Wynn in Doubt (8 page)

“I think you finding that article was meant to be. Maybe she’s been waiting for you to find out what happened to her.”

His words bring back the conversation with my mother. I know she’s sad. I know she thinks finding out what happened to Lola was not what Grams wanted. But Mom didn’t know about the article. She didn’t know that her mother had kept it tucked away somewhere secret. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think she must’ve read it a hundred times. Knowing her hands folded it so neatly makes me want to cry. Something hard like a stone sits heavy in my throat. I can barely speak around it.

“My mom wants me to let it rest. She said it isn’t what my grandmother would’ve wanted. She asked me to let it go.”

“And what do you think?”

I close my eyes and look into the darkness. This time it’s not Lola that comes to mind, but the man with the black hair and the careless smile. “I think there’s more to her story than a woman who abandoned her child.”

I hear the sureness in his voice. “Then what have you got to lose?”

The answer is nothing. I do hate my job. The thing that’s kept me there so long is complacency. It’s the same with my family. I need them as much as or more than they need me. It’s just easier to claim duty than admit I’m scared. That after so much inaction, I’m terrified to face the possibility that I’m not the person I so desperately wanted to be.

I slip my fingers between Oliver’s and hold his hand. The pace of my heart quickens. He’s asking me to leap, to jump and risk the fall. And fall I might, but at least I’ll land somewhere new.

“When do we leave?” I ask.

six

The bag on my bed is in chaos. Shirts, shorts, a dress, shoes, toiletries are all crammed into a small wheeled suitcase that’s been masquerading as a craft trunk for three years. I can’t think about which shoes go with which outfit. I just need to fill the bag and get downstairs to wait for Oliver. Because every minute I wait is another in which I’m scared I’ll change my mind. This is new territory for me. I’m not . . . impulsive. I’m basically a high-functioning agoraphobic. I don’t call in sick to work. I pick up the slack for everyone else. I don’t
do
things. What was I thinking?

Am I even capable of this?
Am I, Wynnifred Michelle Jeffries, prepared to be locked in a car with Oliver Daniel Reeves—
mental note: don’t reveal knowledge of middle name, as that will make you sound like a stalker
—for the next five hours? I packed my toothbrush before realizing it was a Q-tip and my black bandana before recognizing it as a black lace thong.

I collapse atop a pile of cast-off clothes. I can’t do this. Years of suppressing my base desires have turned me into a rational, albeit poorly adjusted, person. The most reckless thing I’ve done in the last twelve months was file my tax return on April 15.

The sound of the buzzer sends me reeling. I run toward the call box and step on the pointed heel of a hot-pink stiletto Tabby tried to force me to wear. I hop toward the door, the sole of my left foot screaming in protest, and hold down the worn-out answer button. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetie, it’s your mom.”

My mom always announces herself as though I have many surrogate mothers who I see and correspond with daily. She’s helping me distinguish between them. I look over my shoulder to the open suitcase on my bed. “Uh, I’ll be right down.”

Her voice crackles. “I brought you groceries, buzz me in.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Um, okay. Door’s open!” I hold down the admittance button a few seconds, then hobble to the bed. The half-packed suitcase is too bulky to hide under the duvet. I try shoving it under the bed, but it gets stuck, refusing to budge. The floor in the hall outside my door squeaks. She’s seconds away. I grab the bedding and throw it on top of the bloated case as she opens the apartment door.

“Come help with these.”

I run over and take a heavy paper bag, peeking inside. Oh good. Perishables.

“You didn’t need to bring me groceries, Mom.”

She sets the other bag down on my little kitchen table and removes a carton of milk. “I know. I just wanted to do something nice for my baby.”

Oh no . . .

“And”—she removes two grapefruit; one rolls across the kitchen counter and into the sink—“I wanted to apologize for the other day. You caught me off guard with your questions about that woman.”

That woman
again. “Your grandmother?”

Her chin drops. “Now, don’t start with me. I came over here to make up. Don’t spoil it.”

“Sorry.” I take more groceries and place them in the fridge, avoiding her eyes. I’ve got to get her out of here before Oliver turns up. I’ve never been good at lying, especially to my parents. My sisters had no problem asking for forgiveness instead of permission, but not me. As much as I envied the popular kids their parties and ability to simply be young and carefree, I could never risk disappointing my parents or my grandmother. I worked hard to prove myself in other ways, believing—or maybe dreaming—that my turn would come later.

