Every morning, Carmen Hart pastes on her made-for-TV smile and broadcasts the weather. She’s the Florida panhandle’s favorite meteorologist, married to everyone’s favorite high school football coach. They’re the perfect-looking couple, live in a nice house, and attend church on Sundays. From the outside, she’s a woman who has it all together. But on the inside, Carmen Hart struggles with doubt. She wonders if she made a mistake when she married her husband. She wonders if God is as powerful as she once believed. Sometimes she wonders if He exists at all. After years of secret losses and empty arms, she’s not so sure anymore.
Until Carmen’s sister—seventeen year old runaway, Gracie Fisher—steps in and changes everything. Gracie is caught squatting at a boarded-up motel that belongs to Carmen’s aunt, and their mother is off on another one of her benders, which means Carmen has no other option but to take Gracie in. Is it possible for God to use a broken teenager and an abandoned motel to bring a woman’s faith and marriage back to life? Can two half-sisters make each other whole?
Enjoy Several Complimentary Chapters
BONUS CONTENT
Inspiration:
The hand of the Lord was upon me, and he brought me out in the Spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of the valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great meany bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”
~Ezekiel 37:1-3
The Cast:
Behind the Scenes with Carmen Hart
Behind the Scenes with Gracie Fisher
Behind the Scenes with Ben Hart
Discussion Questions
- Whose story did you enjoy more—Carmen or Gracie’s? Why?
l - This novel was inspired by the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel. A couple times throughout the story, Carmen feels like she’s nothing more than dry bones. Have you ever felt this way? Has God ever resuscitated an area of your life you thought was past the point of resuscitation? Share with the group.
l - Carmen suffers from a recurring nightmare that changes slightly each time. How does the nightmare start? How does it change? What shocking thing happens in the last nightmare? How do these nightmares reflect Carmen’s waking hours? Can you relate? How so?
l - At the end of the novel, Carmen wonders at what point coincidence stops being coincidence. Do you believe in coincidence? Why or why not?
k - Ben describes a process called wedging, wherein clay must be broken apart and kneaded back together in order to survive the kiln. How might this analogy relate to Carmen and Gracie’s life? What about your own?
k - Entropy is the gradual decline into disorder, the idea that without regular upkeep, things fall into disrepair. What things in this story suffer the effects of entropy? In what ways do you combat entropy in your own life?
k - Carmen believed that a baby would solve her problems. Do you think this is realistic? Why or why not? Have you ever fallen into this same way of thinking? Please share with the group.
l - Gracie and Carmen cope very differently with their mother’s alcoholism. How did Carmen cope? How did Gracie cope? How did their experience shape who they are as the story opens?
l - Carmen fell into the trap of thinking God owed her for good behavior, that He was intentionally withholding something good from her life. Has there ever been a point in your life when you felt the same sense of entitlement? Do you think God intentionally withholds good things from our lives?
l - Who is your favorite secondary character? Why?
l - Gracie calls Carmen a hypocrite. In what ways is Carmen hypocritical throughout the novel? How does social media play into Carmen’s struggles? Do you feel like the person you project to the world is an honest depiction of who you really are? How can we get better at being real?
l - In what ways do Gracie and Carmen help each other throughout the novel? Whom do you think ends up being the most helpful?
l - The title of this novel is The Art of Losing Yourself. What do you think it means? How do various characters lose themselves throughout this story?
ENDORSEMENTS:
“Ganshert’s novel is exquisite. The emotions keeps the reader invested in the characters of this gut-wrenching tale. The story flows at a wonderful pace with excellent characterization that shows the true meaning of family.”
– 4 1/2 Stars Top Pick, Romantic Times
“Once again Ganshert holds us spellbound in a beautiful story of endurance and hope–offering no easy answers but the irresistible light of Christ to guide us. And what characters! Real, heartbroken, warm, and seeking. Within them we meet our friends, our family, ourselves. I thoroughly enjoyed this and, as always, eagerly await her next.”
– Katherine Reay, author of Lizzy and Jane and Dear Mr. Knightley
“The Art of Losing Yourself highlights Katie Ganshert’s vivid prose as it brims with reality that will challenge and change you with every turn of the page. Ganshert is not afraid to write raw, to wrestle with the things that test our faith and, if we are willing, draw us closer to God.”
