If We Make It Home Read online

  The air is hot in the attic and dust swirls in the lines of light coming from unsealed cracks. I pull the stairs up so no one can see where we’ve gone, and then feel around over my head until my fingers graze the pull string for the one hanging bulb. It clicks on, and we’re surrounded by insulation and forgotten treasures.

  Vicky coughs. “They haven’t cleared this stuff out yet. That’s good for us.”

  Lifting my shirt collar over my nose I follow her to the far side. I can’t imagine the chemicals this air is laced with. It’s a cancer factory, and I’m up here voluntarily.

  Along one wall is an opening where there once was a pocket door. Why this was ever built is a mystery that long ago died with the designer, but it provided a secret place to store our letters. No one would ever think to stick their hands into this dark hole.

  Clasping her palms together, Vicky stares at the wall. Her nose is twisted and wrinkled.

  “I’ll do it.” I step forward, but her arm extends, blocking me.

  “No. I’ll get it.”

  Looks like the queen has something in her letter she doesn’t want the world to see. But who am I to judge? My letter will be ripped up before I get two steps down the ladder.

  Vicky kneels on a beam and reaches her hand into the hole. She leans farther, her arm disappearing to the shoulder. Okay, she has more to her than I gave her credit for.

  Finally, she sits back, her shoulders drooping. “They’re gone.”

  Chapter 5

  VICKY

  The battle has only just begun, but I’m not in the lead and that claws at my nerves.

  Jenna answers with a shrug when I explain the letters are missing, stolen from our very secure hiding place. I shouldn’t be surprised by this nonchalant attitude. What would she have to hide? For that matter, what would she have to lose?

  We were so young and foolish with our silly games and sentimental choices. My thoughts shift to my daughter. Will she be so frivolous with her life? These are the kinds of things my mother was always trying to warn me of, but I wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t see past the coldness of her presentation to the wisdom of her advice. Brooklyn doesn’t listen any better.

  Those letters didn’t disappear on their own. Somewhere out there, a stranger has read my deepest thoughts, my flaws, my mistakes. Somewhere in the world there’s a person who could embarrass me and my family. It doesn’t matter that the letter was written by a young woman who hadn’t yet found herself. And it won’t matter that the words scrawled on that page were only what I thought I felt at the time. Perspiration prickles at the back of my neck. My world has never been so out of my control.

  As I run my fingers along my hair, they come away with clingy strands of spider web. My stomach clenches and a shiver slides across my skin. I shake my hands as my feet do an Irish jig, but the offensive strings won’t fall free.

  Ireland snatches the web and wipes it across the side of her loose-woven hippie pants. “You’ve got more on your shoulder.”

  I slap my hand across both sides but find nothing. When I look back at her, she’s grinning. And I’ve fallen for it. “Very funny.”

  One natural, but oddly perfect, eyebrow lifts. “I thought so.”

  My breathing grows short as my face warms. I’m no one’s joke. Especially not to someone who doesn’t value me enough to stay in touch. I can’t believe the gall of this woman. I step toward her, not really thinking what’s coming next, but I don’t care. I just need to let off some of the stifling tension that’s binding so tight across my chest it’s strangling my lungs.

  Jenna slides between us. “Seriously. The buffet?” She rubs her palm over her round stomach. She was never one of those stick-thin type of cheerleaders. Jenna was built like a gymnast, short and teaming with muscles. It’s like she gave up on herself, and it looks like it was quite a while ago. Has she ever seen any of my teachings? Could I have helped her? Or would I have been as useless to Jenna as I was to the flight attendant?

  IRELAND

  In the dining room the food table is dressed up with balloons and ribbons, items that will surely find their way to the landfill by next week. The food looks much like it did in college. We walk down the line with plates in our hands. Jenna scoops a bit of everything, Vicky takes tiny servings, and I search for just one thing that I’m willing to put into my body.

