RV There Yet? (11 page)

“They're dead,” I say.

“Can't she just put salt and pepper shakers out like everybody else?” Millie says.

Millie's a class act all the way.

“You know, I've been thinking I'll talk to Beverly about using my horn to wake people up while we're at camp.”

Excitement sparkles in Millie's eyes while dread looms over me.

In her teen years, playing the trumpet was one way Millie really expressed herself. Though she showed her true self only to a few people, in front of a crowd she could blare her horn like nobody's business. Notice I didn't say she could “play” her horn. 'Nuff said.

“Don't you think most people will have alarm clocks?” I ask, trying to subtly suggest she might want to reconsider this whole trumpet alarm thing.

“Oh, sure, some people will, but some might not. It's just a creative way to get going in the morning, and it will give us that old camp feeling. Remember how we always used to start our mornings with a trumpet call?”

“Oh, I'd forgotten that,” I say. “I think it's called suppressed memory.”

“Ha-ha,” Millie says.

I don't mention the fact that someone else played the trumpet then, and it was actually on pitch.

Lydia knocks at the side door, and I open it.

“Aren't these gorgeous?” Lydia climbs in quite out of breath.

“Do you want me to take care of those for you?” I ask.

“Oh no, no. I love putting together fresh flowers. I've forgotten how much I enjoy it. Greg and I used to go walking in the country near our home, and we would always pick wildflowers along the way. By the time I'd get home, we would have a beautiful vase of colorful twinflowers, goldenrod, lupine, cosmos, daisies, whatever. They were wonderful.”

She stuffs the flowers in her blue pitcher, plucks one flower here, places it there, snips another, rearranges until she's satisfied, then sets the pitcher carefully on the table. “There,” she says, brushing her hands together, “that should do it. We'll stick it under the sink for now so it won't fall off the table.”

I'm curious as to the names of a couple of the flowers, but if I ask her, she'll spend the next fifteen minutes explaining them to me. She can be as bad as Millie when it comes to explanations—at least with flowers. Can we say information overload? Unless it's about chocolate, I'm not really that interested.

“Hey, you never did answer my question. You know, the one about where we're headed today,” I say.

Millie turns around, looks at me, and rolls her eyes.

“You keep doing that, and one of these days your eyes will stick,” I say.

Lydia chuckles. “I guess we didn't. We're headed to Indiana. Plan to stop at Pokagon State Park, isn't that right, Millie?”

“Yes.” She studies her map a moment.

“Do you guys mind if I turn on the radio? I could use some nice music. Plus, I haven't listened to the news since we started our trip, and I'm feeling out of touch with the rest of the world,” Lydia says.

“Great idea. I like to keep up on current affairs too,” Millie says.

They're such good citizens. Me? My world consists of chocolate and shopping. If no earthshaking news happens there, I just won't know about it. Okay, so it's my responsibility to be informed, but, well, news equals pain. It's like this. Sometimes the news just depresses me. And when I'm depressed, I eat chocolate. That's why I maintain a regular Pilates workout, so I won't get overweight from all the chocolate, and of course all that exercise leads to pain. So the bottom line is, news equals pain.

My reasoning may be a little off here, but there it is.

Lydia fiddles with the radio knob, but she can't find any news. “I guess we'll just have to wait for it to come on,” she says.

“I can turn on the TV to see if there's any news on. I think
Good Morning America
is still on,” I say.

“We don't usually get a good reception unless we're in a park,” Lydia says.

“You know, if we stumble upon a coffeehouse, I could sure use some decent coffee,” Millie says. “Ever since the Starbucks opened beside the library, I've been hooked.”

“Well, you all know how I feel about coffeehouses,” Lydia says. “I love them. I've been keeping a watch out for one, but no luck yet.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say. “Did you know I never drank coffee at all until they started with the flavored stuff ?”

“It's a conspiracy,” Millie says.

“Yeah, coffee beans are rising up to gain control of the world,” I say dryly.

“It could happen. The coffee suppliers merely need to get us addicted, and look out,” Millie says with conviction.

“I'll take my chances,” Lydia says.

“Yeah, me too.” Millie shifts on her seat and turns back around. “So if you see a coffeehouse, pull over.”

