Second Chance Friends (5 page)

P
aul had slipped a pamphlet under her cereal bowl before he'd left for work. He'd attached a sticky note to it:
See you at two!
With three
x
's lined up next to the exclamation point—three kisses. If she'd been out of the shower before he'd left, he would have planted those kisses right in the middle of her forehead. He would have pulled her in close, whispered into her hair something positive and encouraging—something about them getting answers today. She knew it as well as she knew him. Instead, she'd lingered, waiting until she heard the roar of the garage door opening and closing, and then leaned into the scalding water stream once more before getting out.

She'd dressed like the traitor she was—furtively, behind a locked bathroom door—before digging into the tampon box
and pulling out the pills. She'd held one in the palm of her hand, considering. Last night they'd made love. And then again this morning. He'd switched to boxer shorts, on his mother's advice. He'd urged Melinda to take cough medicine—also on his mother's advice. For a woman who'd never even graduated high school, she sure seemed the expert on fertility. Melinda wished she would stay out of their business, out of their bedroom, but then again, she'd come with advice only when Paul had gone looking for it. He'd gone to so much trouble, such worry, all the while ignorant to what was really going on.

It was this realization of just how much a baby would mean to Paul that made Melinda pause and stare at the little white culprit in her palm that morning. The guilt was eating her alive.

But then she thought about the SIDS babies they'd gotten calls on over the years. Only a few of them, but a few dead babies were more than enough. She could still see the looks of astonished, helpless grief on the mothers' faces every single time. No,
grief
wasn't a strong enough word for it.
Implosion
was more like it. An implosion of the heart, the back draft sucking the soul into such recesses of existence as to never appear again.

She'd tossed the pill into her mouth and chewed, grimacing. Paul wouldn't understand, and maybe it was wrong, but it was done, and she wouldn't have to wrestle the wrongness again for another twenty-four hours.

•   •   •

With trembling fingers, she pulled the pamphlet Paul had left out from under her bowl. On the cover was a beige brick
building, in front of which stood a serenely smiling man and woman—the man standing behind the woman and both of them lovingly cradling her pregnant belly.

“‘Women's Care Reproductive and Fertility Center,'” she read aloud. She gave a sardonic chuckle. “For when your birth control pills are doing a stellar job.”

She dropped the pamphlet facedown on the counter. How could they look so damned happy about it? How could they not be terrified? Maddie Routh had probably once had that happiness, but the terror in her eyes the day of the wreck was nothing that Melinda ever wanted to experience. It was a terror not only of losing her husband, but of losing something more. Something all-encompassing. Did she smile when she wrapped her own hands around her belly? She must be going on three months along now.
If, that is, the baby survived the crash.

Suddenly, not knowing the fate of Maddie Routh's pregnancy was an indignity Melinda could no longer bear.

Her mind turned to the older lady she'd run into last week at the diner. Karen. She'd said she'd come to the Tea Rose every day, sat in the same booth she'd been in the day of the accident, said it made her feel better. Maybe she'd sleuthed out information about Maddie.

Melinda put her clean cereal bowl back into the cabinet and slid the pamphlet into her purse, first folding those smiling faces in on themselves—what she couldn't see couldn't hurt her, right?—and then grabbed her car keys.

•   •   •

Karen was just where Melinda expected her to be, sitting in the same booth, a cell phone cupped in one hand, a cup of
coffee steaming in front of her. But she wasn't alone. At first Melinda walked to the counter and started to pull out a stool, feeling intrusive, but then she got a good look at who was sitting across from Karen—the pretty blond girl who'd pulled the children out of the bus that day. Joanna, she'd said her name was.

Guess Melinda wasn't the only one with this idea.

Guess the diner was a draw to all of them.

She pushed the stool back in, offering a sheepish grin to the waitress who'd just shown up with a menu, and walked over to the booth.

Joanna saw Melinda first, and the recognition seemed to dawn on her as slowly as it had on Melinda. Karen followed Joanna's gaze.

“Oh, hi,” Karen said.

“Melinda,” she reminded her.

“Yes, of course,” Karen said. “I remember.”

