Wildflowers from Winter (6 page)

FIVE

R
obin couldn’t have come into my life at a better time. The thing about living in Peaks, Iowa, population 1,539, according to the green sign on Jorner’s Corner, is that people talk. And anything remotely out of the ordinary drove the citizens of Peaks to a gossiping frenzy. When I decided to swim to the bottom of that pool, there were worse repercussions than watching Dr. Nowels scratch mysterious notes on his clipboard for sixty minutes each week.

My actions hurled me into an unwanted spotlight. The whispers followed me around every street corner. I came to expect those not-so-discreet, over-the-shoulder glances whenever I passed by a mother or a kid or—worst of all—an old lady. I say the worst because they were the ones who would follow up their glances with words. Like, “Hey, aren’t you Bethany Quinn? How could you do that to your poor mother? Hasn’t she been through enough?”

As if either of those last two questions could be answered.

Despite my infamy, it was a very lonely time. Debbie Carter, one of my classmates, turned thirteen in the fall, and Bobby Fenway and I were the only ones in our class not invited to her party. I could understand Bobby Fenway. He wiped snot on his shirt sleeves and blew spit bubbles as he sat in the back of the classroom. But me? Debbie had invited me to her twelfth birthday party. The one where her dad rented a riverboat for the day and
hired a real live band. I couldn’t understand what had changed, other than the swimming pool fiasco.

My subconscious mind must have realized the significance of meeting Robin. Because the day we met became a snapshot I could forever pluck from my head and examine in detail. I remember everything about it.

As I stepped outside our trailer, ice and rock crunched under my boots and the frozen air turned the ends of my damp hair to icicles.

Mom was working to shove a bundle of dirty laundry into the backseat of our two-door, rusted-out Pinto. She paused only long enough to scold me. “Bethany Rachel Quinn, get inside! Your hair is wet.” Mom waved her hand toward our trailer as if she could shoo me back in. “You’ll catch pneumonia,” she added, using her boot to try to push the bulky bag past the passenger seat. Even through the layers of thermal underwear, jeans, long-sleeved shirt, sweatshirt, winter coat, and scarf, my mother’s frame was slight.

A stubborn leaf clung to a barren branch of the oak tree growing in our front yard. It fluttered several times, detached, and swirled off through gray sky. I looked at my mother, and I found myself wondering if the breeze swirled in just the right way, might it pick her up and blow her away too?

I shoved my hands into the deepest recesses of my coat pockets and scurried toward her. It was Saturday. My brother David was over at a friend’s house, leaving me alone. Trapped inside. A prisoner to the cold. Whatever errands my mother had to run, I wanted to go with her.

So I stepped beside her and assisted with the pushing. It was a big bag. And the front seats no longer folded forward the way they were supposed to. With one last heave, we stuffed the laundry into the backseat.

My mother straightened, out of breath. “I thought I told you to get back inside.”

I stood my ground as wind tousled frozen bits of hair around my face. The sight must have made my mother reconsider. Maybe she thought it was
safer for me to jump into the warmed-up Pinto than run all the way back into the house. “Get in,” she said, her teeth chattering.

We drove to the Laundromat first. Although neither of us talked, the drive over was far from quiet. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole town could hear our car. The muffler had fallen off a week prior, and every time my mom started the engine, heat would bloom across my cheeks, creep down my neck, and flush toward my chest.

When we pulled into the Laundromat parking lot and turned off the ignition, the roaring in my ears stopped, and I let out my breath.

I really hated our car.

By the time we removed the bag of laundry from the backseat, it had started to snow. Silent, white flakes that floated in place against a backdrop of gray. I stuck out my hand, collecting a few on my mitten.

“Bethany.” The voice broke through my trance. Mom stood in the doorway, the opened door propped against her back, the bundle of dirty clothes sitting at her feet. “Come on.”

A warm
whoosh
of air greeted me as I stepped inside. I unzipped my coat, slipped off my mittens, and ran cold fingers through my hair, separating the frozen tangles. As I followed Mom toward the two rows of machines, my boots squeaked against the gray-speckled linoleum. Peaks’s Laundromat wasn’t very big and hardly ever busy. It made me think we were the only ones in town without a washer and dryer.