  This is not a vegan wonderland. The smell of cooked animal flesh makes my stomach shift. There are hotdogs and hamburgers, obvious nos. There’s pasta, but it’s drowning in some sort of cream sauce. The bread has a layer of garlic butter so thick it should be called frosting. The green beans are in a casserole with a slimy, dairy-based topping. Even the fruit salad has been assaulted with whipped cream.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Jenna stares at my empty plate.

  “I’m hungry.” I can’t believe she didn’t hear my belly growl. “I’m also vegan.”

  “There’s no meat in the pasta.”

  “Vegan. Not vegetarian. I don’t eat anything that has animal products in it.”

  Vicky huffs. I imagine her Texan diet includes a plateful of dead calf every night.

  Jenna inspects her plate, then looks at my empty one. “How do you survive?”

  It’s ignorant, but I can’t help smiling. Jenna is hard not to love. “It’s easy at home. Just a struggle when I’m in a place out of my control.”

  A girl walks in the back door with a tray of vegetables roasted on the barbeque I can see through the window. The smell is rich and herby and wonderful. “Excuse me.”

  She smiles and sets the tray down.

  “Were these with the meat at any time?”

  From the corner of my vision I see Vicky’s mouth twitch. I’m sure she’d love to tell me how to be a good guest about now.

  “No. We had them on a disposable tin tray.”

  I scoop a few. “Do you realize what an impact that choice will have on the environment?”

  Her face is blank. “What?”

  Jenna cuts in. “Please be sure to recycle the tin.”

  If only that were enough, but it’s as far as we’ll get today.

  I stab my fork into a chunk of cauliflower, browned on the edges and sprinkled with green herbs. Before I even find a seat, the veggie is in my mouth, and the flavor is bursting to life on my tongue.

  Vicky waves us to a table near a full-length window. It’s the same place we sat in college. We were stuck in our habits back then. Or maybe it was Vicky all along. She liked to do everything the same every day, and we just went along with her. I’m not that girl anymore, but a savory scent is floating up to my nose from my plate, so this time I won’t argue.

  As we sit, Vicky reaches out her hands to both of us. Jenna tucks her napkin onto her lap then connects her fingers with Vicky’s.

  “Really?” The muscles in my forehead squeeze.

  “Yes, really.” Vicky looks more like a disappointed teacher than any kind of friend.

  I tuck my hands beneath the table where I claw at my legs. The pinch of my fingernails bites through the fabric and gives me enough distraction to keep my mouth from running out of control.

  After another look of disgust thrown my way, Vicky bows her head and proceeds with a blessing over the food that sounds like it’s come from the very mouth of the pope.

  By the time she says amen, I’ve stuffed my face with two more bites, and I’m too busy chewing to care what she has to say about my heathen lifestyle.

  The tension is more than I can breathe away, more than can be remedied with the refreshment of lavender oil. We need Hope. She was always our glue, the one that connected us regardless of how clearly different we all were. I don’t know why it matters to me, but it does. I want to feel for a moment that the four of us really existed. That the memories are true, not something devised by need.

  Because without that, we are truly lost.

  VICKY

  I haven’t been called Vicky by anyone but Daniel since I started my ministry. It’s
a strange sensation, being her, being called by that old name, seeing these two.

  Jenna is still the same on the inside. She’s as perky as ever, but sometimes her eyes seem to cloud. When she talks about her children, the glow returns. I love my kids, but there’s always a distance when we’re together. A teenage void I don’t know how to cross.

  “So, Carrie is studying to be a teacher.” Jenna barely breathes before taking on the next sentence. “She’s at school in Eastern Washington, so she could come home on long weekends. Maybe she will. I talk to her every Wednesday. On Thursdays I Skype with Caroline. She’s very busy with starting pre-law in Southern California. I worry about her there. It’s so far away, and you know what they say about that area of the state. And Calvin, I can only talk to him when he calls. He won’t be able to do that for a few more weeks. He’s at basic training. It sounds like his commanding officer is a major pain. I’d love to get my hands on him. Maybe I’ll be able to next month at Calvin’s graduation. We’ll all be there. I can’t wait, except I don’t know what will happen to my son next. I worry about him.”