– Beth K. Vogt, author of Somebody Like You, one of Publisher’s Weekly Best Books of 2014
“Katie Ganshert’s poignant novel hits deep emotional chords as the characters battle to a place of healing through a haze of pain. As someone who has experienced the deep pain of miscarriage, I could so easily relate to Carmen’s journey. Carmen’s story emphasizes what I learned: the pain and broken relationships can be healed. While plumbing deep waters, this is a story of resounding hope and discovery. I highly recommend it!”
– Cara Putnam, award-winning author of Shadowed by Grace and Where Treetops Glisten
“This book will have readers lost in its pages for hours, journeying along with two sisters in a rich, emotionally-charged tale of second chances, restoration, and finding hope–and love–when it seems perpetually out of sight.”
– Betsy St. Amant, author of All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes
“Sitting down with a Katie Ganshert novel is like talking with a trusted friend. It’s something to look forward to, knowing the conversation won’t disappoint and you’ll be the better for it at the end. The Art of Losing Yourself is a poignant tale of estrangement, loss, and grief, and the joy that comes in discovering you are indeed loved. In her classic tell-it-like-it-is style, Ganshert’s complex characters step off the page and invite you in. Their journeys are difficult but relatable, and we’re sucked along for the ride, rooting for them the whole way. And when the last page is turned, we are left with a smile and the contented sigh that comes at the conclusion of every wonderful read.
– Catherine West, award-winning author of Yesterday’s Tomorrow
“Katie Ganshert will sweep you into another world in The Art of Losing Yourself. I loved this book! The journey Katie’s characters take is raw, beautiful, and honest, and the prose is lovely.”
– Cindy Woodsmall, author of A Love Undone
“In The Art of Losing Yourself, Katie Ganshert has woven a sensitive story of hope and healing for our modern world. The empathy with which Ganshert explores the complexity of the human heart is so authentic and the depth of emotion so real, I was brought to tears more than once. Sisters, daughters, and mothers alike will find themselves moved by this book.”
-Kristy Cambron, author of The Butterfly and the Violin and A Sparrow in Terezin
“Wounded, heart-tugging characters. Beautiful prose. An emotional journey that holds the reader captive. Katie Ganshert has such a way of tapping into those raw, vulnerable places with her characters, and The Art of Losing Yourself is no exception. I love the thread of hope and unabashed honesty weaving through this story of loss and letting go.”
– Melissa Tagg, author of From the Start
“With a keen attention to detail and a unique voice, Katie Ganshert has woven a poignant and powerful story in The Art of Losing Yourself. Universal themes, charged and realistic emotions, and characters readers will easily relate to make this story a standout.”
– Courtney Walsh, author of Paper Hearts and the NYT e-book bestseller, A Sweethaven Summer
“The Art of Losing Yourself took my breath away with its ability to portray the complex facets of human relationships in such a realistic yet tender way. Ganshert’s writing creates a prism of perspectives into the lives of characters as deeply flawed as they are endearing. Carmen’s and Gracie’s stories made me laugh, made me cry, and made me think–and that’s my definition of a perfect novel.”
– Deborah Raney, author of The Face of the Earth and the Chicory Inn Novels series
BOOK DETAILS
Publisher: Katie Ganshert
Copyright @2022
Kindle ASIN: B09VYFMXF4
Paperback ASIN: B0C4MM5M9V
Amazon Paperback ISBN: 979-8393796815
PROLOGUE
The nurse rolled me down a hallway and through a door where my husband waited on a chair pushed into one corner of the small recovery room. He stood as soon as we entered.
“She’s pretty groggy, but she’s awake. She has to be up and walking before y’all can go.”
“Is she in any pain?” Ben asked.
I closed my eyes, feigning sleep.
“She shouldn’t be.”
The door closed.
Ben came to my bedside and wrapped my cold, lifeless hand in his strong grip, as if the tighter he held, the closer I’d stay. But it was too late. I was already gone.
