Roadside Assistance (15 page)

“You should go try on some jeans,” Darlene said while we stood outside the dressing room at an overpriced department store. “Cold weather will be here before you know it.”

“That’s okay,” I said, studying the phone. “My jeans from last year still fit.”

Darlene squeezed my arm. “Emily, you’ve had a rough year. You deserve some new clothes. Think of it as an early birthday present.”

I bit my bottom lip, considering my answer. I didn’t want to be her charity case twice in one day.

“Emily, I think you’d look lovely in one of those green sweaters over there.” She nodded toward a rack across from the dressing room. “Green is your color, thanks to those eyes you inherited from your mother.”

I turned toward the sweaters, and I had to admit to myself that they were gorgeous. But I didn’t need clothes. Or, more specifically, I didn’t want her buying them for me.

“They are nice,” I began, “but I don’t feel right spending your money. The phone was already too much.”

“Oh, please.” She waved off my comment with a laugh. “It’s just money.” She nudged me toward the rack. “Go on. Pick out a few things. Whitney will probably be awhile, so take advantage and get yourself a few things. Don’t worry about the price tags.”

An hour later, Whitney carried her five bags to the SUV while I carried my two, containing three pairs of jeans and two sweaters. I’d suffered heart palpitations when the three-digit price rang up on the register, but Darlene never blinked an eye when she swiped her card. I couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like to be able to buy anything you ever wanted without hesitating. It must be liberating.

When we parked in front of the Cameronville Assisted Living Center, the heart palpitations began anew. I hadn’t seen my grandmother since the funeral, and the last visit was anything but pleasant. She’d jumped onto the “let’s give Emily a makeover” bandwagon with Darlene. Her weekly phone calls since then had consisted of nothing but what I called the Whitney Report, and I couldn’t imagine enduring the Whitney Report in person.

“Emily,” Darlene called, standing on the curb. “Are you coming? Your grandmother is very excited to see you.”

“You’re confusing me with the other granddaughter,” I growled, climbing from the backseat.

“What was that, dear?” Darlene asked.

“Nothing,” I groused, slamming the door. I followed Darlene and Whitney through the maze of hallways to a door with “Jean Curtis” written on a plaque.

Darlene gave me a serious expression. “I don’t want to alarm you, but Grandma has slowed down quite a bit in the past couple of months. Don’t get upset if she seems a bit lethargic.”

I followed them through the door to where my grandmother sat in an easy chair in front of the television. She looked the same as I remembered. Her graying blonde hair was cut short, and her brown eyes were bright. She resembled an older version of Darlene: tall, thin, and attractive.

Her eyes lit up when she spotted my cousin. “Whitney!” Grandma reached for her, and Whitney kissed her cheek. “How are you, sweetie?”

“Fine.” Whitney gestured toward me. “Emily’s here.”

Whitney and Darlene sank into a love seat, and I sat across from them on a wing chair.

Grandma glanced toward me and smiled. “Why, Emily. I thought you weren’t going to come and see me. I called your daddy the other day and asked him if he still loved me. I can’t believe you’ve been in town two weeks and haven’t come by.”

Still the master of guilt.
I grimaced. “It’s good to see you too, Grandma.” I hoped my tone didn’t come across as bitter as I felt. I cleared my throat, hoping Whitney would jump in and give Grandma the play-by-play of the football game while I disappeared into the chair cushion. “How have you been?”

“I’m having some trouble with my knee.” She pointed to her right leg. “The doctor says it’s osteoarthritis, but the pain is simply unbearable some days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“What have you done to your hair?” Grandma asked, squinting her eyes to get a better look. “It looks a bit frizzier than the last time I saw you.” She pointed at Whitney. “You should try some of the new shampoo Whitney has. What’s the name of it, dear?”

Whitney gave me an apologetic look, which shocked me. I wondered if she could feel my pain on the other side of the room.

“I got it at the salon,” Whitney said quickly. “I’ll let her borrow it. So, how was bingo yesterday, Grandma? You always go on Fridays, right?”

Way to steer the conversation, Whitney!
I bit back a cheer.

While Grandma prattled on about bingo and her aches and pains, I turned my cell phone over repeatedly in my hands and glanced around the apartment, taking in the knickknacks, books, decorative pillows, doilies, and framed photographs.