But not today. I took a seat in one of the plastic chairs and spotted another mother-daughter duo in the opposite corner. They were strangers.

I wiggled my toes inside my boots. They tingled and burned as I studied the unfamiliar pair. The girl seemed to be around my age. Her dark hair hung like silk curtains on either side of porcelain skin. When she looked up from the book she was reading, the pale blueness of her eyes startled me. I would have looked away. It was a defense mechanism I’d developed since the summer. People stared, and as a reflex, I turned my cheek. But her smile
was so instant and so genuine, that before I could catch myself, I was smiling too.

I strained my ears as she said something to her mother, whose hair was just as black and shiny, but the rumbling of dryers blocked out the girl’s voice. Her mother nodded, and the girl walked toward me, the same smile lighting up her features.

My heart thudded against my rib cage. I wasn’t good at conversation. Especially not with strangers. And most especially not with ones who resembled glass dolls. She was the type of girl Debbie Carter would kill to have at her party. By the time she reached my side of the Laundromat, my mother and I were staring like a couple of dumb fish.

“Hi,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Robin.”

I mumbled my name and shook her hand.

“We just moved to town.” She plopped down in the seat next to mine, placed her hands beneath her thighs, and moved her legs like two pendulums swinging in opposite directions. “It isn’t very big, is it?”

I caught my mother spying. She looked over her shoulder at the pair of us, running her front teeth over her bottom lip, probing me onward with her eyes.

“Didn’t you see the sign?” was all I could muster.

For some reason, Robin thought this was funny. Her laugh sounded like Tinker Bell. “My dad warned me it would be a big change. We moved from Chicago.”

Her legs continued their swinging, and I stared at her boots, very conscious of David’s hand-me-downs adorning my feet.

“It was so crowded there, and the traffic was nuts. It took us practically an hour to get to school each morning. I think living in Peaks will be a lot nicer.”

I inspected her face to catch the fib, but her expression held nothing but sincerity.

“What grade are you in?” she asked.

My mind started to thaw. I was slowly remembering what it was like to carry on a conversation with somebody who didn’t hold a clipboard. “Seventh.”

Robin’s eyes danced. “Me too. I start school on Monday. I’m really nervous.”

I wondered what a girl like Robin could possibly be nervous about. The kids in my grade would flock around her, probably fight over who could claim her as best friend. Come Monday, she’d learn the difference between the cool kids and the loser kids. Sadly, I belonged in the second category. Me and Bobby Fenway. She’d figure out soon enough that I wasn’t best-friend material. Girls like Debbie Carter or Daphne MacComb would invite her into their club and explain everything.

But during those twenty-five minutes, while our clothes spun in separate washers, we formed some sort of mysterious bond. She asked me questions, all kinds. And I answered them without sounding like too much of a weirdo. Our lives were polar opposites. My family was poor. Her family was rich. The only reason they were at the Laundromat was because they hadn’t had time yet to buy a washer and dryer. In fact, her dad was doing some legal work for the local Alcoa plant by the river. The same place my mother worked—but not as a lawyer.

Robin was beautiful and eloquent. I was plain and awkward. She had a dad and a mom and a bulldog named Burger. My dad was dead, and the only pets I had were the calves at my grandpa’s farm. When the washers buzzed and my mom finished stuffing our clothes into a single front-loading dryer, she plugged it with quarters, turned to me, and said, “It’s time to go run our errands now, Bethany.”

I didn’t want to go. Robin must have felt the same way because she brought her mother over and introduced her to mine. She pivoted on her heels and looked between the two mismatched women. “Do you think
Bethy could stay here with us? We’ll take good care of her. Won’t we, Mom?”

It was the first time anybody had ever called me Bethy. It made my arms tingle in a funny, light sort of way.

“We would be happy to watch Bethany, Ruth.” Robin’s mom placed her manicured hands on Robin’s shoulders. “My daughter’s been worried about making friends. I’m so glad we caught you here at the Laundromat. I know this will make her first day of school so much easier.”