When the nurse returned, Ben stepped back. She gently shook my shoulder, encouraged me to sit, then stand, then walk across the room. And just like that, they released me—as if getting up and walking meant I was all better now.
Ben hovered as we made our way outside, his stare heating the side of my face more intensely than the Florida sun. He hadn’t stopped looking at me since the nurse rolled me into that room. I had yet to look at him. He opened my car door. I eased inside, pulled the seat belt across my chest, and stared straight ahead with dry eyes and an empty heart. As soon as he turned the key in the ignition, Christian music filled the car.
Like a viper, my hand struck the power button.
We drove in silence.
Unable to get warm, I wrapped my arms around my middle and watched the palm trees whiz past the window in streaks of vibrant green. Ben white-knuckled the steering wheel, darting glances at me every time we hit a red light. When he pulled into the driveway of our home, neither of us moved. We sat in the screaming silence while I drifted further and further away—out into a sea of drowning hopes.
“Carmen.”
An entire army of emotions marched inside the confines of my name, desperation leading the way.
A better wife might have met her husband halfway, might have even offered him some reassurances—a glance, a hand squeeze, some sign that all would be well. I could do nothing but gaze at the pink blossoms on the crepe myrtle in our front lawn. New life.
How ironic.
Ben reached across the console and set his hand on my knee. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make this better.”
Something feral clawed its way up my throat. A baby would make this better. Give me a baby.
Ben and I did everything right. We did things God’s way. So why wasn’t this happening? Why did this continue to happen? But I swallowed the wild thing down and moved my leg.
His hand slid onto the seat—bereft and alone.
CHAPTER TWO
GRACIE
When you grew up in a small town like New Hope, Texas, obscurity was a luxury that didn’t exist. I was the daughter of Evelyn Fisher, a woman known for two things: making frequent visits to the corner liquor store and baptizing herself in the creek every other Sunday.
My little-girl self would sit on the tire swing beneath our oak tree, my big toe tracing circles in the dirt, and watch as my mother crossed herself in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost before walking out into the water that bordered our backyard. I remembered being more puzzled by the crossing than the actual baptizing. Back then, we went to a Baptist church where folks didn’t do that sort of thing.
“You can take the girl out of the Catholic, but you can’t take the Catholic out of the girl,” she’d say.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means old habits die hard, Gracie-bug.”
That, I understood. Because as often as she emptied her bottles into the sink and dunked herself in that creek, the liquor cabinet never remained empty for long. Needless to say, we were odd ducks in New Hope, and the oddest ducks of all at our church. Not so much because Mama carried a rosary in her purse, or cried during the sermons, or crossed herself during the benediction, but because she drank, and according to our pastor, drinking was the same as dancing with the devil.
One Sunday, as she headed toward our small house, soaking wet from head to toe, I stopped my tire spinning and squinted at her through the afternoon brightness. “Why do you dunk yourself into the creek like that?”
She paused, as if noticing me for the first time. That happened a lot—her forgetting I was around. Usually I had to go and get into some real trouble in order to remind her. Mama brought her hand up to her forehead like a visor. “To be made new, baby girl.”
Eventually, she gave up on the baptizing and decided on rehab instead. I was at the end of fourth grade when she dropped me off at my father’s for three months. When she finally picked me up, all our belongings were crammed into the back of our rusty station wagon. We left New Hope behind and drove east to the town of Apalachicola, Florida. My mother got a job as a waitress and I went to school at Franklin High. No more church. No more creek-dunking. The one thing that hadn’t changed? Mama’s dance with the devil.
* * *
At the sound of my alarm, I experienced a wave of two diametrically opposed emotions. Relief, because this was my final year of high school at Franklin. And dread because this was only the first day.
I slapped my phone into silence and picked up the mood ring on my nightstand; its stone was the color of stormy sky. I didn’t really believe it could read my mood, but I found it beneath a Laffy Taffy wrapper in one of the many roadside ditches I de-littered over the summer. It was actually a nice ring, made with legit silver—not like those cheesy five-dollar ones you find at chintzy stores like Claire’s. Plus, it fit. So I cleaned it off and stuck it in my pocket. My single, solitary treasure from a summer filled with trash.
