Things I Want to Say (5 page)

A woman in a white chef’s coat moved around the pavilion, lighting the lamps. Other white-coated helpers filled the buffet table with trays of hors d’oeuvres. The band stopped the random twanging that had constituted tuning their instruments and played the first chords of “Glory Days” and the party began.

Bill surprised me by pulling me onto the dance floor. “I don’t know how to dance,” I said, raising my voice to be heard above the music.

“You don’t have to,” he countered. “Just move.”

Ordinarily I wouldn’t have dared, but no less than three wine coolers had stripped me of my normal reticence. I raised my arms and gave an experimental shimmy. It felt good. Smiling, I began to move in rhythm with the music, my moves somewhere between tai chi and aerobics.

I caught sight of Alice across the dance floor. She was partnered with Scott, doing an energetic jitterbug that had the people around them clapping and whistling. I smiled. That was Alice—the life of any party.

After Bill, I danced with Scott and Paul and some other man I didn’t even know until sweat ran down my face and made my dress stick to my back. “I’ve got to rest,” I finally pleaded.

I found the ladies’ room and applied a wet paper towel to
the back of my neck. I stared at the woman in the mirror—my face was flushed and my bangs were plastered to my forehead by perspiration. But my eyes shone with happiness.

I couldn’t help but wonder how different things would have been if Frannie and I hadn’t left for California, if we’d stayed and I’d graduated with my class. Would I have married one of those men I’d just danced with? Would I have children now, and the deep friendships that come from years of shared experiences?

Frannie would say no, that only by going away could we have made our lives better, that if we’d stayed we’d have been trapped and probably miserable, but I wasn’t so sure.

When I returned to the pavilion, Alice found me. She was flushed, too, but she looked more exhausted than ecstatic. “Want to take a break from all this?” She waved a hand at the full dance floor.

Not really, but something in Alice’s face—the anxiety in her eyes, or the tight lines across her brow—worried me. Without words, she was pleading for me to come with her. “Okay,” I said.

I followed her to the parking lot and her car. “God, it’s hot out,” she said, turning the air conditioner up full blast as soon as she started the car. She glanced over to me. “Let me know if you get too cold. Since the chemo, my internal thermostat is all haywire.”

I nodded. “Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

“Yeah. I just needed to get away. I don’t handle crowds that well anymore.”

She exited the park and pulled onto the highway. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“Want to drive out to the bluffs? There’s a beautiful view up there this time of night.”

“All right.” The suggestion made me only a little nervous. Back when we were in school, the bluffs were a popular make-out spot. Not that I’d personally ever been up there,
but I’d heard stories. I hoped Alice wasn’t going to take me up there now and make a pass at me. She hadn’t struck me as a lesbian, but one thing I’d learned living in California was that you could never be sure.

Turns out the bluffs these days were the parking lot of a shopping mall. Alice drove to the far end of the lot, which looked out over the river, with the lights of houses glowing like fireflies between the trees on the opposite bank. She shut off the engine and stared out the front windshield. “I come up here sometimes when I need to think,” she said.

“What do you think about?” I asked.

“Life. Love. Everything.” She glanced at me. “I know it’s a cliché, but having cancer made me reexamine everything. I had all that time lying in bed trying to recover from one round of chemo and bracing for the next. My head hurt too much to read. After a while you realize how inane ninety-nine percent of television is, so I ended up reviewing everything I’d ever done in my life and wondering what I would have—or should have—done differently.”

A half smile flashed across her face, then was gone. “When I started wondering what I’d do differently in the future, I figured that was a sign I was going to live after all.”

“I’m glad you made it,” I said. I meant it. I was glad Alice was a part of my life again. Finding her was like finding part of my childhood, a good part I didn’t want to give up.

“Losing weight made me think about my past and my future, too,” I said. “Being fat isn’t the same as having cancer, but being normal size after all those years felt like I was getting a second chance.”

“I’ve made some bad choices in my life.” Alice was looking out the windshield again, her hands gripping the steering wheel. “I’ve done some bad things.”

My stomach knotted. What could Alice possibly have done that was so terrible? “We’ve all done things we regret,” I said.

“Do you ever think about going back, making up for some of the badness?”

I hesitated. “You mean…like restitution?”

“Something like that.” She looked at me again. “Do you think about that?”

I shook my head. “What’s done is done. You can’t take it back.”

“But sometimes you can. Or at least ask forgiveness.”

Could you really? I cleared my throat. “Anything in particular you have in mind?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s why I’m going back to Ojai. I’ve rented a moving truck, but I could use some company and another driver. Are you in a hurry to get back to Bakersfield?”

