Ruby Unscripted (24 page)

All night I want to text Kate and ask her what I should do.

My anger is fueled by my frustration. Why can't she understand that I'm trying to help her? And yet with some space since the last time we talked, I can see how wrong my approach was. I'm judging her—I know I am. And I don't know how to stop.

I can't remember the last time we didn't talk for more than two days. This time it's been three, and I wonder if she's missing me too.

While I'm working on homework, Mac comes to my room carrying the telephone.

“It's Dad,” he says, pushing the phone toward my face.

“Hey, sweetie,” Dad says, and hearing his voice while sitting in my room is a strange juxtaposition. “I was making plans for the weekend. I want to take you to dinner one night or out to lunch. The dance is on Saturday, right?”

“Well, maybe. I'm not sure I'm going.”

“Not sure you're going to the dance?”

“Not sure I'm coming to Cottonwood.”

Dad is quiet, then says with disappointment in his voice, ”Okay. Well, figure it out and let me know soon, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

I flop backward on my bed. I hate my life.

As in, I really hate it.

Anger wraps around me as I close my eyes a moment. During the divorce, and when he first was single, Dad often canceled plans with me. Mom even called to ask him to do something with me several times. Carson told me that later on. I didn't hold that against Dad; at least I don't think I did. But now I feel guilty, and it just isn't fair.

The prom is this weekend. I should be deciding on my dress—Nick keeps asking me about the color—picking out shoes, figuring out my hair. But it sounds so pointless compared to this new opportunity.

Hours ago I was happy; suddenly I'm miserable.

I can't sleep, and the weight of the world is heavy upon me. It's that familiar fog pressing in, closing off the good that I know is out there. I could write a gratitude list and go on for several pages. My mind knows of these good things, but right now none of them matters a whole lot.

When life is great, I tell myself to remember those feelings, to promise when I'm down to remember that it'll pass soon enough. But now that it's here, I can't find that feeling or those promises.

Strangely, I miss my mom, even though she's right downstairs. Before she married Austin, I could sleep with her when I was sad or worried or upset about something. For a while part of me
liked
that she and my dad were divorced. One weekend it was just her and me—the boys were with Dad. We watched movies and ate our favorite junk foods. I wanted to get an apartment with just her and me.

So even with her downstairs, I miss Mom. Like I miss my dad. But the missing is for more than that. I miss my dad with my mom. I miss them together.

I want to talk to someone about this. I don't have a long enough history with Frankie and London for them to understand. Kate understands me as no one else can. But now we're not even really friends. Yeah, it's sort of immature to think childhood promises should be kept, or even can be. We said we'd be best friends forever. We'd go to college, maybe in Paris. We'd marry twin brothers and be neighbors. So okay, some of those plans were little-girl dreams, but the core of it, the meaning, was fully there. The commitment and promise to be there for one another. To never doubt that in this great big world, we at least had each other.

A feeling of anger, even hate, comes over me. How could Kate do this to me?

The walls of my room close around me. Downstairs Mac is too happy for me to be around. Mom is banging around in the kitchen. A bath sounds bad; nothing soothes me. I want this feeling to go.

But instead, when I return to my room, I see the picture that might be Aunt Betty, and I wonder about her life before she became a quirky old lady. She must have loved before Herbert, and I've never thought to even ask. Then I think of Tony, dying in his bedroom with his family sleeping through it. I remember how we loved how small he was, but surely how he hated that. He was cute Little Tony. Maybe he hated playing the Little Drummer Boy in the Christmas play.

He's dead now. I'm alive.

While I put on a movie to escape all of this, I think of Tony buried in the ground for as long as I've been living here. Proms, opportunities, divorces, and fighting with friends—none of it matters to Tony now.

The next morning I find Mom making tea.

“You're up early,” she says.

“I have a dilemma.” And so I tell her. But she gets immediately excited about film group.

“This is an amazing opportunity, Ruby. And besides, I thought you didn't like Nick.”

“I didn't until I saw him again. And now that I'm home, I don't know again.”

Mom shakes her head with a smile, as she often does. “I can't keep up with you.”

“It's my job to keep you on your toes.”

“More like give me more gray hairs for my hairdresser to hide.” She sits on the edge of a bar stool. “You probably expect me to say this, but to me there's no choice here. Your dad will understand that you have this chance, and it's not very long at all till you'll go to Cottonwood again.”

“He was excited about seeing me this weekend.”

“Would it help if I called and explained it to him?”

“
Would
you call and explain it to him?”

“He'd take it better from you, but I will if you really need me to.”

“I'll think about it. But if our group wins, then I'll be gone part of the summer too. Dad wants to take me camping a bunch, and I'm supposed to stay two weeks with Kate. At least that was the plan before . . .”

“Listen, it's very important to have a good relationship with both of your parents. You do need to see your dad more, just as I need to see Carson. But I'm pretty sure you'll regret it if you miss being part of this. I see how this film group has helped you adjust here and given you direction. Austin and I were just talking about it last night.”

Last night I was wallowing in self-pity and pretty much every bad emotion a human can have. Remembering that, I wonder what was wrong with me.

Mom pours milk and sugar into a cup, then adds the tea from the teapot. “I'd hate to see you quit your art—which just so happens to be a pattern in your life. But then, it's hard dumping Nick, even if he only asked you a few days ago.”

“I know. One of my New Year's resolutions was to stay committed to my dreams and goals. So this is like the big test. It's just hard to tell Nick. And Dad.”

