Changing Lanes: A Novel (26 page)

That night, my mother did something she hadn’t done in two weeks. She invited a bachelor to dinner.

Jack Maxwell, proprietor of Maxwell’s Mortuary, sat sharing bruschetta with Dad as I walked into the dining room. I gave my eyes a quick rub in case I’d completely lost my mind or passed out or something.

Once upon a time, in the seventh grade, I’d had a short-lived crush on Jack. Surely my mother wasn’t looking to reignite that flame now.

I found Mom in the kitchen, lovingly taking Dad’s lasagna out of the oven.

I pointed back toward the dinner table. “Please tell me you’re preplanning your funeral.”

Mom screwed up her face and blinked. “Nope.”

I leaned against the counter and dropped my voice low. “I thought we were done with the bachelor parade.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to keep your options open.” She carried the lasagna toward the dining room. “Grab the rolls from the oven, dear,” she called out. “Your father made them from scratch.”

I grabbed the rolls and followed, in no way done with our conversation. “Mom, you can’t just walk out when someone’s talking.” I nodded at Jack. “Nice to see you, Jack. How’s business?”

“Slow,” he answered with a frown. Of course, I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen Jack Maxwell without a frown. His brother had taken off years ago, leaving Jack with a business no one was entirely sure Jack wanted.

He studied the lasagna and his frown deepened. Amazing.

“Did you know the word
lasagna
comes from the name for the original pot, not the food itself?”

That was the other thing about Jack. He had an unfortunate habit of spouting off trivia whenever he got nervous.

“Fascinating,” Nan said, giving Jack a kind smile.

My mom dished out generous servings of lasagna before we each filled our plates with rolls, salad, and mixed vegetables.

I pushed my food around on my plate, taking a forkful of steamed veggies before I set them back down, uneaten. “I can’t believe you did this, Mom.”

“It was nothing, really.” She beamed. “Your father’s teaching me a thing or two in the kitchen.”

I blew out a sigh. She couldn’t fool me. She knew exactly what I was talking about.

“I’m not talking about the food, and you know it.”

My mother pushed to her feet and scowled, two moves so completely out of character everyone at the table froze, some while holding their forks in midair.

“Abigail Marie,” she said. “I will not sit back and watch you pretend the last month never happened.” She pointed her finger, her hand shaking. “I will not sit back and watch you question every decision you’ve made.”

My father reached for her arm, but she brushed off his touch. Nan sat back and smiled, pride shining in her gaze.

Mom leaned forward, as if she and I were the only two people in the room. “Options, young lady. You have options. Don’t you forget it.”

She sank back into her chair and forked a mouthful of lasagna into her mouth as if nothing had happened. “Mm, I can hardly believe I made this.” She smiled at my dad. “Thank you, honey.”

The rest of us remained frozen. Shell-shocked.

Madeline Halladay did not have outbursts. Plain and simple.

“Did you know Garfield’s favorite food is lasagna?” Jack asked.

“The president?” Dad asked.

Jack shook his head. “The cartoon character.”

Frankie grabbed her plate, her fork, and her glass of milk. “I’m out of here,” she said as she stood and pushed away from the table.

Dad set down his fork, narrowing his gaze on Frankie. “Francine Halladay. Sit back down.”

Frankie hesitated, took one look at my father’s face, and returned to her seat.

Mom looked down at her food to hide her smile. Missy took a sip of milk. Nan closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Jack shoveled lasagna into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in a month.

I studied them—with the exception of Jack—and took stock of how far we’d all come in the past month. Every single one of us had changed, except Missy, who soldiered on happily as any smart five-year-old would.

“Options?” This time, I pushed to my feet. “We all have options.”

I pointed to my dad. “You chose to chase your dream and cook for Johnny Testa, but you could be cooking for Jessica. She’s been my friend my whole life, and my dad jumps sides to cook for the competition?”

Dad sat back in his chair, his features tensing with surprise at my outburst.

“And you.” I pointed to my mom. “You have the most options of all.” I paced away from the chair, crossed to the dining room window and back. “Missy starts school in the fall. Take the camera and chase
your
dream. Hang up the perfectly pressed aprons and the fashion magazine clothes and get your hands dirty.”

I stopped and pivoted on my heel. “Remember how good it felt to let Mrs. O’Malley rip out your garden?”

Mom nodded slightly, but her eyes had gone huge.

“Give that same control to yourself. You deserve it, Mom.

“And you.” I pointed at Nan. “Everyone knows you sit at Grandpa’s grave every night. And guess what? None of them would think any less of you if you stopped. No one would think you’re a bad person if you decided to have a life. Don Michaels adores you.”

A slight flush colored her cheeks.

“He makes you happy, Nan,” I continued. “Don’t you think Grandpa would want that for you?

“Look at Frankie,” I continued. “Her devotion to Mrs. O’Malley and her love of Don’s dog have opened a whole new world for her. How many teenagers do you know who would choose working with therapy dogs over sitting around moping? She’s even wearing colors now.
Colors
. We could all learn a thing or two from Frankie.”

While the rest of my family looked stunned, Frankie looked pleased, a tentative smile curving her lips.

I pointed at Missy. “And you—”

Missy threw up her arms and looked at the ceiling. “Can’t we all just get along?”

Everyone laughed. Everyone except Jack.

“I liked her better when she wrote that column,” Jack said, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

I held up my hands to regain their attention. “There’s a difference between maturity and living like a corpse.” I gestured to Jack. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Jack said, pushing away from the table. “Thanks for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Halladay.” He excused himself, getting out while he could.

Who could blame him?

My mother, however, remained seated, moisture shimmering in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Shame swirled in the pit of my stomach. Who was I to tell my family how to live their lives? “I was out of line.”

But Mom simply shook her head. “I’m not crying because I’m upset.”

