Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
POPPY
Should I call my mom?
Or should I key Oliver’s car?
Decisions, decisions.
(Even if it weren’t a rental, I would never do something destructive, but I can think it, okay?)
With my hands stuffed into my pockets, and my feet making a crump-crump sound on the dry, frozen ground, I walk the empty streets.
And I stew. How could he say that about my dad?
Why would he assault all of the best memories of my childhood, just to fit the narrative that everyone who messes up must deserve to rot in prison?
Some people don’t want to change, my mom’s voice reminds me.
For so long, I was sure she was wrong.
Now I’ve seen too much to feel that way.
But I can still wish.
Too soon, the sidewalk ends, and it’s just me and the lonely, icy wind.
The direction I’m headed is nothing but snow and open space, so I look both ways (unnecessary, but I am who I am) and cross the road.
I’m a few steps from the other side when the packed snow beneath my foot gives way.
Where I expected road beneath the snow, there’s a pothole. I pitch forward and my foot rolls.
I go down hard.
My palms slap the ground too late, stinging. Icy powder fills my nose and lungs when I gasp. I push up as fast as I can and scramble to stand, but my ankle is throbbing, and a shock of cold seeps through my jeans at the knees.
A fierce wind blows, causing a wave of shivers to overtake me. The biting cold is every bit as painful as my ankle.
And I’m alone.
So totally, helplessly alone.
A hundred memories sting like the wind, but my mind settles on one, maybe a year after my dad went to prison.
Mom had picked up a late shift at the restaurant after finishing her receptionist job, so I was watching Wheel of Fortune and eating my usual ramen dinner alone when the power went out.
Our apartment was already an ice box because we couldn’t afford to heat it above 65°, and I knew it would get cold, fast.
So I took my ramen into my room, threw on blankets, and lit some candles, thinking even that small amount of warmth would help.
As I was huddled around one candle, suddenly my bedroom got lighter.
I looked over to see the Depeche Mode poster my dad had given me was on fire.
The candle I’d put on my small dresser had somehow caught it.
I screamed and did the first thing that came to mind:
I threw my ramen at it.
And miraculously, it doused most of the flames. I was able to run into the bathroom, fill up my bowl with more water, and the next splash extinguished the rest of them.
The poster went right into the kitchen garbage, stuffed down beneath wrappers and potato peels so Mom would never know.
Then I grabbed towels and cleaned up the mess, scooping noodles back into the bowl and soaking up as much of the broth and water as I could.
Knowing I couldn’t go down to the laundry room in the basement, I hand washed the towels in the bathroom.
Thankfully, our old gas water heater was working, or I probably would have gotten frost bite washing, rinsing, and wringing the towels out.
When I was done, I was sweating in spite of the cold. I hung the towels over the shower curtain rod and then blew all the other candles out and threw myself onto my bed.
And I cried myself to sleep.
By the time my mom came home after midnight, the power had come back on, but something in me hadn’t.
I was huddled under a huge pile of blankets, and she came into my room and kissed my head. Then she went into the bathroom, and I heard her slip and then curse.
“What is all this water doing here?” she asked out loud. Sounds came from the bathroom, and I knew she was probably mopping up the water dripping from the towels. “What did that girl do?”
She let out the loudest sigh, and my sobs resumed.
She had no idea.
She would never have any idea.
Because I knew it was just as bad for her as it was for me. She was drained—I could hear it in her voice—and all she wanted to do was sleep, but because of my mistake, she was cleaning up instead of resting.
I would never let that happen again.
It was maybe a week or two before Mom noticed the Depeche Mode poster was missing. Somehow, the fire hadn’t scorched the walls, so she had no idea what happened.
“I noticed you took down the poster in your room. Everything okay?” she asked as she handed me toast.
“I’ve outgrown them,” I lied. Depeche Mode was my favorite band. My dad’s favorite, too.
“That’s good. I never understood why your dad liked them so much,” she said.
And that was as close as she ever got to the truth.
I wish I could erase the memory, but it clings like the snow does to my corduroy pants.
The streets are silent except for the occasional gale of wind that howls as it whips past me.
The cold is brutal and I’m not sure where I am, but I recognize the name of the street I’m on—it’s the one we took to come down to see the egg.
I’m at least a couple of blocks past where we turned to see it.
