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“Thank you,” said Rob McCray, when his wife still made no effort to answer.
“Rob, Val, why don’t you meet us at the bowling alley,” called a man standing down the hall in a small group of parents near the restrooms.
“We sure are proud of her. Thanks,” Valencia finally said to me, a puzzled but not particularly interested look on her face. She clearly had no idea who I was. Then she turned her back to me and continued through the door, out into the hall, not even making an effort to hold it for me. “Sounds good, Todd. We’ll just run home and drop off Mikey, and we’ll meet you over there.”
Rob went into the men’s room and Valencia joined the group. She fumbled through her purse, then her pocket, found her cigarettes and lighter, apparently ready to use them the second she stepped outside. I hung back watching. I buttoned my coat, trying to blend in with the other people leaving. She paid no attention to me. Indelicately she coughed, stepped back from her friends, and went to the water fountain for a drink. A brief, phantom limb memory revealed itself as her hand reflexively moved to hold back the long hair that had once been such a part of her identity, and then fell uselessly to her side when its grasp met the collar of her jacket. She no longer had beautiful hair to hold back out of the way. Every last detail of her had changed.
I realized then that Valencia really had died that night, long ago. This woman who had resigned herself to having an average, forgettable life bore no resemblance to the Valencia I had once known. I suppose I could have seen her as a fighter, a survivor, but the fighting she had done to become, simply, a survivor, was twenty-one years in the past. And no matter what she
had gone through, there was no excuse to aspire only to survive.
Is this good enough for you, Valencia? I wondered. I wanted to shake her. It was not good enough for Valencia, but it was good enough for Val.
Who was there left to believe in? I had never much believed in God. It really was possible, likely even, that we humans were nothing more than very advanced fish. So who could blame us for being such colossal failures? We were all equally meaningless, pointlessly judging one another. Success or failure, what did it matter, anyhow?
As I walked past her, slipped her class ring off my finger (it never had really fit me), and dropped it into her open purse, I knew that if she had recognized me I would have forgiven everything. Even the mom jeans.
Chapter 75
When I arrived back in Savannah, my new home was parked a half block down from our house. I stopped myself from checking it out immediately, and instead went right inside as if everything were normal.
“Hello, Adrian,” I said, surprising him in his studio.
“Hey! You’re home,” he said, getting up to pour me some iced tea. We sat down together in the living room. The naked painting of me was finished and was hanging above our couch. The part of the face not covered with hair looked suspiciously like my sister’s senior picture.
“You finished the painting,” I remarked.
“I did.”
“Well how about that.” I sipped my tea and scratched at a bug bite on my ankle.
“Look at the bright blue camper!” Adrian exclaimed, pulling back the curtain and pointing down the street. I hadn’t realized that Bruce was going to paint the outside too.
“It’s really something,” I said. I got up and looked back at it, a little sliver of doubt momentarily eclipsing the sunshine of the open road in my future. There were a few things I hadn’t thought about. Like, how fun would rambling around in that thing be when I was nine months pregnant? And where would I have the baby? My doctor was, of course, here in Savannah, but if I stuck around until then I might as well just keep living with Adrian. And what if someone tried to break in? The walls were so thin.
Selling oranges from a motorhome kind of required two people, not counting babies.
“You settle in and relax while I put your stuff away, okay Honey?” said Adrian, heading outside to the pile of luggage the taxi driver had dropped off. I could tell he thought that we were happy again. I got up and wandered around to see what kind of damage Alexa had done to our house. Adrian’s house, I corrected myself.
The kennel called and told me to get your mean dog. I did, but then he got away. Sorry! was written on a scrap of paper towel. Otherwise nothing appeared out of the ordinary. I sat down on the couch, not quite ready to do much else.
“I’m so glad you’re home, Sweetie,” said Adrian, setting down my suitcases. He gave me a kiss on the top of my head and then disappeared into the dining room. A moment later he reappeared. “Where do you want me to put this?” he asked, holding a huge box of French baby clothes.
I shrugged.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, setting down the box.
“Nothing. I’ll put those clothes away.”
“No, this box is really heavy. I’ll just put it away for you.”
“You can take it up to the nursery.”
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, picking it back up.
“Sure. I’m alright.”
He came over to me and kissed me again on the top of the head. He turned to walk away, but then he stopped and set the box back down. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked.