Muffled conversation filtered through the sliver of space between the worn carpet and my bedroom door—a female-male exchange about a water main breaking in downtown Tallahassee. Mom was either (a) already awake watching the news or (b) passed out on the couch from the night before with the TV still on. If I had any money to bet, I’d put it all on option b.
I pressed my thumb over the mood ring’s stone and pictured violet—a color that meant happy, relaxed, free. I knew because last spring I’d found this behemoth paperback titled The Meaning of Color at Downtown Books and read it in a single day. I removed my thumb from the stone and took a peek. The amber color of a cat’s eye stared back at me—mixed emotions.
Maybe the ring worked after all.
With a resigned sigh, I kicked off the tangle of sheets covering my legs and poked my head outside the door. The TV cast a celestial glow on my mother, who lay sprawled on the couch, one arm flung over her head. Dead to the world.
One hundred eighty days . . . one hundred eighty days . . . one hundred eighty days . . .
This became my mantra as I brushed my teeth, rinsed my face, lined my eyes with liquid liner, and dressed in a simple tee, frayed jeans, and a pair of combat boots I had purchased at a consignment shop back when I still had money. Thanks to Chris Nanning and my bad decision and the fat judge with a chronic scowl, my bank account had been wiped clean. I checked my reflection one last time.
The faded postcard I kept wedged in the corner of my dresser mirror had come loose. I pulled it all the way out and flipped it over. The invitation on the back was equally faded but sharp and clear in my mind. It was the only place where my company wasn’t just tolerated but requested. Desired, even. If the evidence wasn’t there, staring me in the face, I’d probably chalk the memories up to a serious case of wishful thinking.
I wedged the card back into place and tucked a strand of coal-colored hair behind my ear. It didn’t stay. Two days ago, in a moment of impulsivity, I chopped off my hair and dyed it black. At the time, the change had felt bold, symbolic even, like a thumbing of my nose at the student body, which would undoubtedly be whispering behind my back extra loud on the first day of school. The new do was my message to them that I didn’t care what anyone said or thought.
If only that were true.
In the kitchen, an empty bottle of wine stood at attention on the counter; another lay tipped on its side in the basin of the sink. I grabbed a strawberry Pop-Tart from one of the cupboards and glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five.
“Mom!” I turned on the faucet and slurped in a drink from the running water, then snagged my school bag from the back of a chair in the dining room. “It’s time to go.”
She mumbled something incoherent.
I picked up the remote from the coffee table and shut off the female news anchor. “You need to get ready.”
She wiped at a string of drool and rolled over. Even with the smudged mascara, the tangled mat of hair, and the angry red crease running the length of her cheek, she managed to pull off beautiful. Too bad for me, I took after my father.
“I’m gonna be late for school. And you’re gonna be late for work.”
“Too tired,” she croaked.
More like too hung over.
Heat stirred in my chest. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I had no idea how many more times she could be late before she got the ax, but my mother’s tardiness wasn’t my problem. It would only become my problem if I stayed here. Her boss might extend some grace; Principal Best (a name too ironic for words) would not. I dug inside her purse and grabbed her keys.
One hundred eighty days . . . one hundred eighty days . . . one hundred eighty days . . .
CHAPTER TWO
GRACIE
First period was physical education. Dodge ball. Hurray. I leaned against the wall while foam balls whizzed back and forth across the gym. The boys did most of the throwing. The girls did most of the shrieking. My gym teacher, who stood out of bounds midcourt, spotted me listening to music on my iPhone and crooked his finger, beckoning me to come. I pretended not to see him. He joined me by the wall and held out his hand. “You know better, Gracie.”
Reluctantly, I slapped the iPhone onto his palm.
“You can collect this at the end of the day,” he said, just as a foam ball pegged him in the back of the head.
“Sorry, Coach!” Kyle Marcello, one of Franklin High School’s cockiest and most meat-headed linebackers, called from the other side of the court. “I was aiming for Fisher.”
Coach resumed his position at midcourt, my iPhone tucked away in the pocket of his shorts. Yuck. I wasn’t sure I wanted it back anymore. Kyle caught my eye, then pantomimed swinging a baseball bat with a teasing smirk on his face.