The path back up to the hotel is clear enough I could limp back, but I don’t want to run into Oliver right now. So with the tears I was crying now frozen on my face, I look around and spot tracks. Actually, multiple sets of tracks.
Right, there was another couple walking around this morning. They’re the only other people I’ve seen out here.
I follow their footsteps, shivering and limping and feeling like a sad, wounded animal—a tiny, injured bunny that the bunny colony kicked out because it’s too pitiful and useless.
The footsteps lead to a brick cafe that looks open, and I could almost start crying again, this time in gratitude to this intrepid small business owner who isn’t afraid of a little snowdrift.
I step inside and the heat immediately releases some of the tension the chill caused around my jaw and shoulders.
The bready, sugary smell makes my stomach growl, even though I’m not hungry.
I stomp off my snow on the mat and limp right up to the smiling woman at the counter. My cheeks tingle as they thaw.
“Didn’t expect to be so busy today,” she says with a smile. I turn back to look at the couple I know will be here, and that’s when I see Oliver.
Great.
He’s talking to the couple, too engrossed to notice me. If not for my ankle, I’d debate taking my order and running.
“What can I get you?” the woman asks. Her name tag reads “Maggie.”
“I’ll take a hot cocoa.”
“I’ll throw in an orange roll for you and the mister,” Maggie whispers with a wink as she runs my credit card.
“The—what, sorry?”
She leans in, like we’re in on some big secret together. “Oh, your boyfriend back there has been telling us how he messed up. But don’t you worry: Pat and Terry are giving him tips for how to fix things with you.”
I don’t know which word to repeat for clarification purposes. None of what she just said made sense. My ankle is staging a mini, stabbing rebellion at me for standing here, talking to the woman.
So I take the plate, two forks, and my cup of cocoa and turn around to see Oliver looking at me almost bashfully. The man at the other table is wearing a smirk, while his wife wears an understanding smile.
Understanding what, exactly?
Oliver jumps up and comes over to take the plate from my hands. “Here, let me help,” he says.
Um, what?
“Okay,” I say, and I’m about to limp after him when I realize I can’t let him know I’m limping.
If he sees me limping, he’ll think I’m not safe to drive, and he’ll try to drive, which will be all sorts of impossible for him, and then he won’t be able to react quickly enough when something happens, and when we go off the road, it’ll be my fault.
Everything will be my fault.
So I swallow down the pain, not letting myself yelp as I force myself to walk on my twisted ankle. But I could win at hide-and-seek by hiding behind my own smile. This is nothing.
Fletch pulls a chair out for me, and as I sit down, he whispers, “They think we’re a couple,” which does almost nothing to explain what on earth is happening here.
“I’m Pat,” the woman says, “and this is my husband, Terry. Your boyfriend told us he has a habit of sticking his foot in his mouth when he gets defensive.”
“Only when he gets defensive?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Oliver ducks his head. “I deserve that.”
I blink at him. What in the name of all that is holy is happening here?
“Terry and I were telling Oliver about the big fight that almost split us up.”
“Pat was telling,” Terry says. “I was filling in what she missed.”
I’m surprised to see a smile crack Oliver’s composure.
I try to sip my hot chocolate, but it’s still too hot, so I take a bite of orange roll while I wait for it to cool. It’s warm and sweet, with a hint of tang.
“Our fight was a doozy,” Pat says with all the energy that comes from telling a familiar story.
“Here we go again,” Terry says.
“Hush,” she says, swatting at him. “We were married three years, and Terry was driving truck for his dad. I was pregnant when we met and working double shifts at a diner, but Terry didn’t mind, even if his dad did.
We eloped. When Terry’s dad found out, he threatened to cut him off.
But my sweet husband—” Pat reaches over and pats Terry’s arm, “—didn’t tell me any of this.
He thought he’d convince his dad and was sure he needed to handle everything himself.
Heaven forbid he let his wife know his father was hanging our livelihood over his head. ”
“I was trying to protect the woman I loved,” Terry mutters, but it feels like something he’s used to saying, not something he believes.
“Right, he ‘protected’ me right into thinking he was leaving us!” Pat’s laugh has an edge to it, even forty-one years later. “One night I ‘overheard’ a phone call—”
“Listened in,” Terry corrects her. “And I don’t blame her,” he adds.