When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (17 page)

I met all of my girlfriends in college. We were all in the same boat, so to speak—all of us stepping foot in the big bad world of almost-adulthood, and some of us already having been there for a year or two, ready to help the newbies out. All that really troubled any of us at that time was making good grades, trying to get ourselves into established relationships with a guy that might lead to something more permanent down the road (or at least give us a good time for a short while), and, of course, finding ways to explain to our parents that we just
had
to go on that spring break trip with our friends rather than come back home for Aunt Jillian’s birthday party. College is one of those special times when you make some of the most endearing friendships a woman will ever have. Granted, I’m only twenty-seven, but that’s what I think, anyhow.

Just one big happy family—six girls in college trying to take the next big steps in their lives. There for each other during highs and lows. And now, nine years later, I simply could not fathom being farther than a neighborhood away from any one of them. Standing here in what will very soon be Sophie’s own café, slapping up the paint and helping make something so big together, I realize the weight of these friendships.

When I landed my job up on Pill Hill, I was relieved that Seattle would still remain home. When Conner found a sweet deal with his accounting firm downtown, I was relieved we wouldn’t be the ones throwing a wrench in my friendship with the girls. Slowly, each one of us found our way home, here in Seattle, with Emily returning “back to base” after whatever extended vaca or volunteer mission she had going on.

It was last year, before Conner and I became engaged, when the tables were about to turn. That’s right. Moving
away
from Seattle—and
 
my friends!

Conner suggested that we move back to his hometown, LA. We argued terribly over it. Conner’s a pretty affable guy, and we go really well together. Like any couple, though, we have our moments, and when he proposed a move to LA, I freaked. I was one unhappy (and
still
unengaged) girl at the time. Eventually we agreed that I wouldn’t bring up marriage so long as he didn’t bring up Los Angeles. Things went along that way for a while. And now, as is obvious, we’re engaged…

I’ll let you in on a little secret. Now that marriage is not too far off, I’m kind of scared of the LA topic rearing its buggy little head again. I hope not. I mean, I’d move anywhere for Conner. Anywhere to be together with him…make each other happy… But this is home. Seattle is where we belong. We have a great home in Madison Park, nice jobs, and both of us have our friends here.

As I was saying a minute ago, the friends you make in college… They’re unlike any friendships you’ve ever made. Unlike any I’ve ever made, for sure. You’re all going through so many similar things in life, the strings that sort of bring you together, and the experiences you start to have and share are eventually the things that bind you together. I know I could always meet new people in the event Conner and I move, and meeting new people is nice and all, but it’s not the same. Know what I mean? It’s just not the same.

As I roll layer after layer of paint onto this wall that is honestly seeming to grow a foot taller by the hour (maybe the paint fumes are getting to me), I continue to reflect on the past and how great it is to have my good friends so close. As Robin teases me by putting a dollop of paint on my cheek, and as Sophie calls out from the back that we better not be messing up her place too much (and as Robin and I giggle about her being her bossy and controlling self), I really know that this is where I belong. I belong here, at
home
, with my girls. And with Conner, of course. He just has to stay here; he can’t bring up LA.

Robin breaks my train of thought by putting another dollop of paint on me, this time on my forearm. She asks what’s on my mind, because she, like all close girlfriends, can usually read my thoughts, or at least my body language.

“Just hoping Conner doesn’t mention moving to LA again,” I say solemnly. “Not that I think he really will, since things at home are great.” I crinkle up my face and look at her. “Why would things change, right? But it’s worth a thought… Conner’s brought it up before.”

“Don’t borrow trouble,” Robin tells me. “If he brings it up, then you can talk about it.” She rolls her brush into the paint tray. “Don’t give another thought to it, okay?” She looks at me critically. “Got it?”

“Yeah, I was only thinking about ‘what if.’ You know, since it was a big deal a while ago?”

“A while ago,” Robin states perfunctorily. “Now you two are going to get married, you have a home together here…your jobs, your lives, your friends… Everything’s here and there’s no point in dredging up past conversations or issues that mean
nothing
anymore.”

I nod and slowly roll my brush in the paint an unnecessary amount of times.