Pictures of Whitney at all ages and poses peppered the walls. A few of Logan and me were also mixed in, but there were more than double the number of photos of Whitney. I couldn’t imagine her favoritism being any more blatant.

One photograph in particular drew my stare like a magnetic force: the last formal portrait my parents and I had made before my mother became gravely ill. It had been taken for our church directory two years ago. I studied it, taking in my mother’s
beautiful face and dazzling smile. It made my heart ache. If Mom were here, she’d brag to Grandma about all of my accomplishments, making a point to have Grandma acknowledge me as more than the second-best granddaughter.

“What about you, Emily?” Grandma asked, yanking me back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” I said, meeting her stare. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Are you going to join the cheerleading squad with Whitney or maybe the honor society?” Grandma asked.

I couldn’t stop my bark of laughter, and the sound caused Grandma to wince, surprised. “I don’t think they’d want me on the cheerleading squad, Grandma,” I said. “I’m about as flexible as a steel rod.”

“Yes, but you’re a beautiful girl,” my grandma said, her expression serious. “You’d be a nice addition to the team.”

Grandma thinks I’m beautiful?
I nearly fell off my chair at the compliment.

“You just need to do something with that mess of curls on your head and wear some makeup,” she continued. “You looked radiant at your mother’s funeral, dear. Did you keep that makeup Darlene bought for you?”

My mouth fell open. Leave it to Grandma to ruin the compliment. Not only did she insult my hair, but she told me I looked radiant at my mother’s funeral — the ultimate irony.

“Emily joined our church youth group,” Whitney chimed in. “She had a great time on Thursday.”

I turned to Whitney and found the apologetic expression again. Was she defending me?

“That’s nice, dear,” Grandma said. “Darlene, how is Chuck’s job going? Is he still very busy at the bank? I heard on the news that the market was picking up some.”

By the time we got back to the SUV, I’d heard the details of
Chuck’s daily work schedule and more about Grandma’s aches and pains than I ever wanted to know.

During the ride to my dad’s shop, I wondered if Whitney had deliberately taken our grandmother’s focus off criticizing me. I glanced at her from the backseat, hoping to catch her eye, but she was busy wearing out the keypad on her new phone.

Within twenty minutes, we arrived at my dad’s new shop. Cameronville Auto and Body was a typical collision repair center and much like my father’s business back home. It was a cinder block building with a tiny office and waiting room off a huge garage, including stalls for the body technicians and mechanics, at least two dozen toolboxes, three paint booths, a frame machine, a lift, and a cleaning bay. Tools whirled and banged while loud voices shouted from within the garage. The smells in the air were comforting and familiar — dust, antifreeze, and grounded-up metal.

Darlene and I stepped into the office and found my dad sitting behind the small desk, talking on the phone. He looked up, smiled, and motioned for us to sit in the two chairs in front of the desk.

While he finished his conversation discussing parts and labor time, I fished my new phone from my pocket and examined it, scrolling through the contacts list and then the sent and received calls. I found I’d received a text message from Megan congratulating me on my new phone and asking how things were going.

“What have you ladies been up to today?” my dad asked, hanging up the phone.

“We’ve been shopping,” Darlene announced, placing her purse on her lap. “Emily, show your dad what you got.”

“I have a phone.” I handed it to him. “Whitney upgraded, so I got her old one.”

“Wow.” My dad pushed a few buttons, looking impressed. “Very nice.”

“It was very inexpensive to add her to our plan, so don’t worry about anything,” Darlene said.

He looked at his sister. “Thank you, Darlene. It’s awfully generous of you to do this for Emily.”

I studied my dad’s expression, wondering if it was humiliating for him to accept handouts from his younger sister. It made me uncomfortable, but my dad looked happy. It totally baffled me. Didn’t he resent her generosity like I did? And how come he readily accepted charity from his sister but wouldn’t let me get a job to help out?

“We also went to the mall,” Darlene continued. “The girls got some new clothes.” She gestured at me. “Tell him what you got, Emily.”

“Some jeans and two sweaters,” I said, again feeling weird about the whole thing. I wondered if Darlene considered me one of those kids from third-world countries that you can adopt on television.
For fifty cents a day, the price of a cup of coffee, Darlene can give a poor, unstylish niece a makeover.