I shook my head, my stomach fluttering with excitement. “Not necessarily.”

“What about your business?”

“My manager will look after it.” Frannie wouldn’t be happy if I didn’t come home right away, but that couldn’t be helped. Frannie often wasn’t happy. I’d long ago stopped trying to change that.

“Then, will you come with me? Or at least think about it?”

I didn’t have to think about it. “I’ll come with you,” I said. I leaned over and squeezed her arm. “It’ll be fun.”

“Then we’re set.” She hugged me, squeezing me so hard I couldn’t breathe. “We’re going to have a great time.”

I’m not an overly superstitious person, but every once in a great while I do get premonitions. Not visions or anything, just…nudges. A sense that I should or shouldn’t do something. One of those nudges had led me to send in my reservation for this reunion.

Another one was telling me now to go with Alice, to make this trip. As soon as I said yes to her, I felt lighter, the happiness of earlier in the evening returning.

When I lost all that weight, I’d had to acquire not only new clothes, but a new way of dealing with people, who looked at me differently now. The life I’d lived for years didn’t fit me any more than the bags of clothes I’d given away to Goodwill. I’d returned to Ridgeway hoping to find some clues that would lead to a new kind of life—one that would fit better.

So far I hadn’t found much to help me here. Except Alice. I’d found her, and maybe she was
exactly
what I needed. She’d known me better than anyone way back when. Alice could help me figure out how to get my life back on track.

And maybe I could help her a little, too. I sensed she needed a friend now after all she’d been through. This trip could be a fun time for both of us—a chance to unwind and catch up and take a break from the tough things in life. We’d be two carefree travelers with no responsibilities.

No worries. The way things ought to be but seldom are.

While I am not exactly bursting with self-confidence, I’ve come a long way in the past few years. But my stomach was knotted up like the tangle of chains in the bottom of my jewelry box when I called Frannie Sunday morning.

She answered on the second ring, as if she’d been waiting by the phone. “How was the reunion?” she asked.

“It was fun. I saw a lot of friends and danced more than I’ve danced in years.” Which wasn’t saying much. A big evening for me consisted of stopping for ice cream on the way home from work. Occasionally I went to the horse races with a couple of set designers I knew. We had a good time together, but I doubt there were a lot of people wishing they were in our shoes.

“Did they remember you?” Frannie asked, as if the idea surprised her.

“Of course they remembered me. Well, some of them didn’t recognize me at first, but they all remembered me. They remembered you, too.”

“I don’t know why they’d do that.” I could picture her face, her mouth pursed in an expression of skepticism.

“Ridgeway was a small town when we were growing up,” I reminded her. “The school was small, too. Of course people remember you. And I almost forgot—I ran into someone Friday who remembered you very well.”

“Who was that?”

“Walt Peebles. He asked about you, said to tell you hello.”

“Walt?” She was silent for a moment. Was she trying to place the name or did she remember him too well? “How’s he doing?” she asked after a moment, her voice taking on an uncustomary softness.

“Good. He’s working for Markson’s. He’s divorced, but he has a son and daughter. He showed me pictures. He said you should call him.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not? You’re both single. He really cared about you once.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I could give you his number,” I said, ignoring her attempt to change the subject.

“No. And don’t you give him my number, either. I don’t want to hear from him. I don’t want to hear from anyone in Ridgeway. Now when are you coming home?”

I sighed. “Not for a week or so. Maybe a couple.”

“A couple of
weeks?
” Her voice rose at the end. “What are you talking about? Don’t tell me you picked up one of those men you were dancing with. What were you thinking?”

“Thanks for thinking I’m such a slut,” I snapped. “This doesn’t have anything to do with a man.”

“Then what? What could possess you to stay in that town one more minute than necessary?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the town.”

“So you love it so much now you’re staying there?” She was talking fast, not even pausing to breathe, the words running together. “I still don’t believe this doesn’t have anything to do with a man. Now that you’ve lost weight you can’t wait to run off with the first male who’ll look twice at you.”

“Stop.”

To my surprise, she fell silent.

I took a deep breath, trying to get a grip on my emotions. Anger was fast overtaking fear. What was with this sudden indictment of my character? “Just because you have some grudge against half the population of the world doesn’t mean I do.” I twisted the phone cord around my wrist. “If I had found some man and fallen in love—or lust—why couldn’t you just be happy for me?”

There was a long silence. I heard a sniffing noise. “Are you crying?” I demanded. Frannie almost never cried. When I teared up at the movies she rolled her eyes and frowned at me, embarrassed.

“I miss you.” She sobbed. “It doesn’t feel right here without you. Why can’t you come home?”