She wraps me in a tight hug. She looks lovely in her long white skirt and green blouse, which deepens the gold of her hair. These days there’s plenty of gray too, but the natural blonde hangs on stubbornly.

“Alright. Now”—she pulls back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders—“why don’t you and I go grab some breakfast?”

I look at the clock on the stove. Seven forty-six. Oliver will be here in less than fifteen minutes. He insisted we leave first thing this morning. I think he was wary of giving me too much time to think. It’s a little scary how well he seems to know me. “I . . . can’t.”

“Oh. Do you have plans?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of? What’re you doing?” She narrows her eyes at me.

“No, nothing. It’s just, I’ve got plans with someone.”

“Who?”

My attempt at a casual
tsk
quickly spirals into a weird, strangled
yelp
.

“What’s going on with you?” She bears strong hands down on my shoulders. “Why are you acting so strange? Is it that boy your sisters were telling me about?”

My surprise at least masks my stammering. “Who?”

“That Oliver. The rock ‘n’ roll guy. Is he—” She drops her hands and turns to scan the room. Her mom senses are keen and intent. “Did he spend the night?”

“What? No!”

She faces me. “Well, I hope you’re using protection, young lady.”

“Mom, stop. Oliver and I are not . . .” I’m twenty-eight years old. I live on my own. I’m six years into a twenty-year repayment on my student loan. But I cannot talk to my mother about sex.

“Oh my God. I should’ve bought you some condoms.” She places her fingers to her lips, shakes her head, and looks up.

I toy with the lid on a jar of peanut butter. “Mom, Oliver and I are not together.”

“Good.” Her relief is instantaneous. “You can’t trust musicians, you know. They move from town to town, picking up a new girl at every stop. My great-aunt Goldie dated one. Oh yeah”—she nods, raising both eyebrows—“a jazz player. Found out he had six children in six different states. She only listened to classical after that.”

I sit down heavily on a kitchen chair. My journey hasn’t even started, and I’m already exhausted. Worse, she’s not going to leave until she gets the truth from me.

Seven fifty.

“Mom, I’m going to Kentucky. To find out what happened to Lola.”

“What?”

I stand, walk to the bed, and toss the duvet off the suitcase, then lift it back onto my mattress. A yellow sleeveless blouse is crumpled on top. I take it out and fold it, then do the same with a pair of khaki shorts. “I know you don’t approve or understand,” I say, not looking up, “but I need to know what happened to her.”

I refold one item after the other and place everything neatly inside the suitcase. My mother remains standing quietly on the other side of the apartment. I pull the zipper around each edge. The teeth whistle as they close in on themselves. Finally I look up.

She stares at me with an unfamiliar look on her face. I lift the bag and place its wheels down on the hardwood, slipping my feet into an old pair of faded navy Keds. I wheel the bag to the door and return to stand in front of her, gathering my courage.

“I don’t want to hurt you or Grams. I just need to go.” Her eyes move back and forth over mine. I brace myself with some of the courage I found last night with Oliver. “I’m not a kid, Mom.”

“I know you’re not a kid.” Her voice is steady. “And I know I can’t stop you from doing this, but I don’t think you’ve thought it through.”

“I have to go.”

“You
want
to go. It’s not the same thing.”

“Fine. I want to go. I want to
do
something. I want to find out what happened to Lola and why she never came back for Grams.”

“You know why, Wynn. We went over this. She was a self-centered woman. She thought nothing of the daughter and husband she left behind. And it nearly killed your grandmother. I mean, can you imagine? Losing your mother at such a young age? What if I hadn’t been there for you or your sisters or your dad? What if I’d just up and walked out on you one day? How would you feel? Not to mention that your grandmother never wanted you to know any of this.”

Something raw, like guilt, crawls up my neck, forcing me to drop my eyes. “I know, but—”

“No. No buts. You have responsibilities, Wynn. You have a job. You can’t just up and leave with no notice.”

“I called Lucky last night and—”

She shakes her head. The smile on her face is full of pity and disdain. “You know how I feel. I’ve asked you to drop this. You’re being irresponsible and selfish. This is not the daughter I raised.”

