the couch for a long time in her pristine white terry cloth robe, staring out the sliding glass balcony door to the woods behind her complex and the busy highway beyond. The world was moving along down there, everyone about their normal business for a Tuesday afternoon.