Changing Lanes: A Novel (24 page)

Jerry had our beers waiting, and as I studied the crowd gathered for karaoke night, I did not see people my parents knew in the town where I’d grown up. I saw people
I
knew. I saw my friends and my neighbors in the town where I
lived
.

Two beers later, Jerry called for singers, and I raised my hand for sign-up without hesitation.

The time had come to reclaim the things I loved.

The face of my phone illuminated where it sat atop the bar, and I leaned forward to read the display, my heart seizing in my chest as I read the words.

New text message. Fred.

“Shit.”

“Abby Halladay,” Jerry called out. “Come on down.”

I waved off Jerry’s request and dropped my arm to my lap.

“Abby?” Destiny’s laughter morphed to concern. “You okay?”

I smoothed my finger across the screen to unlock my phone, then pressed View Now to read Fred’s message, the first in four weeks.

Four weeks
, I thought. The days seemed like so many more, and yet it seemed as though they’d passed in the blink of an eye.

Home by Sunday. Dinner at the café?

Surprise and doubt tangled inside me. He’d walked out a month ago and now he expected to waltz back in. I’d moved on. I’d started to build a new life.

I pressed the reply button, but Destiny slid my phone out from beneath my hand. “Make him wait.”

She lifted my chin with her fingertips and stared into my eyes. “Sing,” she said. “You wanted to sing. Don’t let him take that away.”

All I could do was shake my head. My knot of emotions overwhelmed me, and I hopped down from my stool.

How could one short text message begin to unravel the new me I’d worked so hard to achieve?

“I need some air.”

“Abby!” Destiny called after me.

I was already halfway across the floor, headed past the stage.

Jerry called my name again as if he believed this time I’d follow through, take the microphone in my hand, and perform.

Instead, I pushed out into the darkness of Paris and walked.

With seven words, sent via text message, Fred had rocked my resolve to be happy with the life I’d found.

Yet it wasn’t Fred’s message that sent me reeling.

No.

What sent me reeling was the speed with which my self-doubt roared back to life, leaving me unsure of every decision I’d made.

I wandered the streets of Paris, trailing my fingers across the brightly colored shop doors and storefront windows. I walked past the cemetery and the library, wondering if Nan had been here tonight, or if she was finally ready to let go of her nightly chats with Grandpa.

I peered in the window of the Paris Café, squinting to see the wall of photos I’d shot and posted for Jessica and her customers.

I haunted the cobblestone sidewalks and alleyways, feeling as though I were living out one of my dreams, searching for something, yet not knowing what that something might possibly be.

A few hours earlier, I’d been secure in every decision I’d made since Fred left. But now…

Now I wasn’t certain of anything at all.

What was wrong with me?

I headed back home in search of the one thing I’d thought I’d never look at again. My wedding binder.

I’d left the Beast back at the Pub. My father would no doubt kill me later for leaving her out, exposed to the damp night air that rolled in off the Delaware River.

Guilt flickered through me, but I slapped the sensation away.

The house was silent as I walked back inside, and I made my way to my room without making a sound, ditching the cab keys and Dad’s fedora on the chair in the hall as I walked past.

Upstairs, in the bottom of the closet, I grasped the binder’s vinyl cover. I tugged the monstrous object free and landed on the floor, legs spread-eagle, binder in my lap, the homemade cover laughing up at me, mocking me with its naive lettering.

Abby and Fred.

I’d designed the words on a desktop publishing program at work, spending more time choosing a font and border than I spent on most answers I gave to my “If You Can’t Say Anything Nice” inquiries.

A month ago, the wedding and my column had been front and center in my world.

As I flipped through page after page of sheet-protected ideas and plans, I realized I’d stopped fighting for Fred and my engagement as soon as I’d gotten a better offer. Namely, a life driving a cab and taking pictures.

So, what did that say about me as a person? As a fiancée?

Sure, Fred had effectively locked me out of his life for the past month, but what if he’d had a really good reason? What if he couldn’t wait to tell me about the things he’d seen and the things he’d done?

What if he was about to come home as renewed in his determination to live life as I’d become to live mine?

Didn’t I at least owe a reply and some loving patience to the man I’d thought I’d loved?

I slid the fat binder off my lap and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket.

I reread Fred’s text message.