  Ireland sets her fork down on the edge of her plate. She’s as earthy as ever. Tucked in a drawer in my office is a copy of one of Ireland’s crazy-about-the-environment articles. I don’t agree with much of what she pronounces, but I couldn’t discard it. In the picture, she’s covered in piercings and her hair is long with clumps of dreadlocks. The piercings and the dreads are gone now. I want to look more closely, but I know I’ll just offend her. Her hair is cut short and the tresses are a beautiful chestnut brown, with silver threads creating a brilliant highlight rather than giving her an aged appearance. There’s not a bit of makeup on her face. She’s gorgeous, and angry. She didn’t even pray before diving into those veggies.

  “Let’s go to her.” Ireland stands as if it’s been decided.

  “What?” I ask. “Go to whom?”

  “She’s talking about Hope, right?” Jenna gets up too, but her gaze takes a turn, and for a moment she’s staring at the cake like it’s gold.

  Ireland nods, and for the first time in years, I feel like the next move isn’t up to me. I’m riding on their wave.

  I run my fingers across the smooth beads that hang at my collarbone. Ireland is still powerful. She was the one I clashed with, the one I couldn’t control, the one I’ve missed so very much.

  She’s also the one I’ve let down the most. No longer. Ireland is my new project. I’m going to bring her back into the fold, even if it means driving myself into a straitjacket from dealing with her nonsense.

  I collect my plate, my napkin, and my empty water glass, then take them to the kitchen like we did when we lived here.

  Former students weave in and out of every room, too many staring at me to see if I’m really who they think I am. I despise that. I’m a person. Believe it or not, I still have a feeling or two.

  “I’ll drive.” Who knows what these two have rented.

  Ireland curves her finger into one of her short curls. “It’s only a few blocks. I’m sure we can still make the walk. Unless you two have gotten old.” Her lips bend up, lines etching into her temples, her cheeks lifting her thin glasses higher.

  “Okay, I’m in.” Jenna’s face is as round as a basketball. She’s still so cute, innocent, even childlike, but she doesn’t look like exercise is commonplace in her life.

  I look down at my own feet. I love these shoes, the look of them anyway. But the pointed toes, high lift, and spiked heel are not exactly walk-friendly.

  Ireland’s head cocks, a challenge.

  “Let’s go then.” Challenge met.

  JENNA

  At Ireland’s suggestion, we walk the half mile to the coffee shop. We used to make this trek all the time in college. We’re not twenty anymore. At least I’m not. Even then I struggled to keep up, my legs significantly shorter than my roommates’. Now I’m carrying along the weight of twenty-five years spent perfecting my chocolate chip cookie recipe. And it’s heavy.

  Vicky’s fancy shoes, which probably came from a store I can’t even afford to walk past, click along the sidewalk like the giggling of judgmental middle schoolers. Why am I here? I can only pray that seeing Hope will put everything back in perspective. She was always a star in that way, but still so quiet, behind the scenes.

  As we cross the street and make our way through the small parking area, I run my sleeve over my forehead and fan my hand in front of my face. But I’m sure I still look like the average American woman if she were forced to climb Mount Everest.

  There’s a new sign over the door: House of Hope. A ladder rests on the siding and a hammer lies in the bark mulch. Maybe the job of running this place is what kept Hope away from Emery this morning. Maybe it wasn’t that she doesn’t want to see us, or me.

  Vicky gives the door a tug and it pops, rather than slides, open. But she doesn’t even stumble. She’s all grace, all confidence, all perfection. My kids might say that she’s “all that.” I’m the bag of chips.

  Even with this many years and the change in ownership, the scent of spicy and earthy mix together here and bring me back even more than being in Emery. We had so much to look forward to. It’s like our fearless enthusiasm was bottled up and stored, but when we stepped through the door, someone unscrewed the lid.

  We approach the counter. Emotion bubbles in my chest. I’m afraid to speak. I only bite at my lower lip.

