If We Make It Home Read online

  I force my eyebrows into their most interested position and grin at the girl. “Yes. Have we met?”

  “No. But my mother-in-law took me to one of your seminars. She says I’m a lost cause. I think you were her last hope.”

  I’m still sick to my stomach from the takeoff, but I keep smiling. “Was I able to help?”

  Her features fall, tears touch her lashes, and her shoulders drop. “I’m supposed to host the family for Thanksgiving dinner this year. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I know she’ll be waiting for me to screw up. I fly in that morning at eight. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Can you hire help?”

  She bites her bottom lip between her teeth until she’s steadied her emotions. “We can’t really afford that.”

  Behind her another flight attendant stands, her face grim. “Bridgett, it’s time to be serving beverages.” She looks to me. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  Bridgett’s head bobbles with quick nods. “Please, excuse me.”

  “Ma’am.” The older woman clasps her hands, tilts her head, and smiles so hard it squints her eyes. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “Club soda with a slice of lime please. Is the lime freshly cut?”

  “I’ll make sure yours is.” She straightens and walks away.

  My stomach sways and I don’t believe this time it’s from the takeoff. I’ve given Bridgett nothing. Not a plan, an affirmation, or even a dose of hope. Can you hire help? Of course she can’t. It wasn’t long ago that I was a young wife, happy just to be with Daniel regardless of our finances, the size of our home, or the quality of our belongings. I was his, and he was mine.

  And that was all that mattered.

  Chapter 4

  JENNA

  The man who had the window seat throws another glare my way before exiting the airplane’s jet bridge. I don’t turn to see the woman who sat on my other side. I’m sure her expression isn’t much kinder.

  I fidget. I can’t help it. Sitting still makes me nervous, and the extra ten pounds—okay, the extra fifty pounds—don’t really help me fit comfortably into the three inches of seat space.

  People mill around, waiting to board the plane we just left.

  All these people, and I’m alone. I consider dropping the bag that’s biting into my shoulder and sobbing in a corner. Then I spot a kid with a Happy Meal.

  There’s no one here to see me indulge in a greasy, salty dinner. No one to question the choices of the she’d-be-pretty-if-she-lost-the-weight woman. I head down the wide hallway until I spot the golden arches.

  There isn’t time to rethink my decision. This truly is fast food. Within moments I’m the owner of a double cheeseburger, large fry, chocolate milkshake, and, of course, a Diet Coke. I take a table near the window and go for it with enthusiasm. The warmth of the juicy meat is salve to my injured ego. It’s all about the food now. I reach for the soda to wash down a bite before ripping into the next one, but my arm scrapes the lid of the shake and it tips toward me, the cold slush spilling onto my stomach and rolling into my lap.

  Jumping up, I scoop the frozen goo off my clothing and wipe at my front with paper napkins that disintegrate on contact. Great.

  Before I can get away, an employee is there with a giant yellow mop bucket and warning signs. I could just die. So I stuff the rest of the burger in my mouth and grab the box of fries. I’m already humiliated. I might as well be full.

  “I’m sorry.” My last bite is still wedged in my cheek like a squirrel hoarding nuts. I pitch my trash and head away from the scene as fast as my short, middle-aged legs will carry me.

  Diving through the restroom door, I take the farthest stall and relish the fact that no one can see me as long as I stay in here behind the partial door with the flimsy lock. They can’t judge me if they can’t see me. Maybe I’ll stay here forever. There’s a toilet, and I could use less food in my life. Those are my doctor’s words, not mine. But of course, he’s right.

  Maybe if I lost this baby weight, Mark would find me attractive again.

  My right hand is sticky with milkshake, and I can’t take the elastic feeling on my skin any longer. I only hear one sink in use. That’s as good as I can hope for.

  Opening the stall door a couple inches, I scan the room. My breath jams in my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t even swallow. All I can do at this moment is ease back and relock the door.