“I know, sweetie. And it's your decision, but you have to choose.” Then Mom tries hard to hide her smile. “But one bit of advice . . . I wouldn't tell Grandma Hazel. She still thinks movies are of the devil.”

This makes me chuckle. “Grandma Hazel thinks most everything is of the devil.”

Then Mom feels bad for saying that, as usual, and off she goes telling the good points of her former mother-in-law, her example of faithfulness, and on and on.

But all I can think about is how I'm going to tell Nick that his second prom date is dumping him.

chapter twenty-one

I know what I have to do, but I really, really, really don't want to do it.

The coffeehouse is abuzz with the sounds of the steamer hissing away, cups chinking onto saucers, and people chatting. I make espresso drinks like second nature now and greet customers with familiar faces as my hands move to the shots of espresso, steaming milk, flavorings, and whipped topping. But underneath my outward friendliness, a nagging feeling follows me. I'll forget it for a short time, especially when a few people from school come in and I overhear them talking about Film Night.

“Can you imagine getting to spend a week this summer working on location at a real film?”

The imaginings fill my head, but then I remember Nick like a bolt of lightning zapping my chest.

Couldn't I get someone else to tell him? Kate would be the logical choice—Kate would even do it. She'd forewarn him at least, take the pressure off of me, give the poor guy a bit of notice before the blow.

On my break, I send her a text in my little attempt to smooth things out.

“Hi” is all I write.

But she doesn't respond, which angers me.

Natasha comes in with her worn leather satchel and points to her table—her signal that whenever I have time, could I bring her a tea and scone. I'm helping a few junior high–aged kids who are addicted to coffee—which is disturbing, in my opinion. They order mochas with extra shots and talk and laugh louder than I think they should. I nod to Natasha.

Awhile later I carry her Chai tea with an extra teaspoon of Mexican vanilla—an experiment I'm trying.

She takes a sip and smiles. “This is really quite good, Ruby. You may have created a new favorite for me.”

The people who come to the Underground are the best part of my job. Some happiness rises in me to see the old guys at their tables. There are some customers passing through the area, and I love to hear where they're going. The stories I get from them are enough for a hundred films. But Natasha is by far my favorite.

Later I catch a glimpse of her at her table, sitting with her pile of books and tea. I wonder about her. About what she does for fun, if she's lonely at night and missing her husband, about all those little daily rituals, friendships, family connections, and interests that create a person's life.

She waves at me, and I come over with a dish towel in my hand.

“You and I need to sit down for a cup of tea sometime.”

“I was just thinking how I'd love to join you.”

“Did you have your break already?”

“No, I haven't,” I say.

“Great then. I plan to be here a few hours.”

I clean a table near her, stacking the dishes and carrying them into the kitchen.

“So when do you leave for your trip?” I ask when I return to wash the small oval table.

“I still have a few months to go.”

“I bet you can't wait.”

“Well, part of me can. I have a lot to do, and strangely, it's as much fun preparing as it is going. The hardest part used to be the post-trip depression. But now I've even eliminated that.”

“How did you do that?”

“I've learned to discipline my thoughts—and to look at my life from different perspectives.”

“Huh?” I ask. A few customers walk in; I look at them and then back at Natasha. “I'll come back.”

After a while Aunt Jenna tells me to go on my break, so I bring a maple scone and a Kenya-blend coffee and sit with Natasha. She stacks her books onto another empty chair and smiles as I sit down.

We talk about travel and favorite books, and then I go back to her earlier subject. “What did you mean about looking at life from other perspectives?”

Natasha smiles, and the lines around her bright blue eyes deepen.

“Every day, understandably, we see the things that encompass our lives from our own perspective. But feelings, opinions, our age, moods, our past, to name a few things, cloud the truth of what really is.”

“I get that.”

“When we see beyond our perspective to what really is and also see other people's view, we come a long way in understanding truth and other people.”

Kate comes to mind. And I realize I haven't thought about her perspective. What would it be like to be the one left behind? Kate has a lot of friends, but nothing like our friendship. And then she meets this guy she really likes, and immediately I'm against it.

“And what did you mean by disciplining your thoughts? I'm not sure I'd want to. I love making up stories as I go through the day.”

“Oh, I'm a definite supporter of imagination. I'm referring to those harmful rebel thoughts and feelings that need to be put in their proper place. For instance, after my husband died, I couldn't get out of living in the past. I kept thinking about the past, being angry that we didn't get to do half of the things we'd dreamed of doing together. It consumed me. Then a friend challenged me not to allow those thoughts in. That seemed impossible, but I decided to let myself be sad on the fifteenth of every month. Whenever I was sad, I'd tell myself to stop it, that on the fifteenth I'd be sad all day long.”

“But I bet on the fifteenth you didn't want to be sad.”

“Sometimes I did. But usually I was okay, even on the fifteenth. I miss my husband every day. I miss our dreams and just his presence in the house, even watching TV together. But I don't let it control my thoughts and emotions. I take the love for him with me everywhere, and that makes me happy instead of depressed.”

Natasha is quiet a moment, sipping her tea and staring into the liquid like it's a fortune-teller's crystal ball. Maybe she'll tell me exactly how to solve my future.

“Time doesn't get slower, I promise you that. There are many ways to go, many opportunities, and exciting things to do. I want to see every country in the world. I want a thousand things, and I could fill my life with obsessive pursuit of them. But that wouldn't fulfill me, give my life meaning or purpose.”