The Life You've Imagined (18 page)

“Well, she’ll land on her feet, I’m sure. Why does she want to quit? Is she burned out?”

“I think . . . I think she wants to quit to save me . . .”

“Save you from what?”

My next words catch in my throat. She’ll think I’m asking for charity from her if I explain it. And I’ve never done that, not ever, not even when I had to borrow money from the bank at a ridiculous rate just to buy Anna a Christmas present, not even when I had to spend my retirement savings to help make her tuition payments when things were slow at the store.

And Veronica always knew better than to offer.

“I’ve been ill a bit,” I offer. “My blood pressure. She thinks I’m too sick for her to leave,” I say, because it’s part of the truth.

“Well, you’ll just have to be the picture of rosy health and have fabulous blood pressure, because you’re right, she shouldn’t throw away her job for that. Would it help if I told her I’d keep an eye on you?”

I nod, knowing it wouldn’t help a bit.

“You know,” Veronica says, sliding her glasses back down. “That might be just a cover story.”

“A what?”

“What if she wants to quit, but she needs a convenient excuse? I mean, look at Anna. She’s outdone herself at every turn, and she’s come so far. What if she just doesn’t want it anymore? But she can’t just
quit.
Girls like Anna don’t do that. She might be looking for a reason.”

I chew this over for a moment while Veronica continues. “You remember, Alex was always such a bright kid. Remember how he learned his multiplication tables before his class even started on them? How he could spell any word he ever read—he’d just look at it once and know it forever? We praised him so much, so extravagantly for that, but then he’d get to school and something else was always more interesting, like putting gum in a girl’s hair. I think he felt it.”

“Felt what?”

“Felt the responsibility of his brain. He cracked early. Maybe Anna is cracking late.”

“She’s not cracking!” I stand up, sloshing some tea out of my glass, which I haven’t even touched. “She just wants to take care of me. Anna is a responsible, well-adjusted child.”

“You mean, unlike Alex.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

“You’re the one taking it awfully personally.” Veronica stands up with me. She’s taller than me, and as I look up at her this way, she seems haughty. On a pedestal, like a statue in a museum. “Maybe you’re a little more wrapped up in her success than you’d like to admit.”

The ice rattles in my glass as I set it down slowly. “I’m sorry about the trouble with Alex. I feel for you. I shouldn’t have troubled you with my problems.”

“I’m not saying that’s definitely what’s going on. But it’s worth considering. Anna has gone so fast and so hard her entire life, maybe for the first time she’s really wondering what she wants.”

“And I think maybe you’ve watched too much Dr. Phil. Have a nice afternoon.”

I have to wrestle the slider open, and I don’t bother closing it behind me as I scuttle across her slick tile floor and back out to my beat-up old Buick.

In the car I have to take three tries to get my key into the ignition. In my mind’s eye I can see teenage Anna’s creased forehead as she handed me a paper with a “B-” scrawled on it, her face red and shiny wet.
It’s a B
, I told her, and she choked out,
It’s nearly a C
, and as it happened, she begged the teacher to let her rewrite it and he caved in. She was nearly shaking with relief when she later showed me the big letter A on the top with the note
Much improved.

Chapter 26

Amy

“H
oney?” I call out to Paul, who has SportsCenter on in my living room. “Want to go to the parade?”

He grunts his answer, which means it’s probably no.

I adjust my jewelry in the mirror and stare at my engagement ring a moment. It’s just what I wanted, princess cut, classic, the band platinum, which I think is so much more elegant than gold. Mrs. Becker’s wedding ring is platinum, too.

I convinced Paul not to tell anyone about his reconsideration, and told him I was still going to wear my ring. In return, I promised not to do anything else to plan the wedding until we make a decision.

But “we” really means Paul, because I’ve never wavered.

It’s a good thing I’m such a planner. We’ve already got the country club reserved, the church lined up, and in fact we attended three of the four premarital counseling classes as required at First Presbyterian. My dress, thank goodness, is already on order, on its way.

True, we don’t have invitations yet, or flowers, but those won’t take so long. Soon enough Paul will have gotten over his problem, and we’ll have lost nothing, really.

I exhale and look into the mirror again to steady myself. I’m the same blond Amy that Paul fell in love with and proposed to. Nothing’s changed. Nothing important, anyway.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.”

I curl up on the couch next to him. Frodo hops up next to me.

“You know, you can’t be letting that dog up on the furniture all the time. He’s too big.”

He’s thinking of when we live together! A good sign. “Down, Frodo,” I say, nudging him by his collar off the sofa. He flops at my feet.

I trace a figure-eight on Paul’s shoulder lightly with my fingernail. “The party tonight should be fun, don’t you think?”

“As much fun as a root canal.”

“What do you mean?” The annual Becker Fourth of July party is a major part of the Haven social calendar. A huge barbecue, summery drinks, and a private fireworks show over their private beach.

“Everyone will want to talk wedding.”

“Well, we’ll just tell them we’re tired of talking about it, change the subject.”

Paul rolls his eyes at me.

“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”

“I don’t know why we can’t just be honest with people about it.”

My palms film over with sweat, and I sit back from Paul so I can wipe them on my dress. “Because nothing’s definite, that’s why. Right? Isn’t that what we said the other night?”

“The other night” after that awful lunch when Paul dropped that bomb on me—I will never get over his doing that in a public place and when I had half a workday to endure—we had it out for sure. He claimed that financially it was too iffy to get married now, that the company was “a little strapped,” and it seemed like a bad idea to drop so much money on a wedding in that situation.