“I know it bothered you a lot last year…when Conner brought it up,” Robin presses on.
 

I continue to soggy my brush.
 

“But he hasn’t brought it up again, and I don’t think you need extra worries on your list, Claire.”
 

I nod again.
 

“You think you’ve got enough paint on there, babe?”

I look up to meet Robin’s smiling face and wag my head at my hazy behavior. “Just a lot on my mind,” I say with a sigh.

“I know.” Robin takes my brush from me and does a few quick and hard-pressed rolls in the dry paint pan off to the side. “Here.” She returns my brush, perfectly ready to be rolled onto the wall. “You don’t have to tell me how tough it can be to keep from worrying or borrowing trouble. Having Rose and dealing with the paternity issues was
not
a walk in the park, girl.”

“True,” I say. I watch as Robin expertly rolls her paint along the wall. I mimic her smooth movements and say, “How do you deal with that, even
now
? I mean, it’s not like the paternity issue is
really
at rest.” I pause. “Right?”

“Exactly! At any moment Brandon,” I see her flinch ever so slightly at the mention of Rose’s dad’s name, “could waltz back into our lives and stir up trouble. I’m doing the best I can to move past it and ignore it…trying to do what’s best for Rose
and
for me. And for Bobby, for that matter.”

Robin heaves a sigh and continues with a fresh roll of paint. “But, as I said, Claire, don’t borrow trouble that’s not there. Brandon’s not knocking on our door right now, and I’m not biting my nails wondering when or if he will. You can’t live like that. Just can’t.”

“I guess if you can do it with something so big as…” I hesitate for a second with the name, “…Brandon, then I can get over delusions of Conner moving us to LA.”

“That’s right.” Robin gives me a warm smile and motions towards my brush, which I’ve left to sop up excess amounts of paint, yet again. “Now come on. Get to work or Sophie will have our heads.”

I chuckle and squeeze out the excess paint in the other pan. “God forbid we take a break…during a paint…
party
,” I kid.

“We better not mess up, or Sophie’ll hire someone to come in and do over our work,” Robin says in a teasing tone.

“Yeah, like Chad.”

Robin bursts into a loud guffaw, and then comes Sophie’s voice, ringing from the back. “Girls! You’re not making a mess, are you?”

Chapter Eleven

“Is that so?” I say to my first patient of the day, Ruth.

Ruth is a spry old gal at the ripe age of eighty-six. She’s still quick on her feet, but not as sharp a tack as she used to be because of her unfortunate early stage of Alzheimer’s. Luckily her case of the terrible disease is progressing at a slow pace, but it doesn’t make it any easier on dear Ruth or her family.

As is often the situation with Alzheimer’s patients, some days are better than others. But today’s a good day. Good days are always reasons to smile—especially when Ruth is smiling and excited and padding from one end to another of her charming old house in the quaint Queen Anne district.

“It
is
so, my dear,” Ruth says. “It
is.
”

Ruth has returned from her bedroom and is holding in her wrinkled and liver-spotted hands an antique frame. Inside is a black and white photo of a very distinguished-looking sailor. He can’t be more than eighteen years old, and his lone dimple on the left side of his cheek, causing him to look even more childish, makes me think he might not even
be
eighteen…maybe not even sixteen.

“Very handsome,” I say slightly louder than my normal speaking volume to make sure Ruth can hear. I’m not sure if the reason why she won’t respond to some questions I’ll ask is because she’s becoming hard of hearing or if it’s in fact the onset Alzheimer’s that’s causing her mind to go blank for brief moments at a time.

“Isn’t he?” Ruth says. She runs a finger along the soft jawline of the boy in the photograph. Her nails are acrylic, long, and lacquered a cherry red, thanks to Ruth’s daughter, who insists that her mother have the same bi-weekly salon treatment she’s had for the past forty years. Because while some things change, she says, some things just have to stay the same. I totally get that.

Ruth’s cared-for nails makes me think of Melissa and her pristine nails, and then I’m reminded that I
must
contact her to see about the meeting with the florist.