Lydia nods. “Trust me, if I see one, we're there.”

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. One glance tells me it's Rob. My heart sticks in my throat. I rush to the bedroom. Facing the rear window, I keep my back toward Millie and Lydia. With sweaty palms, I hold the vibrating phone. My pulse beats wildly in my ears. My shaking finger reaches up to press the on button.

“Hello?” My voice sounds weak, uncertain.

“Hey, precious, I've missed you—”

“Everything okay?” Millie asks from the doorway.

She so startles me, I drop the phone on the floor. I stoop to pick it up and push the off button. “I was going to call Shelley, but I think I'll wait until later,” I say, sticking the phone back into my pocket. My face burns under Millie's scrutiny.

“You sure you don't want to talk about it?”

“About my call to Shelley? Just checking on things, that's all,” I say in all innocence. But the look on Millie's face tells me she's not buying it. Still, she leaves me alone and walks back up to the front of the RV.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I take a deep breath to calm myself. Instead of being thrilled at the sound of Rob's voice, I feel weird. The voice that once made my heart flutter when he called me “precious” now makes me think of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings, and that's just creepy. An involuntary shudder escapes me.

I'm going to have to tell Millie and Lydia sooner or later. They know something's up. Is it so wrong to want to talk to Rob? He told Shelley he had worked everything out, that he would see me soon. Does he know where I am? How did he find out? Shelley wouldn't tell him, would she?

I hate sneaking around like this, not being honest with my friends, but how can I tell them the truth? I just need to let him go. He's not right for me. Hello? Gollum should be a clue. The truth is, there are many things that were wrong with our relationship from the start. But I've overlooked them. Who wants to spend their weekends alone? That wasn't the way I wanted to live the rest of my life. But then, what Rob had to offer wasn't any better.

Is that the only thing holding me to him? I'm afraid of growing old alone?

“Want to stop for a burger, Dee?” Lydia calls out.

“Sure, that would be great,” I shout back. Standing, I gather my courage and go to the front to join Millie and Lydia.

Lydia pulls the RV off at the next exit.

“I'm starving,” Millie says.

Reaching for my handbag, I pull out my makeup and touch up my face. A darker foundation or a little tanning might do me some good. I'm starting to look like Johnny Depp in
Charlie and the
Chocolate Factory
. That phone call didn't exactly do wonders for me.

Once my makeup is applied to my satisfaction, I put my powder away and plop a malted milk ball in my mouth. It's that comfort thing again. I glance out the window. Lydia maneuvers the RV around the corner toward a burger place. My eyes lock on a man on the street who looks just like Rob, and I gasp, pulling the milk ball to the back of my throat like lint to a vacuum.

My arms flail about as I gasp for breath.

“Oh my goodness, she's choking!” Millie yells, rushing back to help me.

Lydia hits the horn by mistake and it locks. People on the crosswalk scatter. Lydia gets so flustered she drives up over the curb. The contents of my makeup bag drop to the floor, spilling in every direction. Millie stumbles over the debris, jostling this way and that, trying to get to me. I gasp for air. Lydia bangs on the horn to try to shut it off.

Once she gets to me, Millie wraps her arms around my midsection with the strength of a sumo wrestler. Grunt one . . . if this thing doesn't come loose, she's going to kill me.

Against all logic, Lydia stops the RV and throws herself over the horn.

Grunt two . . . death by chocolate.

Amazingly, the horn's blare dies down to a whine and fizzles out.

Grunt three, the malted milk ball pops out of my throat, bounces off the window, and rolls to the floor. I gulp in three huge helpings of air through what I am sure are cracked ribs and vow right then and there never to mess with Millie's sock drawer again.

I fall onto the sofa in a heap. Lydia's limp form lies across the horn like a rag doll, and Millie wipes the sweat from her brow, looking as though she hasn't had this much excitement in years.

From the window I can see and hear an angry man shouting obscenities, but the man I thought I recognized has disappeared into the crowd. No man is worth all this.

Especially Rob.

8

Call it an educated guess, but I'm thinking my hair could turn
gray before the day's over.

“Are you all right, DeDe?” Lydia asks once she's picked herself off the horn.

