Changing Lanes: A Novel (19 page)

Frankie had been right. We should have stayed put.

Detta raised her hand, pointing out the front window of the cab.

Rainwater streamed around me now, and a fresh crack of thunder left me more rattled than I’d been a moment earlier, which was difficult to imagine.

I gave Detta a quick squeeze, straightened fully into the storm, and slammed the car door shut. I plucked Dad’s fedora from the puddle at my feet before I looked to where Detta had pointed.

I’d been expecting to see a building or a sign or something to help me figure out where she wanted to go. Instead, I saw Mick.

Rain sheeted off his windbreaker, and anger came off him in waves as he headed toward us from Artisan Alley.

I wanted nothing more than to go back to the moment I’d decided I knew what would be best for his mother.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice barely audible above the torrential downpour.

He slowed his approach, as if knowing he wouldn’t be able to contain his anger if he moved more quickly. His features twisted, and for a fleeting moment I looked into the face of his father.

Something flipped deep inside my belly, and I moved to close the space between us.

“I was wrong, Mick. Please don’t blame Frankie. She told me to stay put. She listened to you. I didn’t.” I was babbling and I didn’t care.

Perhaps the faster I talked, the more quickly his anger would dissipate. Perhaps his features would relax and we’d all go home. Perhaps this moment would be lost, forgotten, forgiven.

Yet Mick’s features didn’t relax. Instead, he stood in the pouring rain, waiting patiently until I was done trying to justify going against his wishes.

“I know she loves looking for plants,” I continued. “I never stopped to think the storm would scare her. You know I’d never do anything to upset your mother. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think.”

I paused to take a breath and Mick spoke. I expected a raised voice. I expected a lecture. But in true Mick fashion, I got only a few, carefully chosen words, uttered in a calm, yet obviously angry tone.

“There are some things you just can’t fix, Abby. This is one of them.”

He walked past me to open the rear passenger door of the cab. He leaned in, kissed his mother’s cheek, and checked her seat
belt. Then he shut the door, opened the front passenger door, and climbed in, leaving me standing in the rain holding my hat.

I shook myself out of my trance and scrambled back to the driver’s side.

“Home?” I asked as I climbed in. Mick nodded, and I snapped off the music and shifted Bessie into drive.

I did not look at or speak to Mick after that.

I was pretty sure he preferred things that way.

Detta’s soft voice rose from the backseat. “I want to go where people die.”

I turned slightly toward Mick.

“The funeral home,” he said without waiting for my question. A muscle worked along his jaw.

The funeral home.

I mentally berated myself. How could I have not figured that out?

I followed Artisan to Race to Arch, heading for Maxwell’s Mortuary, the closer of the two funeral homes in Paris.

As I slowed along the long expanse of curb that edged the mortuary’s landscaped gardens, Detta squeaked with excitement from the backseat.

“Stay put, Mom,” Mick said. “I’ll get it for you.”

Stay put.

The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, and the skies had brightened. Mick climbed from the cab and plucked a nearly dead peace lily from beside a single trash can in front of the funeral home.

He carefully lifted the pot, protecting the plant’s withered leaves as he hoisted the container into the crook of his arm.

Then he looked toward the cab and smiled.

I mentally withdrew my thought about his fresh coat of paint not making up for the years he’d been gone. Whether or not Mick
had been gone from Paris wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was that Mick was here now.

He settled the plant into Detta’s arms and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “She’s a beauty, Mom.”

I turned the music back on as we headed home, not only to please Detta but also to drown out the tense silence that hovered between me and Mick in the front seat of the cab.

Detta’s voice rose in song, clear and light. She cradled the peace lily as if holding a favorite pet, and I realized I’d been very wrong to think I understood the complexity of her condition.

I couldn’t undo the moments of panic she’d felt during the height of the storm, but I could hope that somehow her brain would hold on to the joy she felt at that moment, cradling a single, bedraggled peace lily rescued by her loving son.

Back at the house, Frankie walked Detta inside, promising to take the lily out to the greenhouse after a little while.

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” Mick said as I turned to climb back into the cab.

He was right. I had no idea of what I was dealing with. “I’m sorry.”

Mick’s eyes widened with disbelief. “Sorry? What if she’d gotten lost or hurt today, Abby? Did you think about that? There’s more to keeping her safe and happy than ripping up a garden and petting a dog.” He waved his hands, his anger palpable, borderline frightening in intensity.

“I wanted her to stay put,” he said. “She should have stayed put.”

“But she was okay until the storm started.” I reached for him, but he quickly stepped out of range. “I never meant to upset her.”

Mick ran a hand through his hair and shut his eyes momentarily, as if trying to maintain control. “You’re not hearing what I’m saying.”

“I’m hearing you just fine.”

“Are you?” When his eyes met mine again, they flashed with frustration, a rare show of the emotions he typically kept so closely guarded. He leaned toward me, so close I held my breath.