I’d already told my boss I was sick and gone home to hug my pillow and worry, since I couldn’t bear to discuss it right there at Doreen’s. I’d spent the whole afternoon spinning theories about why he’d gone cold on me. I panicked about another woman. I weighed myself at least ten times to remind myself I hadn’t gotten any bigger. I re-read our old love notes on the computer and even counted them: just as frequent as before.

So when he was pacing and started going on about finances, I was left stammering. It was the one thing I hadn’t imagined.

“It doesn’t have to be so fancy.” I made a grab for his elbow so he’d stop that awful pacing, and in my head I thought,
just don’t make me give up my dress.
“We can scale back the guest list and serve cheaper food. I’d even change the venue; I don’t care. I want to marry you.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you; you want me to get married in a dream wedding. You’ve told me that a hundred times, haven’t you?” He finally stopped pacing and put his hands on my shoulders. “I know what it cost you to change your whole life. You deserve to have the best of everything. We can still move in together, you know. It would just be putting off all the pomp and rice-throwing till maybe next summer when things pick up again. By then the Washington Avenue rehab should be done, and we should have some tenants and be getting more cash flow, maybe phase three of Poplar Bluff will be a go again . . .”

“What if it doesn’t work next summer, either? What if you don’t get to do the Washington rehab?”
Rehab
, my foot. He meant the Nee Nance demolition. I knew he did.

“Well, that would make it tougher. Is it so hard to put it off a little while?”

I swallowed hard and wiped under my eyes. “Paul, I’ll be thirty-six by then.”

He embraced me then and said into my hair, “Baby, it’s just a number. You’re stunning at every age.”

Tell that to my ovaries, I thought.

My period came early this month, and my temperatures have been erratic. No clear answer on the ovulation predictor sticks, either. Early menopause could strike, for all I know.

“Paul?” I try to get his attention again now, because he seems to be sucked into the commercials. I know he gets distracted by the television, especially sports, but it’s salt in the wound when he’s ignoring me for the sake of advertising. “Nothing’s definite, you said.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. Okay, we’ll go to the party and steer the topic off the wedding.”

He still hasn’t taken his eyes from the TV screen, and now I notice what he’s looking at. It’s a beer commercial, and a buxom girl in a bikini frolics with her lime-flavored beer. I stare at her unmarred, taut skin, then scrabble for the remote, punching the button. I toss the remote aside, startling Frodo.

Paul says “Hey—” but then he stops because I’m straddling him, pulling his hips toward me. He groans into my kiss and starts to fumble with the zipper on the back of my dress. He tugs it down.

I jump off his lap and head for the bedroom, supporting my dress with my arms. He pulls at my arm. “No, here,” he says, voice husky. “I like it out here.”

“The bed,” I reply, but he won’t let go of my arm.

“Nah, c’mere, it’ll be fun.”

Now I pull like I’m at the end of a leash. “It’s cold in here. I need the covers. Come on, Paul, let go . . .”

He relents, and I run into the bedroom, dropping my dress only moments before I slide safely into the sheets.

“You know,” he murmurs as he moves against me. “I’ll want to see my wife naked in the daylight someday.”

“Then you better hurry up and marry me.” I kiss him harder so he’ll shut the hell up.

Chapter 27

Cami

I
smack the tin cans into their boxes with a satisfying thud. I can almost imagine this is my stuff and I’m packing to leave. Where am I going? New York City, of course; isn’t that where restless Midwestern kids always go? Or Los Angeles, if they want to be in pictures.

“What the hell is this?” growls my dad from behind me.

But this isn’t my stuff, and I’m no kid anymore.

“I’m cleaning up.” I don’t turn around, only pause briefly in the removing of cans from the pantry. Without the cans to obscure it, a brown sheen is now visible over the shelves. I’ve got Soft Scrub at the ready on the counter and, if necessary, new shelf liner.

He grunts in response. He’s closed the shop for the Fourth, but I’d been hoping he’d go whoop it up at the campground or the Tip-A-Few. “Where’s Sherry?” I ask him, modulating my voice to keep out the sarcasm.

“She’s pissed off at me.”

I turn around slowly and steal a look at him. He’s not wavering where he stands, and he doesn’t stink too badly, yet. His eyes are relatively clear and his hair might even have been combed. His skin is even freshly shaved, though reddened. I should buy new razor blades next time I go to the store.

I can’t think of a safe answer to this, so I don’t reply.

“Kitchen’s not that dirty.” He moves a little closer, watching me.

I shrug. “It’s something to do.” After a moment’s pause, I add: “I might also paint the cabinets.”

He frowns at me. “Why the hell would you do that for?”

“It’s something to do, like I said.”

“This ain’t your house, little girl.”

“Never said it was.”

“That room is one thing, ’cuz you sleep there. But this is my kitchen, and what if I don’t want my cupboards painted?”

I shrug again, leaning against the counter. He sits on a kitchen chair sideways, one elbow hooked over the back, and the sight startles me: Trent always used to do that. I have a brief flash of my brother in London, sitting on a chair like that, reading a paper. With my father clean shaven, I can even see a ghost of Trent in him.

“Thought you’d appreciate the help. You work so hard down at the shop, yeah?” I toss my hair and cringe inside because I know this is a tell of mine, flagging a bluff, a lie. But he doesn’t know me well enough anymore to see my giveaways. And I’ve gotten better at not tipping my hand.

“Hmmph.” He aims a finger at me, staring down the length of it like sighting a rifle. “You stay out of my room. I don’t care if you want to play decorator everywhere else in my house, but don’t you set one foot in my room.”

I nod and try not to toss my hair, or exhale too hard, or even move.