I rolled my eyes.
One hundred eighty days . . . one hundred eighty days . . .
Second period was an upperclassman elective, Introduction to Philosophy, my guidance counselor forced upon me. “You are a smart girl, Gracie. Your ACT scores are proof. This will be a good class for you.” When I picked apart her reasoning, the counselor saw this as more evidence that I was, indeed, well suited for the class. Never mind the fact that the teacher—short, bald, turtle faced Mr. Burrelson—reeked of Ben-Gay and sported an eternal string of white spittle that stretched between his upper and lower lips whenever he talked. I stared at it while he handed out textbooks, The Philosophical Journey: An Interactive Approach, and droned on and on and on about class expectations.
His soupy eyes lit up when he talked about the importance of analysis and debate. He lost what little student attention he had left when he started throwing out fancy terminology like “ethical decision making” and “moral permissibility versus moral necessity.” I fiddled with my mood ring, making the color change from yellow to peridot, and made predictions on how many inches Mr. Burrelson’s spittle string could stretch before breaking apart.
As soon as the bell rang, I gathered my things and headed into the bathroom. On my way out of the stall, Chelsea Paxton, an overweight girl in my class, walked in. Chelsea was an outcast, like me. Ever since I arrived in fifth grade, I watched her try everything under the sun to fit in. So far with little success. More often than not, she looked like a kicked puppy, which was why I offered her a smile when we passed each other. Even though she was desperate to fit in with the people I loathed, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.
Chelsea smiled back, then disappeared into the last stall.
I had worked a couple dollops of soap into a foamy lather when the scene took a decided nosedive. Two of the school’s biggest clichés—Sadie Hall and her trusty sidekick, Jenna Smith—entered the room. As soon as Sadie spotted me, she gave me a slow, critical once-over. “Nice hair.”
“Nice face.”
A pinkish hue blossomed across her cheeks.
A toilet flushed.
I probably should have warned Chelsea to stay put. Sadie and Jenna were relentless when it came to her. They attacked her in person, they attacked her on social media, they attacked her via text messages. What was worse? She never stood up for herself and the teachers did nothing to stop it. I rinsed away the soap as Chelsea appeared. She said a breathless hello to Thing One and Thing Two, then turned on the faucet.
Jenna started making gagging noises.
Chelsea stared down into the sink.
I pressed my lips together.
“It reeks in here,” Jenna said.
I tore off a ream of paper towels. Stay out of it, Gracie. You can’t afford to get into any more trouble.
With her head still down, Chelsea moved past Sadie to dry her hands.
Sadie coughed and fanned her hand in front of her nose.
“What is your problem?” The words jumped out of my mouth before I could stop them, echoing inside the cavernous bathroom. Apparently, I wasn’t as smart as my guidance counselor thought.
“My problem? I’m not the one who doesn’t know how to bathe.” Sadie gave Chelsea a disgusted look up and down. “It’s the first day of school. She’s not even trying.”
“And some people try way too hard.”
“Excuse me?”
“Is that one bottle of foundation on your face, or two?”
Sadie closed the gap between us, completely disregarding my personal bubble. We stood nose to nose. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and grow your bangs a little longer? That way nobody will have to look at your ugly face. I know Chris would appreciate it.”
My hands took on a mind of their own.
One second they dangled by my sides, the next they shoved Sadie away, hard enough that she stumbled back. Her expression was one of such shock that I laughed. I wasn’t sure anyone had ever dared to push Sadie before. Her face twisted into a mask of ugly. She lunged at me, and somehow, we were wrestling on the floor in the girls’ bathroom on the first day of school. Sadie’s sharp nails dug into my neck. I balled my hand into a fist and connected with her mouth. She yanked my hair. I kneed her in the stomach. Jenna and Chelsea shrieked. The bell for third period rang. And a teacher pried us apart.
My chest heaved. Sadie’s lip bled.
So much for staying out of it.