He was right, and I knew it. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to do anything but defend my actions—my actions, which had been careless.

Mick straightened, turned, and walked away.

I still said nothing.

Instead I stood on his front lawn, humbled and duly chastised, standing motionless in his wake.

Later that night, I sneaked a peek into Frankie’s room. I had expected her to be awake, but instead found her room dark, her sleeping form nothing more than a lump beneath her covers.

Beside her head sat a black-and-white stuffed dog, a present from Don Michaels.

The dark and dreary magazine clippings and artwork that had once graced the expanse of bulletin board above Frankie’s desk were gone. They’d been replaced with a variety of snapshots from Don and Riley’s first visit.

I smiled. While the dog had been trained to touch the hearts of the patients he visited, he’d touched Frankie’s heart in ways I could have never imagined or hoped for.

She’d announced her intention to train therapy dogs, which presented one minor problem. Years ago, my mother had handed down a no-pet rule, which still stood.

While I thought Frankie might be able to sway our dad, I wasn’t sure about Mom. Yet Mom had sacrificed her garden for
Detta. Perhaps she would sacrifice her clean floors to let Frankie bring home a new dog.

“I’m not asleep,” she mumbled. “You can stop snooping.”

I sat on the edge of her bed, and she shifted to give me more room. “How’s your cheek?” I asked.

After our excursion, Frankie had held a bag of frozen peas to her face for twenty minutes. And while she’d complained the entire time, the rest of the family knew we’d been spared from the tuna-and-pea casserole Mom had been planning for dinner.

Frankie gingerly rubbed her cheekbone. “It’s not bad. She didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“I know.” I brushed a lock of dark hair from her forehead, and she let me. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you today. I was wrong.”

Frankie pushed up on one elbow. “Wow. Should I record that?”

I stood and kissed the top of her head. “Nope. I’m just sorry I put you and Detta in that position.”

“Have you apologized to Mick?”

“Not exactly.” I straightened her covers before I turned for the door. “But I will.”

That night, for the first time in days, I picked up the phone and dialed Fred’s number. Maybe I hoped he’d listen to my message and tell me what I’d done was all right. Maybe I hoped he’d say he understood that I hadn’t meant to harm Detta when I’d set out in the cab.

But I didn’t need Fred to tell me. I didn’t need anyone to tell me.

The truth was I’d been wrong. I’d been so caught up in the high of the moments I’d shared with Dad, Jessica, and Sue Jackson and her grandchildren that I’d thought I could fix Mrs. O’Malley with a new moment of her own.

I wanted to tell Fred how much the past few weeks had changed me. I wanted to see if he’d experienced something similar. After all, I did care about the man. I’d been about to marry him, for crying out loud.

I listened to Fred’s outgoing message, pressed the end key, and powered down my phone.

I didn’t need to share my day with Fred. I didn’t want to share my day with Fred.

Perhaps today’s moments weren’t all perfect, but they were mine.

And at least for now, I wanted to keep them that way.

I spent the next few days working out new routes for the Beast, taking pictures, and falling in love with Paris. Perhaps I was still in denial about just how thoroughly all my former plans had fallen apart, but the truth was I felt happier than I had in years.

At Destiny’s request, I’d stayed away from my house, letting her and Rock work their magic. Images of the gaping holes in the floors and walls remained crystal clear in my mind, but I trusted Destiny to make the house a home again.

We’d been fortunate enough to find the lumber we needed at the salvage yard Jessica had suggested. My next worry was how to afford the expense of the other materials. Destiny hadn’t notified me that she needed them yet, but at the rate she and Rock were working, it wouldn’t be too long.

Mick and I had managed to avoid each other since the day I’d taken his mother out into the storm. Frankie continued to rush home from school to sit beside Detta, yet she’d also begun training with Don. With my parents’ approval, Frankie and I had accompanied Don and Riley on a few of their therapy visits.

On Wednesday afternoon, we visited the nursing home in the next town over.

I’d worried that Frankie might be frightened by the sounds and smells of the facility, but instead she’d come to life, taking instruction from Don, handling Riley like a pro, and playing guitar for the home’s residents.

“You should have seen Riley,” Frankie said, her features coming to life as she replayed the details of our visit during dinner that night.

“The residents were sitting in a big circle in the activity room and Riley moved from one to the other, wiggling in for a neck scratch.” She laughed and pointed at me. “Remember how he did that the first time he visited Detta?”

I nodded.

“You should see him,” she said as Mom, Dad, Nan, and Missy listened attentively. “He’s amazing.”

Frankie paused to take a drink of water as if totally parched by her uncharacteristic chatter. “You should go with us one day, Mom…Dad…” She hesitated. “You’d understand why I want to do the same thing as Mr. Michaels. I want to work with therapy dogs.”