Page 56 of Something About September

At that moment, Heather came back balancing three drinks and a plate of nachos smothered in cheese. “Okay,” she said, sliding into the booth. “Time to eat my feelings.”

“What happened?”

Heather just sighed and bit into a nacho.

“She got fired from the PTA.”

“What?”

“God, these are good,” Heather said. “Why do I ever try to convince myself kale chips are just as good as actual chips? And, yes, it’s true. I confronted a mother during a PTA meeting about her daughter’s treatment of my daughter.” Then she grew thoughtful. “Ambrosia has been coming home crying about it for weeks—and some of the things this kid was saying to her started to feel a little familiar.” She looked up at Rebecca. “Because I’ve done that, haven’t I? Don’t answer me. I know it’s true. I was a mean girl in high school—and now, seeing someone I love get treated that way…” She shook her head. “Well, it caused me to lose my shit at a school meeting.” She was thoughtful for another moment—while all Rebecca could think about was reporting back to Sabrina as soon as possible that Heather was possibly having her first moment of self-awareness. Then she pushed the plate toward Rebecca, a clumsy peace offering. “Nacho?” Rebecca took one and tapped it lightly against the one Heather held in her hand, marveling at the turn this night had taken. She was sure she wasn’t going to become a regular at Heather and Melanie’s “moms’ night out”—and yet, it was nice to know Heather Walsh actually possessed a soul.

Now Melanie met Rebecca’s eyes. “To long-lost love,” she said, and raised an eyebrow. Rebecca looked away.

“You can’t do that,” Heather exclaimed. “You have to look everyone in the eye when you do a toast or…” She turned to Melanie. “What happens? I forget.”

“Seven years of bad sex?” Melanie ventured.

“Something like that.”

Rebecca looked each of them in the eye—these women who were once girls who had intimidated her in high school. She suddenly realized they’d changed as much as she had; she just hadn’t noticed. They were not the same people. People could change, and yet they still carried around essential layers of themselves.

“You look like you’re having a very deep thought,” Melanie said.

“Typical Becca McIntosh,” Heather said with a laugh that wasn’t unfriendly, that made Rebecca realize that this person knew her, even if they had not been friends.

Later, when the server came by with the bill, Heather insisted on paying. “My good deed for the week,” she said, grinning. “I’ll tell the karma gods I’m working on it.”

Outside, the night air was cool and sweet. The sign for the Tipsy Apple glowed red against the dark as Heather waved goodbye to them and walked toward her house.

Melanie pulled her sweater tighter and turned to Rebecca. “I meant what I said, Rebecca.”

“I know, but it’s not simple.”

“I’ll talk to Cort. I just want to set things right.”

Rebecca shook her head gently. “It’s between us,” she said. “I don’t think you can fix it. But thank you for wanting to try.” The hug Melanie gave her before saying goodbye was quick and surprising. Then she was gone, and Rebecca stood for a moment alone under the streetlight, in a town she had known all her life—and yet, it still never failed to surprise her.

Chapter 35

The streetlight pooled around her like stage light as Rebecca crossed the empty road. Her cheeks were warm from cider and laughter she hadn’t expected to find, with Melanie and Heather, of all people. The night air smelled like ripe apples and woodsmoke. She breathed it in deeply as she walked, then paused in front of the diner. The downstairs lights were still on, and, upstairs, the apple-blossom lamp was on, too. Instead of the diner looking lonely, the way it had before, she felt like she was being welcomed home by her past self. She let herself into the diner and stood a moment in the quiet, listening to the soft tick of cooling pipes, the compressor’s far-off thrum, sounds she’d been hearing forever.

Upstairs, she toed off her boots and shrugged out of her jean jacket, poured herself a glass of water, before weaving toward her bedroom, realizing as she did that she was more than a bit buzzed. She passed the bed and bumped into the bookshelf, thinking it was where it had been when she was a teen—but she and Sabrina had moved it slightly. She heard a topple, then a crash. The unmistakable sound of breaking glass. Dismayed, she realized she had broken the picture frame with the image of her mother, pregnant with her beneath the apple tree.

The glass had cracked in a single lightning bolt across her mother’s serene face. Rebecca knelt, heart knocking, palms braced on the old floorboards. For a moment she just looked: Evie in the yard by the apple tree, late-afternoon light on her skin, one hand curved over the soft swell of pregnancy. Love distilled into an image. She felt suddenly, achingly clumsy, like she’d hurt something sacred.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to the photograph, to herself. “I can fix it.” But could she?

She carried the frame to the bed and sat cross-legged. The metal tabs on the back were stiff with age; she pried them up one by one and slid the cardboard loose. The cracked pane of glass lifted away. When she eased the photo free, the paper rasped against the mat and something else shifted beneath that.

Behind the picture, an envelope. Her breath caught as she coaxed it into view.

The paper was cream, thin and velvety, edges browned with age. And her name was on the front, unmistakable. “Baby Rebecca.”

Her mouth went dry. She didn’t realize she was shaking until the flap trembled in her fingers. She slid the page out carefully, flattened the crease, and let the past rise up to meet her.

My little girl,

I don’t know your face yet, only your heartbeat. I feel you when I’m still and quiet. When I’m scared or sad—which isn’t all that often, since I found out about you. I want you to know that. I wanted you. You and I, we’re going to be fine. We have Lenore—my mother, your grandmother. And we have each other. I don’t regret your father, either, and I think it’s important for you to know that. I’ll give this to you when the time is right. Maybe when you finally really need to know, whenever that is. Your father was a good guy. But he was my TA at McGill. And he wasn’t ready for a family. He said he loved me, and he probably did, in the moment, but really, we didn’t know each other all that well. Not enough to be a family. I left because I knew what I wanted, and that I didn’t need him to stay with me out of obligation, that we would be just fine on our own.