* * *
Three uncomfortable chairs lined the windowed wall of the school office. I sat in one. Sadie sat in another, arms crossed, facing as far away from me as possible, like I had cooties or something. I stretched my legs out in front of me and tapped the toes of my boots together. Sadie scowled at my feet. I began to tap to Beethoven’s Fifth, humming the tune under my breath. “Dun dun dun, duuuun. Dun dun, duuuun.”
Sadie scowled harder. “You’re such a freak.”
The secretary answered the phone and clacked away on her keyboard, ignoring us both.
A half hour earlier, she had called our mothers and kindly asked if they could drive to school. Meanwhile Principal Best invited the two witnesses—Chelsea and Jenna—into his office. Maybe if he had called Chelsea in first, alone, I would have stood a chance. But Chelsea and Jenna together? That sealed my fate. I may have stuck up for Chelsea, but Chelsea would never, ever stick up for me. Not in front of Jenna.
By the time Principal Best opened his door and dismissed the pair to class, Mrs. Hall had arrived. She was an adult-sized version of Sadie, only with age lines bracketing her mouth and no swollen lip. She was head of the PTA and beloved by all the teachers at Franklin, and although I expected the full brunt of her disapproving stare, she pinned her displeasure on Sadie. A small piece of vindication. Then Principal Best gave Mrs. Hall a friendly handshake and proceeded to apologize for the inconvenience. Actually apologize. Sadie’s Mom might have been willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. Principal Best was not.
He invited mother and daughter into his office.
I resumed my boot tapping.
An hour and twenty minutes had passed since our bathroom kerfuffle. An hour and ten since the secretary called my mother. As if realizing this at the same time as I did, she looked up from her computer. “No sign of Mom yet?”
I shook my head. Nope. Zero sign. Nor would there be. I took her car. And she was probably still passed out on the couch. I touched the scratches along my neck and grimaced at the sting. Principal Best’s door muffled the sound of laughter—one voice baritone, the other more feminine. There was more talking, and then the door opened. As soon as Sadie and her mother took their leave, Best cleared his throat with a loud, guttural sound.
I guess that was as close to an invitation as I was going to get. I stood, fully prepared to fight this battle solo, when the office door swooped open and in walked my mother, of all people, dressed in black slacks and a white blouse, her hair no longer a matted tangle, but pulled back into a mass of curls at the nape of her neck. Nobody would notice the pallor behind her makeup, the slight tremor of her fingers. Those were things noticeable only if you knew to look for them. Most people didn’t know to look, and Mom was an expert at hiding her problems from the world.
“I’m sorry I’m so late. Gracie borrowed my car this morning. One of my co-workers had to give me a ride.” As soon as her attention landed on my neck scratches, her eyes widened. “What happened?”
Principal Best swept his hand inside his office. No friendly handshake. No apology. Not for us. “We can talk inside.”
Mom and I sat in a pair of chairs facing the front of Best’s desk while he took the swivel chair behind. He leaned back in his seat with his fingers steepled in front of his chin, staring at me while Mom stared at him. It was like this long, boring game of Chicken. “Gracie, would you mind telling your mother what happened?” he finally prompted.
I looked at him through my bangs. “Does it matter if I do?”
“Gracie,” Mom scolded.
“I’m speaking to a biased jury.” I motioned to Principal Best, sitting there in his chair all puffed up like a peacock. The guy had a serious case of short-man syndrome. “His mind is already made up. Jenna’s testimony dug my grave, and Sadie’s buried my casket.” I’m sure Best’s set-in-stone opinion of me grabbed a shovel and kicked in. If I’d learned anything from my mother it was that we were all creatures of predictability. Our worlds were most comfortable when we saw what we wanted to see. And when it came to me, Best wanted to see the worst.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Mom said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately.”
Principal Best drummed his steepled fingers together. “You’re right about one thing, Gracie. Our actions do form an impression. Whether you think it’s fair or not, past behavior does have a bearing on what a person believes in the present.”
“So you admit this isn’t a fair trial?”
“You have a history of violence and lying. Miss Hall, on the other hand, has never once been in trouble at this school.”
“Sadie Hall is a bully. You should see the way she treats Chelsea.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t Chelsea say anything about it in my office?”