Melinda gestured to the booth seat Joanna was sitting on. “Can I join you?”

Joanna scooted over, and Melinda sat, just as Karen said, “Sure!”

“I was just telling Joanna here that I'm waiting for a call from my son's girlfriend, so I apologize in advance if I should jump up.” She flicked her eyes worriedly to the phone, which she still gripped tightly, as if she could squeeze a ringtone out of it.

“No problem,” Melinda said. “I'm actually on my way to an appointment.” She checked her watch, even though she knew it was hours before she was expected at the center.

A waitress appeared with a plate that she set down in front of Joanna. “Can I get you anything?” she asked Melinda. “Coffee?”

“Just some orange juice,” Melinda said, feeling a wave of anxiety push in on her stomach as she remembered Paul's note under her cereal bowl. She doubted she'd even be able to handle the orange juice. Wouldn't Paul be filled with hopeful delirium if she were to show up to the fertility clinic vomiting? The waitress left, and Melinda watched as Joanna stared down into her plate.

Bacon, eggs, biscuits and gravy, two sausage links. Melinda swallowed a few times, her hands never leaving the bench, where they pressed into the vinyl on either side of her.

“That looks delicious,” Karen said. She sipped her coffee, one eye sliding over to the screen of her cell phone.

Joanna unrolled her silverware and smoothed the paper napkin over her lap. She leaned forward to dig in and noticed Melinda staring at her.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

Melinda swallowed again, tried not to inhale the scent. “Yeah,” she said, forcing a smile. “Fine.”

Karen narrowed her eyes. “You sure?”

Melinda nodded, tearing her eyes away from the plate. She tried not to think about the greasy egg coating her tongue, the back of her throat. Tried not to hear the children's cries when she looked at the school bus yellow of the yolk.

Joanna and Karen looked alarmed, Joanna's fork poised over her plate.

Melinda tried to laugh, but it came out sounding more like a cough. “It's just that's what I was eating that day. The day of the crash. Big breakfast.”

“Oh,” Joanna said. “I can . . .” She gestured to the booth behind them, indicating that she would move to it.

“No, no, I'm just being stupid,” Melinda said. “Kind of a bad morning. I'll be fine. Please. Eat.”

“You're sure?” Joanna asked, and Melinda nodded, waving her off.
Get a grip, Melinda—you look like a freak,
she thought.

Joanna took a few bites and Karen sipped her coffee, and soon the orange juice arrived, and Melinda thought it a good thing after all. The juice was cold against her throat, which she hadn't realized was burning, and the sugar actually helped calm her stomach.

Finally, Karen let out a lengthy sigh. “Well, I guess I'm not going to hear from her this morning after all,” she said, letting her phone clatter to the table. She rubbed her forehead with her palm. Melinda noticed that the older woman didn't wear a wedding ring. “This is so ridiculous, you know?” she asked, peeking through her fingers with one eye, and groaned, let her hands drop back to the table. “Coming here every day, I mean,” she finished. “I come here, I sit at this table and stare at the grass. The whole time I'm telling myself it makes me feel better to be here, but the truth is, it doesn't. I feel . . .” She trailed off, rested her chin in her palm for a moment as she stared out the window, shaking her head. Joanna dropped her fork and reached across the table, putting her hand on Karen's arm.

“Like you can't forget her,” Melinda said quietly. “Right?” she said louder, forcing the other two to turn back to her. “Maddie Routh. You can't forget about her. At least that's how I feel. I came here today because I can't stop wondering about the baby.”

“Me, too,” Joanna said. “I think about her all the time. I wonder if I could've saved her husband if I hadn't been helping those kids.”

“You had to help the kids,” Karen said. “Who wouldn't help the kids first? It's natural. We all did.”

“I know,” Joanna said. “But I was the first one out there. And he died.”

They all gazed out the window again. Melinda would never forget how Maddie Routh had sobbed as her husband lost consciousness.

He's gone, isn't he? Talk to him. Michael! Michael, say something! Tell him. Tell him to stay with me. Tell him the baby needs him. Oh, God,
she'd cried.