“You’re not?”

She stood, working her way around the table to where I stood. Then she cupped my chin in her hand. “I’m crying because you’re right.” She held up a finger and headed for the stairs. “Hang on a second.”

The rest of us shared puzzled glances as she vanished. Dad dug back into his lasagna. After all, it was amazing. Missy reached for Jack’s half-empty iced tea glass and unceremoniously dumped its contents into her milk, creating a seriously unappetizing brown sludge. Nan sat and stared, as if my words had hit her hardest of all.

“Nan?” I leaned for her hand across the table, but Mom returned before I had a chance to say anything more.

“We need a picture,” she said, gesturing for us to gather by the dining room wall. She meticulously adjusted the settings on the Minolta, then propped the camera on the table. She studied us as we stood—me with my arms around Nan and Frankie, Dad holding Missy on his hip, Missy holding up her glass of sludge for posterity.

Mom smiled—a luminous, joy-filled smile that creased the skin around her eyes and warmed me to the depths of my soul. A smile just like the one in her old photograph…maybe even better.

She took a deep breath and pressed the timer. “Ten seconds.”

Mom dashed to where we stood and slipped her arm around Dad’s waist, pressing close to the rest of us—her family. I tightened my hold on Nan and Frankie, wondering when the last time was we’d taken a family picture, if ever.

After the camera snapped off the shot, Mom took another, just to be safe. Then she moved close to whisper in my ear. “You know that picture you gave me?”

I nodded.

“This moment trumps that moment, hands down.”

A short while later, Nan tapped on the door frame of my room. I’d been playing Mom’s words over and over again in my mind, looking at page after page of my wedding binder.

I will not sit back and watch you pretend the last month never happened.

I shut the book and pulled the cover insert free of the binder’s plastic sleeve.

Abby and Fred.

Nan, much to her credit, made no comment as she stepped inside my bedroom, although I knew she secretly longed to rip the piece of paper to shreds.

“Can you give me a lift?” she asked.

Disbelief washed over me. “Seriously?” I asked. “After all that?”

She sat beside me on the bed and stroked my hair. “Seriously,” she answered. “After all that.”

I grabbed Dad’s fedora from my bureau and tucked my cell phone in the pocket of my jeans. Then I linked arms with my grandmother and steered her down the stairs and toward the back door.

The night had gone chilly and crisp, the scent of spring flowers hanging softly like a tease of things to come.

“I don’t have to call you Gus again, do I?” I asked, taking in the jacket she wore—Grandpa’s favorite brown corduroy, complete with suede elbow patches.

Nan did her best to look surprised by my question, but I was no dummy. I saw my own fear of change reflected in her eyes.

“Can’t a lady wear a jacket when it’s chilly outside?” she asked.

“Sure.” I opened the passenger door and waited for her to slide inside the cab. “But when she’s also dodging phone calls from a certain perfectly charming gentleman, I start thinking she’s plain chicken.”

Nan’s eyes popped wide. She opened her mouth to make her rebuttal just as I slammed the door shut. I held a hand to my ear and mouthed the word
what?

I took my time making my way around Bessie, pretending to check the car’s luminous surface for dirt or scratches. By the time I opened the driver’s door and climbed inside, Nan sat with her arms crossed, not saying a word.

She let out a little huff as we pulled away from the curb, and I did my best not to grin.

“It’s not polite to call your elders ‘chicken,’” she said, turning away from me to stare out the window.

I drove at a snail’s pace, taking the turns from Third Avenue to Stone Lane, from Second Avenue to Race as slowly as possible, wanting to squeeze as much time as I could out of our short drive to the library.

“Seems to me,” I said, as I drove past the library and pulled Bessie to a stop just outside the Paris Cemetery gates, “you and I aren’t so different.”

Nan cut her eyes in my direction, arms still firmly crossed, chin tipped upward defiantly. “Go on.”

“We’re both scared to let go of the past,” I said.

She turned to face me, color flushing her cheeks. Either the corduroy was a bit too warm or I’d hit a nerve. “I’d hardly compare my marriage to your grandfather to your engagement to that Fred.”

I smiled and reached for her hand, pulling her arm free of her defensive posture. I cradled her slight hand in both of mine, ignoring the pang inside me that registered the fact that she was growing frailer, even though she’d always been larger than life to me.

“I’m not talking only about ‘that Fred,’” I said. “I’m talking about my column, my house, my plans. Work with me.”

One silver brow lifted toward her hairline. “Jack Maxwell might have a point. I think I liked the whole if-you-can’t-say-anything-nice phase better than the new blunt phase.”

I laughed, a single burst of honest emotion. “You hated that phase, and you know it.”

She huffed out another breath. “Perhaps.” Her lips quirked into a smile, but she did her best to hide it. “What’s with the ‘There’s a difference between maturity and living like a corpse?’ Dr. Phil?”

I shook my head. “Destiny Jones.”

Nan chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Oh, brother.”

I gave her hand a pat and pushed open my door. “I’m going to walk you to Grandpa’s grave; then I’ll go get your tea. You think about what I said.”

She frowned. “I’m not entirely sure what you did say.”

“I have a feeling you’ll figure it out.”

A few minutes later, I left Nan at Grandpa’s grave and made my way down the sidewalk toward the library. Bessie sat parked back by the Paris Cemetery gates, all the simpler to drive Nan home after her visit.

But when I walked through the automatic doors at the library and made the turn for the café, there stood Don Michaels, holding two large to-go cups as he stared in my direction.

Surprise spread across his features, but then his gaze darkened. “Where is she?” he asked. Then his expression tensed. “Is she all right?”

“She will be.” I pointed at the cups. “And this?”

He shrugged, looking momentarily like a sixteen-year-old boy about to ask the girl of his dreams to the movies. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”