Home by Sunday. Dinner at the café?

I read the words again. And again. And again.

I shoved down the angry voice that wanted to tell him to go to hell, and I embraced the tiny voice that told me to be nice and argued for giving the man a second chance.

Then I pressed the reply button and opened the phone’s keyboard, typing quickly before I could change my mind.

This was the right thing to do. The grown-up thing to do. The responsible, we-had-a-plan-and-I-need-to-make-sure-I-haven’t-made-a-mistake thing to do.

I kept my reply short and to the point.

See you then. Safe travels.

I hadn’t professed my love. I hadn’t told him I’d missed him. I’d merely communicated that I’d see him. I’d give him a chance to talk.

For now, that was all I could handle.

I woke at four o’clock in the morning, facedown in the binder, my nose wedged between cake selection and how to choreograph a first-dance production.

Bessie
.

The image of the cab flashed across my mind like a neon billboard silently chastising me.
How could you do this? How could you leave me alone? Don’t you love me anymore?

I scrambled off my bed and raced for the downstairs hall, not taking time to step lightly around known creaks and groans. The keys and fedora sat on the credenza, not the chair where I’d tossed them. They’d been straightened and set precisely, just as my father used to do.

“She’s okay.” Dad’s voice rang out from behind me as he followed me down the stairs, startling me so much I gasped and clutched my chest.

I turned to face him, the heat of shame rising up my neck. “I’m sorry, Dad, I—”

He shook his head and gave me the slight smile he always gave just before he said, “It’s okay.” Then he added, “Destiny called us on the house phone.”

“She did?”

He shrugged. “I think she’s turning into a softy.”

I smiled.

His lips thinned and he clasped his hands on my shoulders, holding me steady. I began to tremble, an odd, quivering sensation that started deep inside me and built as it reached for my extremities.

“She wanted to see if you were all right.”

“Did she tell you?” I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see Fred, let alone tell my family about his impending return home.

“Only because she knew you were upset,” Dad said. “You okay?”

I nodded, the move a bald-faced lie when all I felt was inner turmoil. “Where’s Bessie?”

“Under her tent.” He turned me toward the kitchen and looped his arm through mine. “Once I found you sleeping in your room, I headed to the Pub to pick her up.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, feeling more like a three-year-old than a thirty-year-old.

“For what?” Dad pulled out a kitchen chair as he clicked on the overhead light. “For having a momentary lapse in judgment because that no-good Fred attempted a reentry into your life via text message like the chicken-livered louse he is?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, my heart warming a bit at the depth of protectiveness in my dad’s words. “How do you really feel?” I asked.

Dad moved to the counter and pulled out the griddle. Then he reached for his favorite mixing bowl and began to shift ingredients from the refrigerator to the counter, measuring by eye, mixing and blending.

He set the griddle on the stove and fired up the gas burner.

“Pancakes?” I asked.

“Pancakes,” he answered.

Then I watched him cook, giving silent thanks for my dad and the realization that no matter how old you were, no one understood you or loved you like family.

I went through the motions the next day, driving fares to their destinations without engaging them in conversation, without asking about their days or about their favorite moments.

When I spotted Don and Riley standing on the corner of Bridge and Arch, I smiled, until I realized how utterly defeated Don looked.

“Tough day?” I asked as he opened the back door to climb inside.

Riley bounded into the car and leaned across the back of my seat to slurp my ear. I ruffled the white stripe that ran between his ears and over the top of his head. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Frankie would still be sitting on the center hall steps, dressed in head-to-toe black, without this dog’s help. Hell, without this man’s help.

Don had taken Frankie under his wing, not only letting her ride along on therapy visits, but also introducing her to the folks he trained with.

She’d stated again that she wanted nothing for her birthday or Christmas—this year or any year. Nothing, that was, except for a dog of her own that she could train.

I was fairly certain the slide show I’d sensed flashing inside my mother’s head included images of dog hair and muddy footprints. Though I also had a feeling Mom would eventually relent.

She’d begun taking the Minolta out on long walks around town. Once she started truly practicing her photography, she was bound to spend less time worrying about how perfect the house looked.

“Don?” I reached back and lightly touched the older man’s arm. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “Sorry,” he said. “Mrs. Murphy’s slipped into a coma. It won’t be long now.”