“I’m coming home,” I said, torn between exasperation and guilt. “But instead of flying, I’m helping Alice Weston move to Ojai.”

“Alice Weston? She was at the reunion?”

“Yes. She’s been living in Ridgeway, but now she’s moving back to Ojai. She needed somebody to go with her, to help her drive the moving truck. I offered to go with her.”

“Why would you do that? You haven’t seen or spoken to Alice in years.”

“Too many years. This will give us a chance to catch up.” I didn’t add that it would give me sometime to think about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Seeing other parts of the country and meeting new people might give me some ideas about what I should do next.

Now that I was thinner, life held more possibilities than it had before. I wasn’t as eager to return to Bakersfield and the routine of my life, which felt more limiting every day I stayed away.

“I don’t like the idea of you driving across the country with another woman,” Frannie said. “Someone who’s practically a stranger,”

“A minute ago you were upset because you thought I was
shacking up with some man.” I tried to disguise my lingering annoyance with teasing.

She didn’t bite. “I don’t trust Alice. I never have.”

“How can you say that? She was my best friend.”

“She’s too loud and brash and nosy.”

Yes, Alice was loud sometimes, and some people might call her brash, but that was part of the reason I liked her. Alice wasn’t afraid of anything, and when I was with her, I was less afraid also. “Nosy? I don’t remember her being particularly nosy.”

“She was always coming around, wanting to know what we were doing and stuff.”

“That’s called being interested in other people. Being a friend.” Alice had cared enough to come knocking on the door on the days I missed school, and she’d been the only one who’d had the nerve to question why the Lawrence sisters wore the same dresses to school two days in a row. The fact that I never answered her questions didn’t stop Alice from asking.

“You haven’t seen each other in over twenty years,” Frannie said. “How are you going to spend all that time on the road together?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“I’m going to worry.”

She said this in the same tone of voice she’d once announced—when she was nine—that she intended to hold her breath until she passed out if Mom didn’t buy her new sneakers. She’d done it, too, and when I’d revived her, she still didn’t get her sneakers. I started to remind her of the incident, but decided against it.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “And I’ll check in from the road. It’s only an extra week or so.”

“What about your shop?”

“I already talked to Yolanda. She’s fine with it. This isn’t a particularly busy time of year.” Yolanda had actually
encouraged me to enjoy my vacation. If only Frannie could be so supportive.

“I don’t want you to do this,” she said again.

“I know, but I’m going to do it. Now I’d better get going. I have to return the rental car, then I’m meeting Alice.”

“Ellen, no.”

But I hung up before she could guilt me into changing my mind.

Which didn’t mean the guilt didn’t linger. My whole life, I’d never spent more than a couple of nights away from Frannie. Even at home, we were separated only by the few hundred feet between our condos. I’d never much questioned my closeness with my sister, who had been, in many ways, more like a mother to me. We each had our own businesses and our own homes. We had our own lives.

But Frannie’s almost hysterical response to the news that I was extending my trip made me wonder how healthy that closeness had really been, for either of us.

I called Alice next and she agreed to meet me at the rental-car agency. I checked out of the hotel, then made the short drive to the airport and turned in my car.

When I stepped out into the parking lot once more, Alice was waiting, the bright orange-and-white moving truck humming like an overgrown cat as it idled at the curb. “Ready to hit the road?” she asked as she helped me stow my suitcase behind the driver’s seat.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said as I hoisted myself into the high cab. “I’ve never traveled much.”

“I’m an old hand at this cross-country stuff.” She settled into the driver’s seat and handed me a stack of maps and travel guides. “You can navigate,” she said.

I looked through the pile of papers. Maybe now wasn’t the time to tell her I wasn’t very good at reading maps. “Where are we headed first?” I asked as she steered the truck onto the highway.

“Amish country. Pennsylvania.” She glanced at me. “I hope you don’t mind if we don’t take the most direct route. I’m not in any big hurry and thought it would be fun to take in a few sights.”

“Sure. I’m in no rush.” Since I was my own boss, I didn’t have to be back at work any particular day. “I’ve never been to Amish country. What’s there?” Besides, obviously, the Amish.

“It’s where Bobby—my first husband—and I spent our honeymoon.” She laughed. “Not a lot of people’s idea of romance, but we were young and broke and it was far enough from Ridgeway to feel exotic to us.”

“How old were you?” I asked.

“Eighteen.” She sighed. “Too young, that’s for sure.”

“When I was eighteen I started a full-time job at the florist’s where I’d worked after school and during summers the previous two years.” Coming into Hollywood High the last month of my sophomore year, I’d found it difficult to make friends. I felt as if I had nothing in common with the perpetually tanned ‘cool’ kids who surrounded me. They all had at least one parent at home, and often multiple stepparents and siblings. I lived with my older sister, who worked all the time. It was easier for me to get a job and claim I was too busy to participate in extracurricular activities than to deal with the rejection that comes along with being different in any way.