My dad shook his head and smiled. “You’ve really gone above and beyond, Darlene. Someday I’ll pay you back.”

She waved off the comment. “Oh, don’t be silly, Brad. We’re family.” She looped an arm around my shoulder and gave me a tight squeeze. “Emily’s like my other daughter.”

Yeah. Right.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Couldn’t Dad see this was just a show for her? Her goal was to look good, not do good.

“We went to see Mom too,” Darlene continued. “She told us to tell you hello.”

“How’s she doing?” he asked, leaning forward on the desk and folding his hands.

“She’s doing all right.” She shrugged. “She seems a little more forgetful than she has been, but overall her health is good. She repeated herself quite a bit while she talked.”

I bit my lower lip and wished I could tell my dad the truth.
And she still thinks I’m a screwup with bad hair.

My dad smiled at me. “I bet she was happy to see you.”

I snorted and studied my phone, avoiding the warning look I was certain he was shooting my way.

“Oh, yes,” Darlene said, ignoring my reaction. “I think Mom was very pleased to see both of her granddaughters.” She stood. “So, do we get the twenty-five cent tour of your new shop, Brad?”

My dad stood and started for the door, gesturing for us to walk through. “There’s not much to see. It’s just your typical shop.” He steered us through the large garage area, rattling off the names of machines and workers, speaking loudly over the noise of the hammers, tools, and the dozen technicians.

It occurred to me that Whitney hadn’t followed us into the office, and I scanned the area, wondering if she was in the shop or back in the SUV texting her friends. I spotted her back on the other side of the shop gesturing and speaking to someone I couldn’t see beyond a car.

I turned the corner and found Whitney chatting with Zander, who was leaning on a broom handle and laughing. Something that felt a whole lot like jealousy bubbled up inside me.

While I certainly didn’t “own” Zander, it bugged me that Whitney was speaking to him with such animation. She flipped her hair off her shoulder and continued to tell her story, which seemed to be a laugh riot. I gritted my teeth and approached them, wondering why she had to hone in on a guy I liked when she had Chad, Mr. All-American Captain of the Football Team. Couldn’t she leave the only motorhead in our neighborhood for me?

He was clad in dark-blue work trousers and a matching blue button-up shirt with the shop name on one side of his chest and “Zander” on the other. I’d seen plenty of mechanics and auto body technicians dressed in their uniforms, and, as corny as it sounded, I had to admit that some of them really looked good in them. Tyler was one, but Zander took the cake. He looked
really
handsome. I guess Mom was right when she once said there was something about a man in a uniform, and it didn’t only apply to the military.

“Hey there!” Zander said, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. “What’s going on?”

“Not much. Am I interrupting something?” I asked, hoping the question wasn’t laced with the envy rioting within me.

“No.” Zander shook his head. “Whitney was just telling me what the quarterback from the other team said to Chad last night.”

“You should’ve been there,” Whitney said, giving her hair another toss.

I’d heard the story twice so far today, once at breakfast and once in the car on the way to the shop, and it wasn’t that interesting. In a lame attempt to start a fistfight, the quarterback from Ridge Park High had told Chad he threw like a girl. Big deal. As if guys didn’t make cracks like that to each other every day.

In an effort to change the subject, I pointed at the broom. “I see you’re putting your mechanical talent to good use.”

Whitney guffawed. “Emily!” she squealed. “I had no idea you had a sarcastic edge.”

“You obviously don’t know your cousin,” Zander said with a grin. “This isn’t the first time she’s put me in my place. She told me that if I want to fix my car, I should trade it for a Chevy.”

Whitney snorted and covered her mouth.

I laughed, my cheeks heating with embarrassment. “He’s right.”

“And I’ll have you know that I push this broom with pride.” He moved the broom with a flourish. “Someone has to do the dirty work around here.”

“In all seriousness,” I began, “tell me that’s not all they have you doing. You’re way too talented to only do cleanup.”

He leaned the broom against the wall. “They do let me do some real work too.” He nodded toward a Ford pickup with primer on the quarter panel sitting in a stall across the shop. “I helped fix that one over there. It’s waiting for paint.” He pointed to a Chevrolet pickup on the opposite side of the shop. “That one over there belongs to one of the technicians. I helped him fix the AC earlier.”