“Because Chelsea’s afraid of her. And you called Chelsea in with Jenna.” Seriously. How moronic could one guy get? “Since she wouldn’t stand up for herself in the bathroom, I decided to do it for her. What is it you preach to us at the beginning of every school year? Bystanders are every bit as guilty as the bullies themselves?”
Principal Best’s ears turned pink.
“My behavior was morally permissible, if not morally necessary. Just ask Mr. Burrelson if you don’t believe me.”
“Your behavior was unacceptable. We do not tolerate fighting in this school.”
Mom massaged the bridge of her nose and shook her head. She looked tired, fed up, exactly like the mother of a delinquent would look. And as the small man behind the desk relayed the very lopsided account of what happened in the bathroom, she only looked more and more so.
The story, of course, was one of innocent Sadie, who complimented my hair, only to be viciously attacked by wild and out-of-control Gracie. The scratch on my neck was self-defense on Sadie’s part. The cut on Sadie’s lip was unacceptable aggression on my part. Jenna spun the tale. Chelsea didn’t contradict it. By the time Principal Best finished, Mom had turned into a wilted begonia.
“None of that was true,” I said.
“Sadie didn’t compliment your hair?”
“She was being sarcastic.”
“And you didn’t push her first?”
“She was making gagging noises at Chelsea.”
Principal Best ignored me and spoke to Mom. “Given Gracie’s prior infractions, we are left with no other option but a three-day suspension. We will see Gracie on Monday.” If he had a gavel, I’m sure he would have pounded it. “I hope we can start fresh then.”
A puff of laughter escaped through my nose.
Mom gave me a sharp look.
Seriously though—a fresh start? Did she not hear anything he said? There would be no fresh starts here, especially not with him, especially not for me. His mind was made up. So why even try?
CHAPTER THREE
GRACIE
The front door of our small house opened and slammed shut just as I managed to loosen the lid on the jar of spaghetti sauce. Mom was home. And judging by the sound of the door, she was no happier with me now than she had been when she dropped me off at home after our fun little meeting with Principal Best.
I turned on one of the burners. It clicked, clicked, clicked, then flamed to life. I twisted the knob to high, dumped the Prego into a saucepan, and set it over the burner. I was digging through the back of the pantry for a box of pasta when Mom walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. My hand connected with something promising. I pulled out a package of rigatoni.
Mom grabbed a wine glass from one of the cupboards and filled it from a box of Franzia—the giant size she purchased from Costco. I dumped the rigatoni into a large pot, steam rising from the water while the Prego in the saucepan began to bubble. I stared, hypnotized by the way the orange sauce spit hissing droplets of red onto the stovetop. In Chinese culture, red symbolized purity, but almost everywhere else, the color was associated with passion or anger. The warm color of orange, on the other hand, was supposed to stimulate conversation. How appropriate, then, that as Mom drained her wine glass and poured herself another, the orange exploded, leaving beads of red in its wake.
Neither of us said a word.
Once the pasta reached al dente, I dumped it into a colander, mixed the Prego with the noodles, served myself a bowl, and headed out to the living room—away from my mother and her cheap wine. As much as her silence crawled under my skin, I preferred it to lecturing. I wanted to serve my sentence and move on. There were worse punishments than suspension. I settled onto the couch, found a rerun of The Big Bang Theory, and dug in.
On my fourth bite, Mom sat on the other end of the couch, wine glass in hand. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, wishing she would finish her wine in the kitchen. On my sixth bite, she reached for the remote and turned off the TV.
I stopped chewing.
“I think you need to go live with your father.”
The rigatoni turned into drywall. My mother hated my father. Had even used me against him in the past. And now she wanted to ship me off to go live with him? I forced the lump of food down my throat and glared.
She set her glass on the coffee table and rubbed circles into her temples. Resignation had replaced the anger she brought with her into the kitchen. “I called him today.”
I scrambled off the couch. “You what?”
She looked up at me, exhaustion in her eyes. “As much as I might not like him, your father is better at asserting his authority than I am and it’s obvious that’s what you need right now. He said he’s willing to take you for a few months.”
“I’m not going.”
“It’s already been decided.”
“You never even asked me.”
