Second Chance Friends (8 page)

“What happened to your assistance?” Karen asked. She taped the baby's diaper shut and snapped the crotch of his onesie, trying to ignore the dampness on the snaps. Marcus smiled at her again, reaching up toward her. She bent her face down to meet his belly and rubbed her nose in it.

“Travis didn't want us to be on welfare,” Kendall said. “He threw away our card.”

Karen jerked upright. “He what? You need that. You have this baby to think about. It's not a time to be proud.”

“Don't tell me,” Kendall spat. “It's your son, you know.”

Don't remind me,
Karen thought as she picked up the baby and snuggled him close. He was so warm and innocent and perfect. He had Travis's mouth, and Kendall's prominent chin, but everything else about him was his own. Maybe there was hope for him after all. “How much do you need?” she asked.

As soon as three hundred dollars exchanged hands, Kendall began to act antsy to leave, looking at her phone over and over again, checking the time. She bounced her leg and chewed her thumb to shreds while Karen sat on the floor with Marcus, tickling him until he giggled, playing peekaboo. After only fifteen or twenty minutes, Kendall stood.

“We should probably go,” she said.

“Already?” Karen scooped Marcus off the floor and cradled him, pressing her free hand to his slobbery little cheek.

“Yeah, I should get to the store before he, like, poops or something.” But there was something in the distracted tone of her voice that made Karen doubt very much that Kendall was planning to spend that money on baby things. Her heart sank. “We'll try to come back this weekend,” she said. “I might have a thing to go to, but I'll call.”

“Okay,” Karen said softly. “Sure. Okay.” And she let go when Kendall reached for Marcus, grabbing him out of her arms with about as much tenderness and care as if she were plucking a weed. She watched as Kendall stepped into her sandals and hefted the baby off to her car. She listened to his cries as she bent into the backseat, buckling him in. She tried to remind herself that all babies cry when they're
being put into something confining—a coat, a diaper, a car seat—and his cries did not mean that he was unhappy, or heading to an unhappy home environment. She tried to remind herself that she'd see him again soon, that she could be his safe place to go to, that she could save him even if she couldn't save Travis.

But as she held her hand in a wave that wasn't returned and Kendall roared out of the driveway, grating music pounding and pouring through the metal car doors so loudly Karen could see the windows jiggle with the drumbeat, she couldn't help feeling even more hopeless than she'd felt upon leaving the jail earlier that day.

She couldn't help feeling as frightened as she had the day of the bus wreck.

The car gone, Karen turned and went back inside, shutting the front door and shucking off her sweater and tossing it on the entryway floor. She went into her spare room and pulled up her laptop. Sitting in her jeans and bra, she typed in a name and hit Search.

Maddie Routh's address was the first to pop up.

M
elinda drove them to the older side of Caldwell—past prewar houses with falling-down sheds and the park with its splash fountains and past moms pushing strollers with one hand while holding leashes connected to panting terriers in the other—and pulled up to a tiny house about half a block away from the junior high school, a stately brick building that had once been the high school before the city had outgrown it.

The house was white with black shutters, cute landscaping dotting the front yard, but looking ignored, a ceramic toad knocked over onto its side in a small patch of weeds. A faded summer wreath clung to the door, shrouded by the shadow of a screen. It was the kind of house a Realtor would refer to as a “starter house,” perfect for a young
couple trying to scrape together enough of a history to add to their future. The perfect house for a young couple like Michael and Maddie Routh.

“Is that it?” Karen asked, peering through the windshield.

“It's the address,” Joanna responded from the backseat.

Melinda paused, idling, and held on to the steering wheel. She didn't know what to do next—ease up to the curb? Pull into the driveway? Simply slink away? They'd decided, after Karen greeted them that morning with an address scrawled onto a halved sheet of notebook paper, to come here. But they hadn't even thought to discuss what they would do once they arrived. Melinda supposed she was thinking it would become clear once they saw the house, but the inspiration she'd been hoping for had never arrived.

“Do you think she's home?” Joanna asked, leaning forward so her face was even with Melinda's shoulder.

“There's one way to find out,” Karen said.

“Should we?” Melinda asked, still not budging from her spot. “I mean, I know this was my idea, but are we invading her privacy by doing this?”

“We talked about this, remember?” Joanna said.

Melinda did remember. Karen had dropped the piece of notebook paper into the middle of the table and they'd all stared at it, each wondering aloud whether even having it was invading the Routh family's privacy.

“It's public information,” Joanna had said. “Anyone can find anyone online now. You just have to accept it.”

“But this is more than finding it,” Melinda had argued. “This is coming to her home.”

“Well, we're not busting the door down,” Karen had snapped, and then, when a silence fell over the table, clasped her hands together and apologized. “I'm sorry. It's not you. My son is having some troubles and I'm worried. It's making me crabby.”

