Changing Lanes: A Novel (7 page)

“No, ma’am.”

I didn’t know what to do or say, but I thought of all the kindnesses Mrs. O’Malley had shown me through the years. Even though theirs had not been a happy home, Mick’s mother had always made time to talk, to listen, to act as official scorekeeper during badminton tournaments and bike races.

Her caring presence had once been a constant in my world. I wasn’t surprised she wanted to save this seemingly unsalvageable plant. Not surprised at all.

I climbed back into the driver’s seat, anchored my own seat belt, turned on the wipers, and pulled the ancient gearshift into drive.

I glanced at Mrs. O’Malley and frowned. She tugged and pulled at the seat belt strap, her features twisted with frustration. “Would you like to hear some music?” I asked, searching for something I could offer to soothe her agitated state.

My father, never one to be far from his tunes, had outfitted the classic Checker with a modern CD deck. I waited for Mrs. O’Malley’s nod before I pushed the power button.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” I said, as I pushed Play.

The Mamas and the Papas sang loud and clear, filling the air inside the Beast with their amazing harmonies. Beside me, Mrs. O’Malley shifted in her seat, loosening her grip on the dead plant.

She began to sing, her voice and words spot-on with the music, matching the CD word for word and tone for tone. Her voice rang out, crystal clear and bright.

A sudden rush of memories hit me, grabbing hold of my emotions and holding tight. Summer nights with the windows open, hearing Mrs. O’Malley singing from the kitchen next door as she finished dinner. Spring mornings, watching her plant fresh annuals, softly singing all the while.

Dream a little dream of me.

Detta O’Malley loved music. Her features came to life as she sat in Dad’s cab. Her eyes widened and she smiled as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. I realized how glad I was I’d been able to offer her a ride.

My only regret was that we reached our destination before the end of the song. Maybe next time I’d drive until her voice ran dry.

She smiled—a smile that stole my breath with its palpable joy. “I knew the words,” she said on an exhaled breath.

As I helped her out of the car, Mick appeared at the front door. He pressed his cell phone to his ear and spoke rapidly, keeping his voice low. “She’s here now. Sorry to have bothered you.”

He pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheek, then looked at me, the question hanging between us, unspoken.

“I saw your mom walking in the rain after I left the Clipper meeting.” I held his mother’s elbow as she climbed the bottom step, afraid she might stumble. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. O’Malley?”

Detta nodded. “I knew the words.”

Mick’s eyebrows lifted.

“To a song in the car,” I answered.

His curiosity morphed to surprise; then he smiled, a luminous grin full of gratitude.

“Thank you,” he said. “She loves to sing.” He reached for the plant I held. “I’ll take that.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got it.”

But Mick had already anchored his fingers on the edge of the tired and unwanted pot. “Thanks for bringing her home.”

I’d been dismissed, and even though it had been years, I understood Mick perfectly. His family had always kept to themselves. Why should this moment be any different?

“My pleasure.” I took a backward step. “I’d better get Bessie back to my dad before he sends out a search party. Great to see you, Mrs. O’Malley. See you later, Mick.”

The light I’d glimpsed so briefly had already faded from Detta O’Malley’s eyes. She looked at me without emotion. “Do you know my Mick?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sadness filled me at the realization she’d probably also forgotten how the music had brought her back to life. “He’s a good boy.”

I had Bessie parked under her tent a few minutes later, but I couldn’t bring myself to go inside my parents’ house to face my new, not-so-planned life. Instead I turned on Dad’s CD and listened to the song Detta O’Malley had just sung.

She might not be able to remember the beautiful sound of her voice, but I could. I hoped I’d never forget the joy on her face and the power of what she’d said.

I knew the words.

But for Mrs. O’Malley, the words and music were already gone.

Suddenly my house, my job, and my engagement were merely obstacles to be overcome. I could fix my problems, but Mrs. O’Malley’s life had been forever altered. Her fading memory was slowly erasing the person she’d once been.

My life had merely taken a detour—one I could handle.

As I sat inside the Beast—windows shut to the world, music blaring—I realized two things.

Driving Bessie wasn’t half bad, and listening to Mrs. O’Malley sing was the most magical thing I’d witnessed in a long, long time.

Several minutes later, I sneaked in the back door and up to my old bedroom to try Fred’s number again.

We sometimes went a full day without speaking to each other, but the fact he’d fled across the ocean and declared a thirty-day lockout filled me with a sense of urgency about reaching him.

“Fred,” I said as soon as his outgoing message ended, “I am going to call you until you call me back. Grown people do not take off on a plane on a whim. Grown people stick to their plans…their wedding plans…their wedding plans complete with nonrefundable deposits.”

Frustration and anger tangled inside me. How could we work this out if the man wouldn’t pick up his phone?

“I understand you’re feeling bored. Maybe I’m bored, too.”

It was true, I realized. At some point, Fred and I had started watching life instead of living it.

We were boring.

“I’m ready to join the exciting team, honey. Come home and we’ll take this Paris by storm…together. I love you. Call me back.”

I disconnected the call and tucked my phone into the pocket of my jeans, just in case.

I crossed to the window and stared out at the roof. Mick’s work sat complete—shingles patched, restored, renewed, my parents’ home safe from the elements.

A bell sounded from downstairs and I resisted the urge to bang my head against the wall. My mother had been ringing a dinner bell for as long as I could remember, and while there was nothing wrong with doing so, wasn’t it easier to raise your voice and holler?

I glanced in the mirror, took off my ball cap, and grimaced. At some point during the day, a shower would have been genius.

I smoothed my hair, tucked as many flat strands as I could behind my ears, and smacked my cheeks, hoping to put some color back into my tired complexion.