It'll be okay,
Melinda kept saying over and over again, because it was all she could say. She'd been trained to deal with these types of situations. She handled them every day. She knew how to save lives, and she knew when a life was too far gone to the other side to be saved. She'd seen the look in Michael Routh's eyes so many times before, and it was never good news.
Calm down. We're going to get you out. Be calm,
she'd repeated.

“I prayed with him,” Karen said, interrupting Melinda's thoughts. “It was the weirdest thing. I haven't been to church since I was ten years old. I never pray. But somehow
I knew it was the only thing I could do for him. So I prayed the Lord's Prayer, because it was the only prayer I could remember. Ever since, I've prayed it every night before bed.”

“I heard you,” Joanna said. “I thought that was what you were doing.”

“It still doesn't help,” Karen said, and she picked up her coffee and took a long sip.

“Do you know anything about the baby?” Melinda asked. “Have you heard anything? Do they know anything here?”

Karen and Joanna shook their heads, and Joanna went back to eating, only the bites were very small and tentative now.

“I should go to work,” Karen said. “I can't be late. I've got some favors I might need to call in.” She wadded up the napkin on her lap and placed it on the table.

“Where do you work?” Joanna asked.

“A law office,” Karen said. “But I'm not a lawyer, so you don't have to start hating me.” She smiled wanly. “You?”

Joanna chewed, swallowed, seemed to consider what she might say. “I am unemployed at the moment. I kind of abandoned my job. My life, really. This is the only place I've been in a month. My parents are starting to worry I've died. I should call them.”

“Yes, you should,” Karen said. “Take it from me, it drives you a little crazy when you don't hear from your adult kids.” She picked up her cell phone and waggled it in the air before dropping it into her purse. “Although I guess if my son's worst problem was unemployment, I would throw a party.”

“Well, that's probably not my worst problem,” Joanna said blandly. “But that's a story for another day, I suppose.”

Melinda drained her orange juice, almost shocked to see it empty, and shook her head emphatically. “I've got to know,” she said. “I can't just keep wondering forever what happened to him.”

“Who?” Joanna asked.

“The baby. Maddie Routh's baby. I have to know if he survived. I want to at least be able to say he survived. Isn't it eating you up?”

“I wouldn't say ‘eating me up,'” Joanna said. She pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. “I mean, I've thought about them, but it's not, you know, keeping me up at night.”

“It's kept me up,” Karen said. “Not every night, but I've been up thinking about them.” She looked at Melinda. “You said ‘him.' Do you know that it's a boy?”

“No, that's just what I was picturing,” Melinda said. She scooted the empty juice glass on the table between her fingers, knowing, but unable to admit to herself, that this was only partly about the Routh baby. It was mostly about her own. “But I can't just keep picturing for the rest of my life. I can't imagine myself at eighty years old, wondering whether the Routh baby is getting ready to retire, or died young, or—I don't know—anything at all.” She pushed the glass away, exasperated, and leaned forward. “I can't explain it, but I feel like when that crash happened, something happened to me. Or to us, maybe. The baby and me. Or, hell, I don't know, maybe all of us.” She swirled her finger around to indicate herself, Joanna, and Karen. “A month
and a half ago, I'd never met you before, but here I am sitting with you now, acting like a crazy person. I'm not sure how to put it in words, exactly. It's just like—”

“It connected us,” Joanna said for her.

Melinda nodded. “In a sense, yeah.”

Karen's phone beeped and she jumped. She reached into her purse, checked the caller ID, seemed torn, but then pressed a button to silence it and dropped it back into her purse.

“I thought you were waiting for that,” Joanna said.

Karen waved her off. “She'll call back,” she said, though her face seemed to say otherwise, and it occurred to Melinda that she didn't know these two ladies at all. Not really. So why did she feel like she could crash in on them at the diner whenever she felt like it, plop down in a booth with them, and start talking crazy stuff about the Routh baby? Was it that Joanna was right—that they were somehow connected by the crash? Because, try as Melinda might to make this meeting appropriately uncomfortable or awkward . . . it just wasn't.