“Everything okay?” Joanna had asked.

“What kind of troubles?” Melinda had asked at the same time, and then blanched at her own nosiness. Were they those kinds of friends already? She wasn't sure if she knew.

Karen had taken a long sip of her coffee before answering, the small, plain hoop earrings jiggling in her lobes with the motion. “He got into a fight. Got himself tossed in jail. Definitely not the first time, but definitely the worst time. And his girlfriend is playing games with me—trying to get money, acting like she's going to run and take my grandson with her. It's a mess. It's been a mess for quite a while now.”

“Oh,” Joanna had said. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks,” Karen answered, and then seemed to visibly gather herself. She tapped the paper on the table. “But let's concentrate on this for now. I say we visit. I need a distraction.”

“Agreed,” Joanna said. “And if she doesn't want us there, we'll leave. Just like we discussed before.”

“You're right,” Melinda had said. “There's nothing invasive about stopping by to see if someone's okay.”

But now that they were sitting in front of Maddie Routh's house, a basket of flowers wilting on the backseat of Melinda's car, she wasn't so sure it wasn't invasive after all. The house was so buttoned-up. So dead-looking.

“Looks like she might be at work,” Melinda said.

“It's Sunday,” Joanna reminded her.

“She could be working on a Sunday. Or at church. Or visiting his grave. Or any number of things. The house looks empty is all I'm saying.”

“Well, again, there's only one way to find out,” Karen said. “Park the car and we'll go up. Come on.”

And before Melinda could argue any more, Karen opened the passenger door of the little Toyota and stepped out into the street.

“Park,” she repeated before closing the door.

Melinda watched as Karen strode to the curb and waited. She glanced at Joanna in the rearview mirror. Joanna caught her eye, shrugged, and picked up the flowers.

“What do we have to be nervous about?” she asked. “We're just wishing the poor girl well.”

If only,
Melinda thought, because it had dawned on her that what they were doing was much more than that. They were snooping. They were hoping to assuage their own feelings of guilt. They wanted the widow to answer the door with smiles and bright eyes and tell them that it was all okay, that she'd moved on without him. But one look at the front of the house told Melinda that smiles and reassurance were not going to be what they found at Maddie Routh's house. Not at all.

But that baby. You have to know about the baby.

Slowly, she pulled up alongside the curb—the driveway being too familiar and easy for her taste—and turned off the ignition. Joanna popped open her door and got out, leaving Melinda with the lingering scent of flowers and a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Melinda took a deep breath.
Here goes nothing
, she said to herself, and then joined the others.

“Do you think she'll remember us?” Joanna asked as they walked up what seemed to Melinda to be a million-mile-long sidewalk.

“Probably not,” Karen said. “It was such chaos.”

“And she was in shock,” Melinda added. “You wouldn't believe what the brain will just wipe away when someone is in shock. We see it all the time. Some people will forget details like where they were driving to, or who they were talking on the phone with. Others will swear they have no recollection of the entire day. Hours gone.”

“Something tells me she will remember the day,” Joanna said. The tissue paper around the flowers crinkled against her shirt, leaving a green stain.

They climbed the two porch steps and stood shoulder to shoulder on the porch. They stared at the front door, motionless. A small dog yapped in a nearby backyard.

“Well, we can't just stand here,” Joanna said at last. “We'll look like we're up to something.” She shifted the flowers into one hand, leaned forward, and pressed the doorbell.

The yapping continued, but otherwise, there was no sound, no movement.

“I guess she's not here,” Melinda said. “Should we just leave the flowers?”

“We didn't write a note,” Karen said. “Won't she wonder where they came from?”

“Probably not,” said Joanna. “She probably gets flowers and casseroles and stuff all the time.”

“I don't know,” Karen said. “It's been a couple months. Most people stop checking in on someone after a few weeks. Just the way it is. Life moves on.”

“Boy, don't I know it?” Joanna muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” she said. She bent and placed the flowers by the front door, but just as she straightened again, the door rattled and then opened up. A gaunt woman appeared on the other side of the screen.

At first Melinda was sure they'd gotten the address wrong. It was another Michael and Maddie Routh at this address. How likely was that in a town as small as Caldwell?

“Can I help you?” the woman asked, and it was her voice that jarred Melinda back to the day of the crash. It was definitely the same woman—Melinda would recognize that voice anywhere—but she looked like what could best be described as a shell of the girl who had been Maddie Routh. Her eyes were swollen and slitted, as if from sleep and crying. Her skin was ruddy and mottled and dull, beset with a paleness that seemed to creep to the surface from within, rather than being the result of not getting enough light.

But more than that was how thin she was, her face sunken around her mouth—what would be smile lines on an ordinary person were deep crevices on her. Her arms looked vulnerable, as if anything could break them, and she fairly swam in a pair of filthy pajama pants and an old T-shirt. She was wearing one sock, the other foot bare. Half of her hair was pulled up into a loose, ratty ponytail; the other half hung listlessly down her cheek.

