Changing Lanes: A Novel (22 page)

He waited until I cleared the ladder and crossed the lawn before he dumped the bottle’s contents.

I could still hear the splashing as I climbed the front steps to my parents’ house, stepped inside, and shut the door.

That night, I climbed into the depths of the bedroom closet once more, this time searching for the yearbooks I’d packed away years earlier.

On a crisp October night of our senior year, my class had painted the brick wall behind the school, as tradition dictated we should. When we were finished, we posed as a group, youthful determination and carefree joy plastered across our faces.

Later that same night, Mick and I broke into the old Bainbridge Estate, wanting to explore the secret passageways and underground tunnels of the abandoned mansion.

Through the years, I’d convinced myself our adventure had been Mick’s idea, but that was nothing more than me buying into the lie I’d let everyone believe.

I’d wanted to explore the underground tunnels that linked the estate to the family’s former businesses—the old bank and the general store. Mick had gone with me because he didn’t want me to get in trouble.

A bitter laugh slid across my lips. Fat lot of good that had done.

We’d climbed the Paris Oak after we’d tired of our exploration. I’d been stupid enough to light a candle. I still wondered how I could have done something so utterly asinine.

When Mick had reached to extinguish the flame, I’d kissed him.

I could still remember the feel of his lips on mine. I could imagine the weight of his hand pulling me against his chest. I could still summon up the mixture of awe and nerves and adolescent curiosity that had consumed me in that moment.

And then we’d realized the tree was on fire.

We’d jumped, escaping unscathed, but by the time we’d gotten the attention of the fire department, it had been too late.

The tree was destroyed.

They’d held us for two hours until our parents came to bail us out.

Mick had run away the next morning, not giving the school a chance to expel him. He’d vanished without saying good-bye, and in time, I’d actually managed to stop reliving that night.

At least, I’d managed until I’d seen him on my parents’ roof.

The town had blamed Mick, and I’d let them. After all, it was easy to blame Ed O’Malley’s son. In their eyes, I was a good girl. Always had been. Always would be.

Shame on me.

As I studied the photo now, I understood how wrong I’d been back then to let Mick take the blame for me. I also understood something I’d denied for the past thirteen years.

I’d been falling in love with Mick O’Malley.

Sure, I’d loved him as a friend ever since I first climbed up into his tree house, but years later, as we sat on the school football field posing for this group shot, the camera had captured my true emotions.

The heart of the shot, my mother had called it.

Here it was, for everyone to see.

While every other senior faced the camera, I stared at Mick. Even in my profile, the heart of the shot was evident. I’d been in love with Mick.

The admission hit me like a ton of bricks, rocking my already fragile state of mind.

I raced to my laptop and fired it up, tapping my fingers impatiently while the machine went through its start-up paces.

As soon as my wallpaper appeared, I stared at the engagement picture of Fred and me. Our smiles were the stiff we’re-having-our-picture-taken smiles that everyone perfects at some point during adulthood.

I needed something more. I needed a better example.

I opened my picture folder and scanned thumbnails until I found a few candid shots of the two of us, pictures sent by friends and colleagues.

Even there, neither of us looked at the other as I’d looked at Mick back in high school. Sure, there was a big difference between grown-up love and high school love, but the photos showed nothing more than two people attending various fund-raising and corporate functions together.

The photos showed no laughter, no gazing into each other’s eyes, no heart. They captured only two people living the life they’d planned as the rest of the world passed them by.

The moments with Fred weren’t
moments
at all. They were poses—poses of the way we thought our life should be.

Fred and I had gone through the motions—in our photographs and our life. We’d followed the plan we’d made, seeing each other on weekends, attending functions that would advance our careers or our social standing.

We’d laughed politely at each other’s jokes and stories. We’d coexisted in a relationship, but based on what?

The question sobered me.

Had I ever truly loved Fred?

Fred had fit my plan. He hadn’t challenged me. He hadn’t inspired me to sit back and touch my lips in remembrance of his kiss. He hadn’t haunted my dreams.

He hadn’t awakened my emotions in ways they hadn’t been awakened in years.

Mick had done those things.

Not Fred.

I reached for my cell phone and dialed Fred’s number. I listened for the millionth mind-numbing time to his outgoing
message regarding space and silence, and then I left another message, this one far different than my earlier messages.

“I’m done waffling, Fred.”

I glanced out my window, catching a glimpse of where the Beast sat out back, beneath her protective tarp. “I’m changing lanes. I’m done watching life go by. Maybe you’re done watching life go by, too. Maybe that’s why you went to France.

“But the point of this message is to say, I won’t be leaving any other messages. I hope you’re happy, and I hope you’ve found whatever it is you wanted to find.” I hesitated, my parting words stuck in my throat momentarily before I pushed them resolutely, positively free.