  Like a little kid, I spy through the crack at the meticulously put together woman. Yes, there’s no doubt. The famous Victoria Cambridge picks at her already flawless hair. From her purse she pulls lipstick, the muted shade that’s oh-so-perfect for her skin tone. She applies the makeup, then blots it with a flowered tissue.

  I’m forty-six years old, and I still can’t pick out my own lipstick.

  Looking down, I evaluate my mess. Without full use of a washing machine and shower, I have no hope of being presentable. I’ll stay in this prison as long as it takes. This is not the way I plan to greet my old roommate after all these years. I’ve seen Vicky’s seminars online. She won’t find me quirky, only see me for what I am—an empty, aging failure.

  I look again. Now she’s doing something with her eyes. Seriously, how long is this going to take? The bag falls from my shoulder, crashing to the floor. The book I brought along to read escapes on the way down and dives into the toilet with a loud splash.

  Lord, are you kidding me?

  Frustrated tears prickle my nose. I’ve made the biggest mistake. All I want is to be back home right now. I want to …

  I don’t know what I want. To turn back the clock. To have my babies back. To be needed. To be anywhere …

  Anywhere but here.

  I wake up Saturday morning later than I’d planned. A night of black-and-white reruns and a vending machine right outside the door has left me with a unique kind of hangover. The three empty soda cans and colorful candy wrappers mock me now. But last night, I felt like I couldn’t do without them.

  I tug the curtain open with both hands. The morning welcomes me with the rumble of a garbage truck followed by a blaring car alarm. What was I thinking? I can’t go to Emery House. Stepping in front of the mirror, I suck in a breath. Mascara is smeared across my cheek. My gray roots are starting to show at my temples. It seems the dye only holds for a couple weeks now. My belly hangs over the elastic waistband of my pajama shorts. I’ve aged more than twenty-five years since leaving here. The woman in the mirror, I don’t know who she is. How can I take her to the reunion?

  I fling myself onto the bed, which makes a hard boom as I hit. Reaching my cell phone, I call my husband.

  He answers after five rings.

  “Mark, I’ve made a mistake. I want to come home.”

  He clears his throat. “Take the next step. You’re going to be fine.”

  I’m not getting through to him, and I don’t have the words to express the depth of my desperation. “I think it was a nice gift, but could you get me a return flight for today? I’m homesick.”

  “You haven’t even been gone twenty-four hours. Give it a chance. Have you seen any of your old roommates? What does campus look like? Any major changes? I wish I could be there with you, but I know you’re going to have a great time. Call me tonight, okay?”

  He’s dismissing me like one of his students—forcing me toward independence, he’d say. The muscles in my jaw twitch. “Fine. I’ll talk to you tonight, if I’m not too busy reclaiming my youth.” I press the end button and immediately regret my words.

  I text, “I’m sorry.”

  He texts back, “I know. Have a fun time.”

  Ugh.

  After doing my best to turn back the clock on my appearance, I leave the hotel, determined to go to Emery if only to be able to tell my husband I did it.

  Five minutes later I’m sitting in the economy-class tin can I rented from the airport. The seat belt digs into my neck as I take the familiar route toward campus. A right turn past the taco joint, and I’m ne
arly there. I can see Emery House halfway down the block. Nothing has changed.

  When I graduated college, I was the president of Emery House. The leader. I’d been a cheerleader. I was the one people came to for guidance. I was important and needed. What will they expect me to be like today? Will they assume I’ve made something of my life? I don’t regret a minute with my kids. Having three at one time quickly changed our family dynamic, but I jumped in and made them my world. The homeschool years are a time I will treasure forever. And the high school years, I was so busy helping with fundraisers for drama and sports activities, the time flew by.

  But now a new school year has begun. And it’s someone else’s turn. I’m that mom whose kids graduated. If they remember me at all.

  Two thirtysomething women walk past my car. Their voices are loud and every few steps they turn toward each other and giggle.

  I want to go back. To be that girl again.

  Pulling down the visor, I check my makeup. It’s as good as it’s going to get. Then I step out, paste on a smile, and try to revive the girl in this old woman’s body. It’s just acting.