“Can I help you?” the woman repeated tiredly.

“Maddie Routh?” Joanna asked, and Melinda was thankful that one of them had found a voice, even if it was filled with surprise and intimidation.

“Yeah.”

“I'm Joanna Chambers. This is Karen and Melinda. Um. You probably don't remember us.”

It was a pointless observation. Anyone could see that the woman didn't remember them. She shook her head. “I'm sorry, I'm not interested,” she said, and started to back away from the door.

“Wait,” Joanna said. She bent to pick up the flowers and held them out to Maddie, who gazed at them, but made no move to take them. “We brought you these.”

Maddie's eyes narrowed. “Why? You know, it really doesn't matter. I've thrown away so many flowers. I don't want to be rude, but you really should just take them with you. I can't keep up with it all. I just want to be left alone.”

Joanna glanced over her shoulder at Melinda, her eyes seeming to beg for backup. Melinda stepped forward, trying to kick into professional mode. What would she say if
she were standing here in her uniform? If she'd come to check up on someone whose accident they'd worked—something she'd never done before.

“We were on the scene,” she said. She cleared her throat. “The accident in September?”

Maddie Routh's eyes seemed to cloud over. “Oh,” she said. She studied each of them, but rather than register them with relief or excitement or gratitude, she looked nervous, half-panicked, even. “I don't really remember any specifics about that day. Is there . . . why . . . do you . . . ?”

“We just wanted to check on you,” Karen said. Her voice was much steadier than either Joanna's or Melinda's. She sounded like a concerned mother. “We've been thinking about you and Michael and . . .”

But she trailed off, and Melinda's eyes immediately dropped to Maddie's belly, but the dirty T-shirt was too big to see any shape on the tiny woman. It dawned on Melinda that the T-shirt looked like a man's T-shirt. It probably belonged to Michael.

Maddie seemed to mull over what Karen had said for quite some time. Then she pushed open the door a little wider and backed up. “You can come in,” she said, although not warmly.

They filed in after her, stepping into a dank and dark house that smelled stale and slightly meaty. Papers, mail, were scattered across the dusty tables. A stained blanket that was draped over the couch grazed the floor. Drinking glasses in various states of emptiness lined an end table.

Maddie picked up the blanket and tossed it into a heap
on the floor next to the table, then sat on the edge of the sofa. Joanna followed her lead, sitting next to her. Karen moved a stack of papers off an easy chair and slid into it. Melinda stood in the doorway, unsure what to do with herself.

“Sorry, I haven't cleaned much lately,” Maddie said. She balled up the hem of her T-shirt, kneading the fabric in her fist.

“That's fine,” Karen said. “We aren't here to check up on your housekeeping skills.”

“Why are you here?” Maddie said quickly. “I don't really remember that day, so if you're looking for information or something, I probably can't help you.”

“That's very normal,” Melinda said, hating how she sounded so clinical. Not at all what they'd come here for.

“We're not looking for anything,” Karen said. “We just wanted to check in on you. See how you were doing.”

“It was a terrible accident,” Joanna added.

Maddie turned on her, her eyes suddenly ablaze. “Yes, I remember that much,” she snapped.

Joanna looked stricken. “I didn't mean . . . ,” she stammered.

“I know exactly what you meant,” Maddie said. “It didn't knock my brains out, as much as it tried.” She reached up and touched a spot on the side of her head, and for the first time Melinda noticed a small shaved spot there, stubbles of hair growing back, where there had undoubtedly been stitches.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence, which
Melinda interrupted. “I think she just meant that because you were in such a terrible accident, we wanted to check on you.”

“To see how you were getting through everything,” Karen added.

Maddie let out a low, sardonic chuckle, watching her own hands as they twisted her T-shirt into angry wrinkles. “How I'm getting through everything,” she muttered.

Melinda and Joanna exchanged glances, and Melinda wondered if Joanna was thinking what she was thinking—that this was a mistake. That it was worse than not being remembered. They were not wanted. Maddie Routh seemed to be angry that they were even there. Melinda tried to convey with her eyes that maybe they should leave, but Joanna didn't seem to catch the subtle message.

“I'm not,” Maddie said suddenly, dropping her hands to either side of her on the couch. “I'm not getting through anything. Look around you. The house is falling apart. I'm falling apart. Everything is falling apart and I don't even care.” She leveled her eyes at Melinda. “Michael was my life. And now he's gone and I watched him die, and I don't care what happens with the rest of my life now. Except I'm forced to.” Her hands clawed their way back to her midsection, only now instead of twisting her T-shirt into knots she ground two fists into her belly. “I'm not making it through, but I'm forced to come out the other end.”