Changing Lanes: A Novel (9 page)

Mick frowned, obviously taken aback by my sudden waterworks. “Hey, hey.” He reached for me, but pulled back without making contact. “You’ll figure it all out, Abby.”

I’d heard that before.

I shook my head and gathered myself, not wanting to add “full meltdown” to my list of accomplishments.

“I should take the cab back,” I said. “You want a lift?”

Mick shook his head. “Nice night for a walk.”

Our eyes met and held.

For a moment, I felt transported back to high school, back to the countless heartfelt conversations Mick and I had shared. There had been a time when we’d told each other every hope, dream, or plan that had crossed our minds.

Then thirteen years had passed in silence.

“Thanks for listening,” I said, even as regret and sadness simmered to life inside me.

Mick gave me a dismissive shrug before he turned to leave.

“Your jacket,” I called out as his long stride quickly lengthened the space between us.

“You keep it,” he answered without turning around. “Looks like it belongs on you.”

Before my brain could formulate so much as a thank-you, he was gone—vanished into the mist swirling in from the river.

I stood still, letting my emotions settle inside me. Then I slipped my arms into the sleeves of his well-worn jacket, breathed in Mick’s scent, and headed for home.

I accomplished two things over the weekend.

I’d picked up my car from the municipal lot and parked it over in the yellow Victorian’s gravel drive. Structural damage might keep me out of the house for a bit longer, but at least the car could sit in its new driveway. Plus, I’d begun to enjoy driving the cab, not that I was ready to admit that to anyone.

Second, I’d spent the weekend plotting the rebuilding of my life.

Destiny’s blunt but accurate words bounced through my brain as I broke down exactly what I needed to do. I needed to get the house fixed. I needed to pitch a new column to Max Campbell. I needed to make a decision about Fred.

I was not about to jump on a plane to France, so I left him a series of messages in which I shared my plans and explained the fact that my new, nonboring life would be ready to share with him when he was ready to return.

On Monday afternoon, Mom knocked on the edge of my bedroom door. “Abby, go get Frankie, please,” she said, standing just inside my room. “Mrs. Pierce will be here any minute.”

Isabel Pierce had been giving piano lessons since the Paris forefathers had been tying their horses next to the Paris Inn.
While that might have been a slight exaggeration, it wasn’t much of one. And Madeline Halladay believed a cultured woman was one able to perform a piano concerto at the drop of a hat. I’d sat through years of Mrs. Pierce’s lessons, and, as much as I’d never admit it, I was glad I knew how to play.

Frankie, however, sat through her piano lessons with Mrs. Pierce and then raced back to her secondhand guitar as quickly as she could.

“She’s probably over with Mrs. O’Malley,” Mom said. “Tell her she has five minutes.”

“Why does she spend so much time with Mick’s mom?”

Mom’s eyes turned soft. “They have a special bond.” She smiled. “Mrs. O’Malley loves your sister for exactly who she is.”

Mom walked away, but I hesitated momentarily, wondering if her words had been meant for me. Did I even know who my younger sister was these days?

I slid off my bed and headed downstairs.

Dad had left his favorite red-white-and-blue plaid fedora on the credenza in the hall beside the cab keys, and I grabbed it. I shoved the hat on my head, hoping to disguise the fact I hadn’t brushed my messy hair that morning.

I covered the ground between houses as I always had—by cutting through the gap in the O’Malleys’ hedge. I headed for the back door to their kitchen, remembering how pots of bright impatiens and daisies once framed the brilliant cobalt-blue door.

The pots sat empty, save for what remained of the forgotten soil, now spotted with patches of green moss.

When no one answered my knock, I pushed inside as I’d done so many times before.

I leaned into the kitchen, the smell of burned coffee pungent in the air. “Hello?” I called out. “Mrs. O’Malley? Frankie?”

Nothing.

I tried again, stepping inside and pushing the door shut behind me. “Mick? Mrs. O’Malley?”

A lone picture hung on the face of a battered Frigidaire, anchored by a smiley-face magnet, and I moved closer. In the snapshot, a preteen Mick, his mother, and father stood beneath the old maple outside, their forced smiles belying their linked arms.

Stop snooping
, I thought to myself. I headed for the center hall and called out again, “Frankie? Time to head home.”

Nothing.

Nothing but the soft sound of music, coming from the slightly ajar door to the basement.

I followed the sound, hesitating at the top step.

Even though I’d spent much of my youth inside this house traipsing up and down these basement steps for tree house supplies, I was no longer a child, and Mick was no longer my favorite diversion.

I pulled the door open a bit wider and peered down the old wooden steps. Strains of Little Feat came from below.

I was fairly certain the music selection had little to do with Mrs. O’Malley and everything to do with Mick.

I took a step nonetheless. “Frankie?”

The wooden steps creaked beneath my clogs as I descended, my focus zeroing in on the old Formica table sitting against the far wall. I cleared the bottom step and hesitated, taking in the sight of the smooth, marbled top, illuminated only by a single bare bulb dangling from the beamed ceiling above.

I remembered when this particular piece of furniture held a place of prominence upstairs in the O’Malley kitchen. Mick and I had spent hours at this table crafting No Adults Allowed signs for the tree house.

I ran my fingertips across the surface, remembering how we’d built our first science project together there—a working volcano that erupted two blocks from school when the ingredients shifted.