  But then, wasn’t it always a bit that way?

  At the walkway, I pause. The tree in the front yard towers strong, its broad leaves just starting to turn. They’ll be scarlet. I know, because I picked that tree out myself. And together, we planted the little seedling, Vicky, Hope, Ireland, and me. It was our farewell of sorts.

  And here comes the emotion. It’s climbing up from my toes. How could the university close this house? This is more than college housing. We were family.

  “Are you an alum?” A young woman with bouncy curls comes through the great double doors toward me.

  “Yes. I was president.” I straighten, trying to present myself with an air of authority. “Did you live here?”

  “I did.” Her eyes are sad. I can see the house has the same effect on her residents even now. “I was the final Emery House president. That’s what they call me. I kind of hate it. It makes me feel like I failed Emery, and all of you. We did everything we could.”

  I think back over the emails. The students had organized a year-long campaign to change the college’s mind. But it didn’t work. From where I stand, I could have told them it wouldn’t, but they’re still young and hopeful.

  “You all did a great job. Thank you for organizing this event. A lot of women will want to say goodbye.” Oops. There are the tears again. I blink them back.

  “Come on in.” She ushers me through the doors to a desk set up in the foyer. I sign the guestbook, then start my own personal tour.

  Climbing the front staircase, I’m touched by the notes taped to the walls. Farewells. Thank-yous. Memories. It feels …

  Like a part of me I’d forgotten is being permanently ripped away.

  At the top of the stairs a door opens into the side of a long hallway. I know every room, every door. I turn to the right and take the first entrance on my left. Row after row of three-high bunk beds line the room, but they’ve been stripped bare. I close my eyes and can see the bedding pouring over mattresses, the fans in the windows. I can hear the hum and the soft snores.

  “It’s like we never left, isn’t it?”

  I swing around. Vicky has one hand on her hip and the other holding a leather handbag embellished with gold that perfectly matches her unblemished pumps. She tilts her head, revealing the young girl in her eyes. Standing here, together, it wipes away years of missing her. Now I really do feel like I’m home.

  “It sure is.”

  She reaches her arms out and I’m there, squeezing a bit too tight and holding on a bit too long.

  We step back, and I take her hand. “Let’s go to our room.”

  Weaving through the maze of beds, we exit the sleeping porch and head down the hall. At the corner door, we turn to each other, exchanging smiles like the years are gone. When we enter, it looks so much like it did the day we came back from summer break, ready to be decorated and made into our own space. This is one of the bigger rooms, a four-student room.

  I walk to the window and touch my hand to the closet door. “Do you remember Ireland’s gigantic Recycle, Reduce, Reuse poster?”

  “How could I forget?” Vicky drops her purse on a desk near the door. “She was something else back then. All passion and spirit. I imagine she still is.”

  “Imagine all you want, but you’re wrong.”

  I turn to the door, my heart beating just below my collarbone. Ireland is an older version of her naturally beautiful self. She always has been lovely, but now, there’s sadness in her big brown eyes. Something about the way her smile only lifts one side of her mouth brings out the mother in me. Without hesitation or even a thought, I close the space between us and wrap my arms around her.

  She stiffens, so much like she did in the beginning. The untold brokenness has returned. Where did the years of healing go? I step back, giving her space, and giving me a chance to look at who she’s become.

  IRELAND

  Jenna and Vicky stare, their mouths hanging. It’s the expression I expected. Gaping. Like they’ve seen a ghost. That could be right. I’m sure I look like an apparition to them.

  “Ireland?” Jenna moves forward. She’s reaching out, and I can see where this is going. Her arms encircle me while mine remain raised as if I’m dealing with the cops. Her shampoo is familiar, chemically floral, laced with memories.

  When Jenna finally lets me go, she steps away and joins Vicky.

  One of Vicky’s eyebrows cocks up. Gag. Judgment. I don’t need this. I harden my jaw.