Food was the only thing that gave me any pleasure. By the time I graduated, I’d ballooned to 185 pounds. Even if I’d wanted to wear the stylish clothes favored by my peers, I couldn’t have fit into them.

Hiding behind the counter at a florist shop seemed preferable to going off to college, where I’d have to face a whole new gamut of girls who would laugh behind my back or, worse, pity me, and boys who would never date me.

“Earth to Ellen.”

I started out of my reverie. “Huh?”

“You wandered off there for a minute,” Alice said. “Where to?”

I made a face. “Just remembering my eighteen-year-old self. Not a pretty sight.”

Alice laughed. “You should have seen me. All bony elbows and knees and stick-straight hair. I wore a white eyelet peasant dress to my wedding. Bobby wore a baby-blue tuxedo. I still wince at my horrible fashion sense when I see the pictures.”

“I bet you were a beautiful bride,” I said. “All brides are.”

“Yes, well, I suppose it could have been worse. We both fancied ourselves sort of hippies. We threatened to get married on the beach, barefoot, before my mother put a stop to it.”

“Why did you pick Amish country for your honeymoon?”

“Like I said, we were into all this natural, back-to-the-land living. We dreamed about building our own cabin in the woods, growing our own food and living happily ever after with no artificial preservatives or corporate claptrap. The Amish seemed like good role models, and Pennsylvania was close enough we could drive there, and we could afford a cheap room.”

I studied Alice’s chic haircut and multiple pierced ears. “I’m trying to picture you as a granola girl,” I said.

She laughed, that wonderful throaty laugh of hers. “I was! I was going to bake my own bread, sew my own clothes and raise chickens and goats and children.”

It sounded like hell to me, but then I’ve never been overly domestic. “What was Bobby going to do while you were the domestic goddess?”

“Work for Markson’s, what else? It’s what half the boys who graduated from Ridgeway High School did in those
days. But in the back of our heads we figured he’d eventually be able to quit his job and settle down with me on the homestead, selling handmade furniture or pottery or something like that.”

I was fascinated by this glimpse of my friend that I’d never known. “So how did that work out for you?”

Her laugh was more of a snort this time. “I was a horrible baker, I couldn’t sew a straight line to save my life, and I’d much rather sit on the porch and read novels all day than dig in the garden or clean up after chickens.” She glanced at me. “The Amish make it look easy, but they’ve been trained since birth, plus they all have a houseful of children and relatives to help.”

“How did you end up in California?”

“Bobby had a cousin who worked for Widder Enterprises in Ojai. It was a good job, making real money. We shed our hippie threads faster than you could say ‘Neiman Marcus charge card’ and became Silicon Valley yuppies.” She laughed. “Instead of baking my own bread, I hired a housekeeper and a cook. Bobby traded in his work shirts for three-piece suits and bought a sports car. We were living high on the hog back then.”

She put on her blinker and moved into the right lane and nodded at a billboard up ahead that advertised a local smoke-house. “Speaking of hog, why don’t we get some barbecue for lunch. A pulled pork sandwich sounds so good right now.”

I pretended not to notice the quick change of subject. Maybe Alice really was hungry. Or maybe she didn’t want to talk about her first marriage anymore. I wasn’t about to pry.

“Sure. Barbecue sounds good.” Food was a safe enough topic of conversation. Neutral and not loaded with emotional minefields. Chocolate brownies or French fries are always so much easier to deal with than things like fears or hurts or our real motivations behind the choices we make.

When Alice had asked me to travel with her to Ojai, I’d immediately begun building a fantasy of two carefree pals seeking fun and adventure as they traveled cross-country. Female bonding and empowerment on the open road. We’d sing along with the radio, while away the hours remembering all the great times we’d had together as kids and stop at every tourist trap and souvenir stand on the way. It would be the kind of vacation celebrated in the movies, a time we would remember fondly in our old age.

By the time we pulled into Lancaster that afternoon I’d begun to deal with the reality that two middle-aged women in a moving truck were not exactly an updated version of Thelma and Louise. A giant orange-and-white truck doesn’t have the same cool factor as a red convertible. Neither Alice nor I could carry a tune or remember the words to songs on the radio. You can only talk about the past so long before it begins to sound a little desperate. The souvenir stands and tourist traps had been replaced by McDonald’s and Wal-Mart. And after eight hours of staring out the windshield I was positive no one would mistake me for Susan Sarandon.