Melissa said that sometimes it’s the norm for the bride to meet with the florist, and sometimes the coordinator will come along. This time, however, Melissa thought she’d go ahead and take care of it all by herself. (Yes, I was surprised she was doing something on her own.)

I didn’t put much thought into the matter, because I figure she’s got things worked out, and because I’m swamped as it is. I
still
haven’t finished those darn clothespins.

“This is Art back when he was in the Navy,” Ruth says.

I snap myself out of my wedding daydreaming. It really is consuming my thoughts on a near twenty-four hour basis.
Remember, Claire,
I tell myself.
Calm down and don’t borrow trouble!

Ruth is still stroking the jaw of the boy in the photograph.

“I can’t believe you’ve never shown me this before,” I say to her. I finish sorting the freshly laundered potholders and tea towels and slowly meander to the cupboards and drawers. Ruth shuffles gaily behind.

“He wasn’t a day older than eighteen in this picture,” she says. “He enlisted in the Navy—the
Navy
—as soon as he could. Such a brave, brave man.”

I look at her—she’s looking fondly at the photo—and I say, “I’m sure he was a very brave man, Ruth. And handsome, too.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. She thrusts the framed photo at me and urges me to take it, despite of the tower of tea towels in my hands. “Look, look. Real close,” she’s saying, still thrusting the frame at me.

I set the towels down and do as she asks. “Oh, yes,” I say loudly and drawn out. “He is a
real
looker. Yeah? Very nice.”

“Ohh.” Ruth pats my arm repeatedly. “That’s exactly what we used to say in my day.” She pauses. “Here, I have more photos of Art.” She trots off to her bedroom and I’m left holding the rather heavy frame.

“Just a minute, Ruth,” I call out, not sure if she hears me.

After I finally find a minute to finish putting away the kitchen items, I follow her into her bedroom and let her tell me the story behind a variety of photographs that cover almost every square inch of her dresser.

She’s so cute, hemming and hawing over different photos, lifting up some frames, then setting them back down, thinking better of sharing that one with me for whatever reason. Then finding “Oh! Just the one!” and bringing it for me to see, taking a brief seat next to me on her bed to tell the story behind that particular photograph.

Ruth then brings back another photo, one that I saw not five minutes ago. “This is a photo of Art when he won a whittling contest at the local fair. He won first prize. First prize!”

I give a small smile, knowing exactly what she’ll say next, because it’s the same photo, the same story, the same moment again. But today is a good day. Ruth didn’t put her trash in the bathroom sink like she did the other day, and she’s not asking for the umpteenth time where Schnickerdoodle is. Sometimes I bring him for certain patient visits. Some people really get a kick out of him, and he’s so great with them.

No, today Ruth is doing well, and maybe going down memory lane, looking at photos of her late husband Art is causing her a little setback right now. No worries.

“Ruth, honey?” I say, taking the familiar framed photo from her hands. “How about we do some of those reading exercises together?”

She pauses for a moment, looking down at the photo. I’m waiting for a response, and when I don’t receive one soon I repeat myself, a little louder this time.

“Why are you shouting, Claire?” She looks over at me and pushes her bifocals further up her nose. “I can hear perfectly well, dear.”

“Want to do some reading?”

She thinks on the question for a moment, then says, “Did you bring those crosswords?” She’s now smiling eagerly.

“You bet!” I take her by the hand and lead her into the living room.

“Oh, I can walk faster than you, you slow poke,” she says, sticking her acrylic finger in my back. “Move it or lose it, sister.” Then, like the spry, Sicilian golden girl Sophia Petrillo, she pushes past me halfway down the hall and begins a search for the crosswords I brought along.

***

After visiting my last patient of the day, I’m on my way to pick Lara up from her office. Apparently she’s getting her car detailed and needs a ride to her therapy session after work.

“Sessions still going well?” I ask Lara on the drive to her shrink’s office. It’s over in Belltown, where Sophie lives, so I figured I’d drop by afterward and get another round of yoga in.

I’ve been meaning to sign up for a class at Studio Tulaa, but life’s demanding a lot at the moment. Sophie’s been such a doll, letting me drop by once or twice a week to do some yoga at home with her. I feel it’s time to just go sign up for the darn class already. Robin says they’re great.