  She makes a move at me, but must think better of it and stops a few feet away. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Actually, I’m here for a speaking engagement. It’s a coincidence.”

  “There’s no such thing.” Vicky eyes me. “I’m sure God has a purpose.”

  I grind my molars together. Is this how it’s going to be? If so, I have no issue spending the rest of the weekend in my hotel room. “Maybe.”

  “How is Skye?” Jenna tugs at the hem of her shirt.

  “I’m sure he’s fine. We haven’t spoken in years.”

  Shock registers on their faces and a small gasp puffs from Vicky’s mouth.

  “We’re divorced.” As if that needs to be said.

  Vicky’s eyes are still as round as platters. “I’m so sorry. Is there any chance you can work it out?”

  Is she kidding? Instead of answering, I step around them and over to my window that looks out on the field where we played Ultimate Frisbee with the guys’ house on the next block.

  “It was for the best. I’m happy.” Even I hear the loss in my words. Great. I’ve set myself up. I know what Vicky is thinking. Please. If there is a God somewhere, don’t let her say it. I will not be able to handle that question.

  “Has anyone seen Hope?” Jenna sounds as perky as ever. “She’s all we’re missing now.”

  Really? Do we owe each other something? We were college roommates, not sisters. I can’t look them in the eyes. It’s too hard to keep the memories back when I see Vicky and Jenna here in this room. Like we used to be. But I can’t deny my desire to see Hope.

  “I checked. She still owns the coffee shop around the corner. She’ll be here.” I want her to be here. Hope never made me feel like the odd one. She’s the roommate I stayed in touch with the longest. But she’s also the one who knows my secrets.

  Loud voices boom down the hall. A moment later four women, probably somewhere in their thirties, bust into our room. One has a toddler on her hip and another is so pregnant I want to stand way back.

  “Sorry,” the pregnant one says. “Was this your room too?”

  Jenna nods and starts to speak, but the one holding the toddler squeals, cutting us all off.

  “You’re Victoria Cambridge.” She covers her mouth with her hand.

  Oh brother. Victoria. Now would be a great time to tell everyone about when Vicky got locked out of the house one nig
ht, climbed the drainpipe, and tumbled over the balcony outside the sleeping porch just to come face-to-face with an opossum.

  Yeah, she’s classy.

  Vicky shifts to plastic mode and extends her hand. “It’s so nice to meet another Emery girl. I hope y’all enjoy your time together.” Then she steps out of the room. What, are we supposed to follow like her roadies? But we do.

  I glance at Vicky. “What’s with that accent?”

  “What accent?” she drawls. “I guess I’ve been living in the South long enough to pick up the culture.”

  Culture? All I see is the fakeness of a Stepford wife. I shake my head. That’s not fair. This reunion is bringing out the judgmental kid in me. I’ve come too far to go back now. Center. I breathe in slow, out slow.

  “What are you doing?” Vicky studies me.

  “Meditating.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  She dips her chin. “Because praying would be a better use of your time.”

  “How would you know what would be a good use of my time? If I recall, we haven’t been in the same room for years. Years.”

  Jenna weaves between us. “I’m starved. How about we check out the buffet?”

  Vicky keeps looking at me as if I’ve grown a second nose right next to the old one, then her eyes shift toward the ceiling.

  I know exactly what she’s thinking. It’s the same thought that’s been on my mind all morning. Our letters. “Let’s just get them, burn them, and move on, okay?”

  “Why would we destroy them?” Jenna asks.

  Vicky shakes her head. “I’m with Ireland. Jenna, you stay down here and watch for anyone coming down the hall.”

  I look Vicky over. She’s wearing a snug skirt and spiked heels. “Why don’t you stay down here? You’re not really dressed for espionage.”

  She unthreads her arm from an overdone purse and hands it to Jenna. “I’m as capable as you are.”

  Looking to check that no one else is around, I reach up and grab hold of an antique doorknob dangling on the end of a long rope. The hinges squeal as I pull down the attic door and the stairs uncurl. Before I can release the knob, Vicky is climbing the steps.