When I neared the bottom of the steps, I picked up threads of a conversation that included not one, but two male voices. Of all the days to invite company for dinner, Mom had to pick this one. I rounded the corner and spotted Ted Miller, town pharmacist, sitting at the dining room table with Dad.

I nodded a greeting and made a beeline for the kitchen. My mother stood at the counter, her pink-and-yellow sheath flawless and classic. I glanced down at my jeans and sweatshirt and wondered how none of her fashion sense had made its way to me. Based on the look in her eyes, she wondered the same thing.

I moved close as she refocused on placing overcooked pork chops and mushy-looking apples on a serving platter. “Why is Ted Miller here?” I asked.

“You’re not getting any younger, Abby,” she answered without looking up. “It’s time to move on with your life.”

I blinked and took a backward step.

“Move on with my life?” I whispered loudly.

“You can’t sit around and mope forever.”

“Fred’s been gone for twenty-four hours. Don’t you think you’re rushing things a bit?”

“I want you to consider your options.” She paused dramatically. “Ted is an option.”

An option I’d never consider in a million years. Sure, Ted had taken me to my first formal dance, but to the best of my memory, the entire night had been a disaster from start to finish. He might be an upstanding citizen and a solid businessman, but there was no way I’d ever consider dating Ted Miller. Not ever.

There was also the minor detail of the fact I was supposed to be marrying Fred in two months.

“Mom, you may be overreacting to recent events.”

She turned to face me, one perfect blond brow arched. “Am I?”

I certainly hoped she was, but long ago, I’d adopted the path of least resistance when it came to dealings with my mom. I saw no reason to change that now.

I drew in a deep breath and nodded. “All right. I’ll be polite during dinner, but you have to promise me you won’t do this again.”

She smiled the same smile she’d been giving me since the first time I’d uttered the word
no
. It was the sort of smile that said,
Look how cute you are, thinking you can win
.

She reached for the faucet, running her fingers beneath a stream of water before she grabbed my head to fluff and scrunch my hair. “Much better.”

She pointed over my shoulder to where a long-sleeved, pink-and-purple floral sheath hung on the powder room door.

“Go slip into that, dear. Those jeans could walk off by themselves. And use the perfume I left on the counter.”

“Mom, I am not going to change clothes for Ted Miller.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes…you
are
.”

“Okay,” I said as I headed for the dress and the perfume.

Five minutes later, I was changed, moisturized, spritzed, and freshened. I glanced at myself in the mirror and wondered if this was my mother’s idea of who I should be. Was this the image of the daughter she wanted? Was this the image of the woman Fred wanted, as well?

More important, was this the image of me I wanted?

I glanced longingly at my jeans and sweatshirt puddled in a heap on the floor.

“Dinner, honey,” Mom said, tapping softly at the door.

I shook off my thoughts of inadequacy and stepped out of the bathroom, heading for the dining room.

Mom clasped her hands together and smiled—a sure sign of approval—as I cleared the archway. The rest of the family, however, was less than enthusiastic.

“You look like Mommy,” Missy said.

“I liked the hat better,” Frankie grumbled.

“Not your style, Macaroon.” Nan tipped her head toward my mother and grinned.

“I thought we were never going to eat,” Dad said.

Ted stood up, then grabbed his calf, making it difficult to tell if he was being a gentleman or suffering a charley horse.

“Cramp.” He grimaced, answering my question. “Just part of the price we pharmacists pay daily.”

I managed not to roll my eyes as I took my seat. Ted sat back down, and my mother passed him the platter of pork.

“You didn’t have to go to any special effort for me, Abby,” he said as he filled his plate.

I was dying to say my costume change wasn’t for him, but that wouldn’t have been nice.

Ted, on the other hand, decided to pick up right where he’d left off at the Clipper meeting.

“I guess it was only a matter of time before that column of yours got canned.”

My mother choked on her wine, and Nan kicked me beneath the table.

Every muscle in my body stiffened. “What do you mean, Ted?” I asked, in what I thought was an amazingly calm tone.

Ted shoved a forkful of pork into his mouth before he answered.

I watched his reaction carefully, knowing pork chops were not one of my mother’s specialties. Honestly, no dinner was her specialty.

Ted sputtered and chewed. Then he maneuvered his food into one cheek and spoke. “Little dry tonight, Madeline. Maybe you spent too much time dressing Abby.”

A stunned hush fell across the table. If there was one unspoken rule in our house, it was this. We did not speak negatively about Mom’s cooking skills. Ever.

I had to shift topics…and fast.

“I’d like to hear more about your thoughts on my column, Ted,” I said. If anyone was going under the bus, it might as well be me.

He put his napkin to his mouth and wiped. I knew what he was doing. The good old let’s-get-rid-of-the-food maneuver. He couldn’t fool me…or Mom.

She smiled, having known Ted long enough to understand he lacked the filter most of us had in social situations. I, on the other hand, longed to tell Ted exactly what I thought of his behavior, even though I said nothing.

He launched into a diatribe on the merits of logic over emotions, and how the former served a person far better than the latter ever could.

“That was the downfall of your column, Abby. Emotions. No one agrees on emotions.” He waved a fork in my direction. “Now, logic and science? Everyone can agree on them because they’re based on facts.” Another wave of the fork. “That’s your column. Go back to your boss with that idea, and he’ll have you syndicated again in no time.”

“Science?” I repeated, wishing Ted would either choke or chew and spit faster in order to end this dinner more quickly.

“Science.” He nodded with apparent self-satisfaction. “And logic.”

Most everyone in my family seemed to tune Ted out for the remainder of dinner. Nan and Dad nodded absentmindedly as they focused on eating around their pork. Frankie escaped to her room, as was her habit. Missy politely maintained eye contact as Ted blathered on for what seemed like hours.