“I'm fine.”

“I've told you more than once that chocolate would be the death of you, and you came mighty close,” Millie says.

Swallowing my sarcasm, I say, “Thank you for your help, Millie. You saved my life.”

She stretches two inches beyond her natural height.

“But don't go getting any ideas. I'm not going to walk around and serve you for the rest of my days,” I say.

Lydia giggles.

Millie looks disappointed and heads to the fridge, where she pulls out her whipped cream.

I walk over to her, wait for her to swallow the whipped cream, then put my arm around her. “I'm sorry, Millie. That really upset you.”

“Well, of course it did.” She turns watery eyes my way. “I don't want to lose you, DeDe.” Then she quickly adds, “Even if you do mess up my sock drawer.”

At this
my
eyes water, and we hug each other. Lydia walks over and joins us, and in that hug we release a multitude of tension between us.

“Well, all's well that ends well,” Millie says, clearly uncomfortable with all the sentimentality. Pulling apart, we dry our eyes and settle into our seats once again.

Lydia drives away from the people and farther into the parking lot.

I rush to the back of the motor home to peek out the window. The angry man is walking away, but the man who looked like Rob is nowhere in sight. Was it him?

Turning, I take two steps toward the front and stop when I see that Cobbler's cage has lifted off its hook in the wall bracket and is now resting on the bed. Birdseed is scattered all over my quilt, thank you very much, and Cobbler is hanging on to her perch for all she's worth. As in death grip. As in I couldn't pry her loose if I tried. The poor thing. Another triple sneeze and I'm good. She lost a few more feathers in the whole ordeal, and despite the fact that she's overdue for her Barney fix, she doesn't make a single peep.

Lifting the cage carefully, I hook it back into place, then return to the front. “I've got to clean the mess on my bed,” I say, looking for the dustpan and swish broom under the cabinet.

“What's the matter? Did you have an, um, accident?” Millie laughs at her clever self.

“Uh, no. Cobbler did.”

“Oh dear, is Cobbler okay?” The frown between Lydia's eyes resembles an exclamation point without the period.

“She's fine. Just a little rattled is all. Her cage landed on my bed in the commotion.”

“Poor thing.” Lydia could cry here. She's pretty sensitive when it comes to her animals, flowers, whatever. Come to think of it, Lydia can be sensitive over ants. She has a hissy fit if you step on one. Never mind that you can't see it. If she sees it, that's all that matters. Excuse me? But I'm over forty. I'm lucky to see the sidewalk. That little thought rocks my world for a minute, but I remember that I still haven't had hot flashes, so I'm good.

Checking on Cobbler once more, I notice that her food bowl is empty. That's because most of it spilled on my bed. Now, feeding Cobbler is Lydia's job, but she's busy driving at the moment. Since I'm not driving much—okay, try not driving at all because of my lack of directional ability—it seems I ought to do something to help out. Cobbler has perched on my hand before when she was out of her cage. How hard can it be to fill her food bowl?

Walking over to the nightstand in the room, I reach into the bottom drawer where Lydia keeps Cobbler's food, pull out the box, and place it on top of the stand. Then I walk back to Cobbler's cage.

The door of her cage lifts up easily enough.

“Poor Cobbler had a rough time, didn't ya?” I say with a sort of sickening coo in my voice. Holding the door open with my left hand, I reach into the cage with my other one and Cobbler hops onto the back of my hand, causing a little tug in my heart. How cute is that?

Cobbler stays on my hand while I lift the food cup from the cage. The RV isn't exactly helping matters, jostling us around as it hits bumps in the road.

Pulling the cup toward me, I try to tug the bowl out, but Cobbler won't jump off my hand. Twisting my wrist this way and that, I try to drop her off, but she keeps her feet—or whatever those things are called on a bird—fixed on my hand. I'm beginning to feel like a statue.

When I try to wrangle free, Cobbler pokes her head out of the door and squeezes through the opening. Before I can blink, she goes fluttering around me through the bedroom door opening and heads straight toward Lydia. Fortunately, she's had her wings clipped—Cobbler, not Lydia— and doesn't get very far. She flutters to the floor and starts hopping forward.