That first day of school worried me. I didn’t want it to come. On Monday, Robin would find out everything. My summer mistake. My friendless existence. I wanted more time with her before that. I gave Mom a pleading look. The worried expression on her face wavered, and I smiled victoriously.

When Mom returned an hour later, the laundry already folded, there was nothing to do but leave. I had the sudden urge to hug Robin. For one glorious day, I’d found a friend. I knew everything would change soon. The girls would fight over her. The boys would show off. And Robin, no doubt, would forget all about our morning at the Laundromat.

Only it didn’t quite happen like that. The first part did—the part about our classmates vying for her attention. The second part, however—the part about Robin forgetting all about me—never happened. For reasons I could never understand, Robin chose me. Not popular Debbie Carter, or athletic Daphne MacComb. For whatever reason, whether it was because she found me first or took pity on me or genuinely liked me, Robin chose me. And my life was never the same.

SIX

B
ethany held on to Robin until something shifted, exposing emotions she had long since buried. She scrambled to cover them up, to regain her bearings, but Robin’s muffled cries mangled her concentration. The instinct to comfort and protect her old friend dug its heels in and declared war against her desire to pull away. And all Bethany could think, the only thought running through her scattered brain, was that she should have sent the card.

She forced herself to step away. To put some distance between her present and her past. Robin pressed her knuckles against her cheeks, rubbed over the darkness circling beneath her pale blue eyes, and blinked at Bethany as if she weren’t real. “What are you doing here?”

Blood pooled in Bethany’s hands, weighing them down with a heat that clashed against the frigid temperature. Robin had just asked the million-dollar question. The question Bethany couldn’t answer herself. “I—I wanted to …”

To what? Offer support? Get rid of this self-imposed obligation that fermented in her gut so she could move on with her life? She could feel Evan staring, as if he was just as curious to hear Bethany’s answer as Robin was. “I heard what happened.”

Evan placed his hand beneath Robin’s elbow and led her inside. Bethany followed and shut the door. The sudden warmth stung her ears. She stood on the rug while Evan sat Robin down on the couch.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and with no explanation, he slipped off his shoes and disappeared down the hall, leaving a hulking silence in his wake. It stood in the center of the room like an uninvited dinner guest.

Bethany took off her hat and eyed the unlit Christmas tree situated in front of a picture window. Two stockings dangled from the mantel of a darkened fireplace. Holly and red-velvet bows wrapped around the banister leading up the wide stairs. All of it worked together to paint a depressing picture—not one of holiday cheer but of mocking joy. The holidays were a horrible time for tragedy.

“You look the same,” Robin finally said.

Bethany couldn’t return the compliment, if that’s what it was. Whether Robin had aged in the past week, or over the course of ten years, she didn’t know, but her once luminous friend had lost all her sparkle.

“I can’t believe it’s been ten years.” Robin’s voice cracked on the last word.

Bethany pushed away her descending guilt and focused on doing what she’d come to do. “I’m sorry about your husband.” The empty words sounded lame … not enough.

“I don’t know what to do. Especially now that …” Robin clasped her hands in her lap, fresh tears gathering in her eyes.

Bethany took a tentative step forward, but before Robin could continue, the front door opened. Four people slipped inside and shut out the cold. A tall gentleman with somber eyes. A young woman, with hair the color of Evan’s swept into a high ponytail. And an older couple—tan, considering the season—carrying a foil-covered dish. Bethany pressed herself against the wall as the foursome swooped down on Robin.

When the embracing ended, the older woman turned toward Bethany and held out a trembling hand. “I’m Loraine. Micah’s mother.”

“I’m Bethany Quinn …” Robin’s friend? Was that even true anymore? Unlike Loraine, she had no identifier. No reason for being there, partaking in this family’s grief.

“Robin talks about you sometimes. You two were friends?” Loraine dabbed at her eyes and placed the dish on top of the coffee table.

Bethany looked at her old friend, sitting with arms wrapped around her shins, lost in a world of grief. “Yes, we were.”

“I brought lasagna,” Loraine said. “I know we don’t feel like it. But we should eat.”

Bethany tugged at the collar of her shirt, which suddenly felt too tight. “Could you please direct me to the rest room?”