“Good-bye, Fred.”

The time had come to let go of the life I’d planned.

I was ready to live the life that had found me, here, back home in Paris.

Two days later, on a sunny April afternoon, Frankie, Detta, Nan, and I piled into the Beast and headed for the far side of town and the park that ran alongside the Delaware River.

As I pulled the cab into the parking area, I spotted Don and Riley sitting on a bright red bench, patiently waiting for our arrival.

“There they are,” Frankie called out from the backseat.

Nan moved her hand from her lap to her throat, and her nervousness wasn’t lost on me.

Much as she’d had an obvious effect on Don, the distinguished gentleman had left a mark of his own on my grandmother.

Nan smoothed the front of her windbreaker then tucked a strand of wavy white hair behind one ear.

I studied her, amusement welling inside me. She turned to say something and caught me staring. She blushed.

“Here we are.” I tipped my head toward Don. “And there they are. Ready, ladies?”

“Stay put, Mrs. O’Malley,” Frankie said as she scrambled toward her door. “I’ll be right around for you.”

By the time Frankie rounded the Beast’s massive trunk, Don stood beside Detta’s door, holding the door wide as he reached to steady her.

She linked arms with Frankie and Don as the trio set out across the lawn toward the picnic area.

Riley trotted obediently beside the three, and I realized again that my recent problems were merely bumps in the road of my life.

I held the door open for Nan, amused to see her frowning slightly at the fact that Don hadn’t said more than a quick hello.

“You okay?” I asked, biting back a smile.

“Should have brought my scarf,” Nan grouched. “Too windy out here.”

“Such is life along the river.” I shut the car door after she stepped clear and then I headed for the trunk. “Good thing I brought a kite. Perfect day for it.”

She smiled then, her momentary funk visibly lifting. “I do love a kite.”

“I know.” I anchored a well-loaded picnic basket over one arm, tucked the kite against my side, and winked as I reached for Nan’s hand.

For the next hour or so, our little group relaxed beside the river.

A spring breeze hoisted the kite high into the air, the simple rainbow-colored diamond glowing against the brightness of the afternoon sun.

Beds of impatiens rimmed the fieldstone wall along the Delaware’s bank. Soon they’d swell and spread, sending a cascade of white, red, and pink along the edge of the park’s green expanse. For now, however, they held the promise of the future, much like that afternoon held for me.

I took the case off my Minolta, set the aperture and depth of field, and began to snap shots, hitting the film-advance lever rapidly, smiling as I captured image after image, moment after moment.

Riley sat steadfastly beside Detta, unerring in his devotion and duty. Nan chatted cautiously with Don, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was an interest in her gaze that mirrored the attraction in Don’s.

Frankie ran beneath the kite, laughing with an uninhibited joy of which I’d forgotten her capable.

Moments. Simple moments. Moments I might never have witnessed had I not lost my column and taken over Dad’s cab, had I not met Don and Riley on that stormy afternoon.

Life was unpredictable.

As I took stock of that moment, the people, and the impacts they’d each had on my recent life, I realized it was in the letting go and allowing life’s moments to happen that we truly lived.

That night, before dinner, Mom and I sat on the floor of her bedroom, building a scrapbook for Detta O’Malley.

She meticulously trimmed patterns and shapes out of preprinted sheets, framing photos as she anchored them to the scrapbook’s pages.

She worked with patience and precision, her enjoyment evident in her body language and slight smile. As if sensing my scrutiny, she glanced up at me and smiled, her eyes sparkling.

“You’re beautiful, Mom.”

I wasn’t sure when I’d last spoken those words, or if I’d ever spoken them. I’m sure I’d uttered them back when I was Missy’s
age, a time in every daughter’s life when she thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.

But as we sat together, building a book of memories for our neighbor, my mother truly was the most beautiful woman in the world.

For all of her telling me how to dress, how to brush my hair, and how to find a replacement fiancé, she loved me. She loved me as perhaps no one else in my life ever would.

Here she sat, helping me put together a scrapbook in order to preserve the moments I’d so carefully gathered for Detta.

I thought of Mick and how devastated he must be to see his mother slipping away from him, to see her looking at him with confusion in her eyes when her mind failed her, when the images of their shared past escaped her.

Mom’s eyes filled with tears and she blinked them away, but not before I saw flashes of the past—the look of love in my mother’s gaze filled with images of first words, skinned knees, and school-dance photographs.

My heart hurt, thinking Mick’s mother was losing those images. Mick’s mother would never remember her granddaughter, Lily, and Lily would never know the woman Detta had been, or the woman she’d become.

“Did Mick tell you about Lily?” I asked.

Mom smiled. “I caught him staring at her picture one day when he was taking a break from working on the roof.”