I’d sat at this table with my parents and Mrs. O’Malley the night Mick’s father died, feeling helpless to erase the pain and heartache in her eyes.

Mick was long gone by the time his father wrecked his car. He hadn’t said good-bye. He hadn’t written, called, or said a word to me during the time he’d been gone.

And he hadn’t come home to pay his final respects to his father.

My gaze landed on the items spread across the tabletop.

Pliers. Safety glasses. Cut glass. Soldering tools.

I frowned, reaching for a glistening triangle of green glass.

“I thought you learned your lesson about breaking and entering.”

Mick’s voice sounded from the stairs behind me, and my heart fell to my toes. The triangle slipped from my grip, hitting the tabletop with a dull
crack
.

I picked up the piece, the flawless glass now marred by a hairline fracture. I spun to face Mick, heat firing in my cheeks. “I was looking for Frankie.”

His dark eyes narrowed, full of disbelief. “In the basement?”

I winced. “I heard the music.”

“Big Little Feat fan, is she?”

I shrugged, realizing he wasn’t going to let me get away easily. “I might have been…”

“Snooping?”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t call it snooping.”

We stared at each other for several long, uncomfortable seconds before Mick turned to make room for me on the steps. “They’re out back in the greenhouse.” He pointed up toward the kitchen.

I gestured to the spread of materials on the table. “Are these yours?”

He shifted his focus to the work area. “My mother’s.”

“Oh.” I glanced back at the tools and supplies, imagining how Mrs. O’Malley might have once loved making her own stained-glass creations. “She must miss this.”

Mick’s expression turned heartbreakingly sad. “You can’t miss what you don’t remember.”

“I’m so sorry.” I took a step toward him, but he shuttered his features, firmly sliding his protective wall back into place.

“Be sure to shut the kitchen door behind you. Wouldn’t want people wandering in off the street.”

I handed Mick the cracked triangle. He studied it momentarily before fisting his hand around the damaged piece.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I could fix it.”

He stared at me, resignation in his eyes. “You can’t fix everything.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” I said again, as I pushed past him and headed up the steps.

“Nice hat, Halladay,” he said.

I supposed that was the same as good-bye.

I tried not to let the door hit me on the ass as I fled the O’Malleys’ kitchen. True to Mick’s word, I found Frankie and his mother sitting side by side inside the battered greenhouse.

They hadn’t seen me yet, so I stood just outside the door, listening. The only sound from inside was the music of Frankie’s guitar, her softly strummed notes lifting from the depths of the space filled completely with dead plants.

Perhaps they were the botanical ghosts of flowers and shrubs gone by, or perhaps Detta O’Malley had been doing a whole lot more trash-picking than I’d imagined, but the greenhouse was packed.

Someone sang softly, and I recognized Mrs. O’Malley’s voice instantly, her heartfelt words bringing back the rush of joy I’d witnessed when she’d sung in Dad’s cab.

To my utter surprise, Frankie joined in, harmonizing beautifully as the two sang a Beatles tune Mrs. O’Malley used to sing as she worked in her garden.

“There are places I remember…”

The scene before me amazed me, and my brain barely knew where to begin to process the pieces.

The music rang out in direct opposition to the expanse of dead and decaying plants. I had never heard my sister sing anything, let alone a lovely ballad.

“…I love you more.”

Frankie looked into Detta’s face and smiled, her joy palpable in her features and her body’s swaying to the music.

Mick’s words on the bridge echoed through my mind.
She’s some kid
.

She was, and I’d had no idea.

“Will you look at that?”

My mother’s voice sounded softly from behind me, startling me with her nearness.

“I didn’t hear you sneak up,” I whispered.

“Years of practice.” She grinned, tipping her chin toward Frankie. “When’s the last time you saw your sister this happy?”

“I know.” I nodded, loving the genuine emotion of the moment. “It’s been a long time.”

While my mother and I might not have been able to make out all the notes or words, we had no trouble understanding the impact of the music.

Both Frankie and Mrs. O’Malley beamed, their voices lifting together above the collection of dead plants.

In that moment, I saw a mature, confident, happy side of my sister I’d never seen before. Pride welled up inside me.

As for Mrs. O’Malley, she glowed as if lit from within, transformed by the music just as she’d been that day in Dad’s cab.

“I need to write this down,” Mom whispered.

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“In my journal.” She tapped on my shoulder and gestured for me to follow her outside.

“What journal?” I asked, once we were out of earshot.

“My gratitude journal.” She shrugged. “You should try it. Come on,” she said, stepping out toward our house. “Let’s give them a little privacy.”

“What about Mrs. Pierce?” I asked, stunned by mother’s newly rebellious attitude.

My mom simply laughed softly and reached for my hand. “Mrs. Pierce can wait.”

That night, I thought about Mom’s gratitude journal.

I thought about my parents and how readily they’d welcomed me home. I thought about Mick and how carelessly I’d handled his mother’s supplies. I thought about Frankie and how wrong I’d been in my assessment of my own sister.

When I called Fred, I left a message a bit less about my plans and a bit more about life. I told him about what I’d seen inside Mrs. O’Malley’s greenhouse. I described the setting and the beauty of the song. In my one-sided conversation, I relived the moment, and how proud I was of my little sister.

And then I left Fred with a parting thought.

“Seeing them like that got me to thinking,” I said. “Maybe you’re not bored because of a lack of life. Maybe you’re bored because of a lack of appreciation.”