  A woman walks through the swinging half door that separates the kitchen from the counter where the baristas mix up sweet, rich coffee drinks. I put my hand to my chest and feel the thump of my overworked, under-cared-for heart. She’s the image of Hope. Dark blond waves trace her face, the longer ones pulled back and held in place by a red handkerchief. Freckles are sprayed across her nose, and her eyes are the same crystal blue that had all the young men staring at Hope.

  For the first time since we met up in our old room, maybe the first time since we met, the three of us stand silent, shoulder to shoulder. It’s crazy, but we’ve gone back in time. I run my hand over my middle. No, I haven’t. In my mind I know this must be her daughter, but I don’t really want her to say that yet. Any moment Hope will walk out here and the beauty of being young again will be gone as we see the wrinkles and lines on her aged face.

  “What can I get you?” The spell is broken.

  “We’re looking for Hope. We lived with her in college.” I look from Ireland to Vicky, ready for one of them to take the lead.

  “I was wondering if you’d make it.” She dries her hands on a bar rag and hangs it on the handle of a cupboard. “I really didn’t think you’d all three be here at once. Although I prayed you would.”

  The girl positions her hands on her hips. “I’m Em, Emery Blue James. Hope’s daughter.”

  Vicky nods. “I have your birth announcement framed in my office. You’ve grown.”

  The sentimentality of that statement makes me tilt my head and give Vicky a good long look. That’s the kind of thing I would do. But I don’t remember what happened to Emery’s announcement. I do remember the tears I shed looking at her precious face in the photograph. We’d been trying to have a baby, and I’d just had another month of failure to conceive verified. I don’t even think I sent a congratulatory card.

  I cover my face with my palms. That’s when it had started for me. That’s when I began to pull away. For almost twenty years I’ve blamed circumstances, but it was deeper. I was jealous.

  My first apology will be to Hope. “Is your mom around?”

  Em’s eyes shine. She blinks hard and blows out a breath.

  And in that instant before she can speak, when the coffee shop seems to go silent, I see it. Behind the double-wide espresso machine, in a frame with Scripture burned into the wood, is a photograph of Hope. It hardly looks like her with the bright pink shirt, the purple scarf tied tight around her head, and the ashen hue of her once rosy complexion, but the eyes give her away. And I know what’s coming next.

  If I c
ould run, if my feet would only move from the place they’re glued to the floor, I’d be out of here before I had to hear the words. But I’m stuck.

  “Mom passed away last February.” Em fidgets with a strand of her hair. “She fought hard. For a while we really thought she was going to beat it, but then there were more complications.”

  A tear spills over my lashes, runs down my cheek, and wets the crease of my neck. Before I can even manage to look for a napkin, Vicky is pressing one into my palm. She’s stoic, solid. It’s Ireland who’s really hit. She doesn’t cry. Her arms are tight across her chest, and her jaw is so taut that it quivers under the muscle strain. The way her eyes glare at the picture of Hope, if I didn’t know her like I did, I would think she was angry. But she’s only trying to hold it together. Some things don’t change.

  VICKY

  Hope is gone. The friend and the feeling. Above the music floating down from speakers attached to the coffee shop ceiling, the hum and the buzz of conversation fills the gaps. And I don’t fit. Not anymore. Was I myself when I shared this wobbly table with my roommates all those years ago, or am I me now?

  Please don’t let it be now.

  A burst of cold air rushes us as the door swings open, banging against the wall.

  And with it comes a mountain man—no, woman. She yanks off her knit cap and two silver braids fall over her shoulders.

  “Glenda.” Em is around the counter and to the woman in an instant. “I was hoping you’d be in today.”

  I dredge my memory for a picture of Hope’s mother, but then remember that she died young, of breast cancer. My hand covers my heart, the pounding like a kettle drum beating with worry. Will this be what happens to Em too? When was my last mammogram?

  Em threads her fingers into those of this character of a woman and pulls her toward our table. A sparkle has ignited in Em’s eyes. The stranger has done something to revive the Hope-like joy in her. There must be a special quality under that sun-leathered skin.