I swallow the cry trapped in my chest. Her words hit a wound buried within me, the one left by my last conversation with Grams. I’m not trying to be selfish or irresponsible or reckless. I’m just trying to wake myself up. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Seven fifty-six.

“What’re you hoping to get out of this?”

I bite down on my lip and shrug. “I just want to know.”

That smile again. As painful as it is for me to see it, it takes nothing away from her. Even in her sixties, my mother’s a stunning woman. Just like her mother before her. It makes me wonder what the woman in the hat looked like. Lola. Did she have my mother’s wide brown eyes, my Grams’s straight nose, or my full lips? Will I be able to find each of us in her?

I turn the doorknob and pull it toward me.

“You’re going to be disappointed. It’ll hurt you.”

I push the suitcase into the hall and look back. “That’s the problem, Mom. I hardly ever feel anything anymore.”

We’ve been on the road for four hours and twelve minutes, and I’ve hardly said a word. Oliver sits beside me, his eyes trained on the trees moving beyond the window. After an awkward greeting and a mortifying moment when he pulled out the black lace thong that had gotten stuck in one of the suitcase wheels, he seemed content to leave me to my thoughts. He brought a few CDs for the trip. The happy tempo of the Black Keys keeps me alert and focused on the highway.

Oliver reaches for the volume control and turns the music low. “Tell me more about Lola.”

I’ve had a persistent lump in my throat since leaving Mom standing in the kitchen, and I clear it before speaking. “There’s not much to tell, really. I don’t
know
much, is probably the more apt answer.”

“Then just tell me what you know. We’ll be there soon. We need to figure out where to start our search.”

I stare sideways at him. He’s so calm all the time. His stillness makes me feel safe. I reach behind his seat and into my purse, unearthing my grandmother’s book. I hand it to him. “It’s in the middle.”

Oliver lets the pages skate across his thumb until the book lies open in his lap; the article is wedged between pages 134 and 135 as though it’s always been there. I keep my eyes on the road but remain aware of his every action.

“Wow.” He brings the paper closer to his face, as I did. “This is your great-grandma?” He looks at me, and I catch his smile. “Who knew you were related to such a rebel?”

I return the playfulness he’s directing at me, allowing my body to relax against the seat. “I know. She was running whiskey around Kentucky when most women were churning butter in their kitchens.”

“Barefoot and pregnant, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” We exchange grins.

“Who’s the guy? What’s he got to be so happy about?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

“Maybe he was her employer?”

Since I first read Lola’s article, it’s felt like a piece of thread has been attached to a patch of skin on my stomach. And whenever I think of Lola and wonder where she went, someone pulls on it from the other end. Only, I don’t know who’s pulling. “I think he was more than that.”

Oliver waves the article before him. “Her husband?”

Something tells me that one husband was enough for Lola Harrison. It makes me blush a little. “Her lover, I think.”

Oliver re-examines the photo, taking his time, going over every inch. “I think you’re right.”

“Anyway, I doubt she could’ve gotten remarried without a divorce certificate.”

“She never divorced her husband?”

I shake my head. “Not that I know of. I think she pretty much left one day and never came back.”

He stares out the windshield, watching Indiana pass us by. “Why do you think she left?”

“I don’t know. I only recently found out she hadn’t died. Remember?”

“Yeah, but I know you well enough to know that you never quit thinking.”

He’s got me there.

“C’mon. Tell me.”

Since learning that Lola’s death was fictitious, I’ve imagined a hundred different scenarios. Some paint her in a positive light: she left behind an abusive husband to become a traveling nurse; maybe she was thrown out of her home by cruel in-laws. Others show a darker, more desperate side: she was pregnant with another man’s baby or robbed a bank. I’ve even considered murder and fleeing the law. But none of those stories have felt true. None of them yank on the thread at my waist, none but the same story that lives inside me.

“It’s silly.”

He waits for me to continue.

“I don’t know.” My heart thuds against my ribs. “Maybe she was just looking for something . . . more.”

“More?”

“Something that made her feel alive.” The words tremble against my lips. Fear, doubt, uncertainty . . . “I think she felt trapped, and so she ran. As far and as fast as she could.”

“Why do you think that?”

Because that need to leave is what I feel. What I wanted before guilt and weakness turned me into a coward. I rest my elbow against the car door and rub my forehead with my free hand. I’m uncomfortable and hot, and I want to change the subject. “Just a feeling.”