“I don’t have to ask you. I’m your mother.”
My anger boiled over—thicker and redder than the Prego. She was barely a mother. “I told you I didn’t start that fight in the bathroom.”
“Gracie, you have a track record.” She resumed her temple kneading. “And I don’t know what to do anymore. Your sister was never like this.”
I grabbed her glass off the coffee table and hurled it toward the wall. It shattered with a burst of red and bled down the paint.
Mom didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She didn’t react at all. She just sat there like a statue, all remnant of color draining from her face.
“I’m not going to Dad’s.” Before she could argue, I walked to my bedroom and slammed the door.
* * *
When I moved to Apalachicola in fifth grade, I had a teacher who would spread her arms wide after we recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and declare, “Boys and girls, the world is your oyster!” She was a thin-faced woman named Mrs. Dulane, and although I wasn’t sure what she meant by the words, they sounded nice. Hopeful, even. Seeing as Mom and I had just moved to the oyster capital of Florida—they sounded appropriate too.
Until my eleventh birthday, when I begged my mother to take me to Boss Oyster, a restaurant on the south end of Water Street that served the town’s seafood of choice seventeen different ways. I remembered the sense of building anticipation as we waited for our food. What, exactly, would my world taste like? Imagine my displeasure when the waiter brought out a tray of half-shelled goobers. It took several whispered threats from my mother before I put one in my mouth. The slimy, chewy texture turned my nose wrinkle into a full throttle gag. After that first experience, I didn’t care about the sixteen other ways in which oysters could be made—I vowed never to eat one again.
On the drive home, I told Mom about Mrs. Dulane’s ritualistic morning declaration. She laughed and explained that oysters made pearls. The saying originated with Shakespeare, she told me, as if that settled everything. What she didn’t tell me, and what I later found out on my own thanks to Google, was that very few oysters made pearls in the wild. Most pearls were the result of someone forcing an irritant inside the poor shell.
Needless to say, I no longer found Mrs. Dulane’s words nice or hopeful. She was basically telling twenty-five impressionable fifth graders that our worlds would contain the equivalent of gross food or inescapable irritants. Those were our choices.
Six years later and irony of all ironies, it turned out that I was the irritant. My earliest memories were those of fighting—my mom and dad fighting, my mom and her parents fighting, my dad and stepmom fighting. Always about me. I was over it, which was why I started throwing toiletries and clothes into my duffel bag as soon as I slammed my door shut. I wasn’t going to my father’s, but I sure wasn’t staying here either, an irritant forced into my mother’s oyster world.
When I finished packing, I sat on the edge of my bed, listening as the microwave hummed and beeped. The faucet in the kitchen ran. A cupboard door opened and closed. The TV resumed its droning—first with the six o’clock news, then with some show I didn’t recognize. I waited until darkness fell, the television went off, and the floor creaked with my mother’s footsteps.
Once all signs of life outside my room ceased, I removed the postcard wedged in the corner of my dresser mirror and stepped into the hallway, my duffel bag strapped over my shoulder. I tiptoed into the living room. Mom hadn’t cleaned up the broken glass or the stain of red wine running down the wall. My half-eaten bowl of pasta remained on the coffee table.
As quietly as possible, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, grabbed a can of Mountain Dew from the refrigerator and all the cash from Mom’s purse, and stepped out into the night. I considered taking Mom’s car, but that would guarantee she’d come after me. So instead, I walked south on Hickory Street while eating my sandwich. Once I reached Avenue E, I cracked open my Mountain Dew and headed west.
A few cars passed, but nobody stopped or slowed. I took the last swig of my drink, kept an eye out for the next available trashcan, and continued onward, attempting to ignore the duffel bag strap digging into my shoulder and the way my baggage grew heavier with every passing block. I kept walking, away from my mother and all her dysfunction.
Once I reached the outskirts of town and headlights approached from behind, I stuck out my thumb. The car pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the road several yards ahead. Rust had eaten away half of the bumper and something like cellophane covered one of the back door windows. There was a soft sound of a latch as the trunk popped open.
I didn’t give myself time to chicken out. I didn’t consider what could happen if the person behind the wheel was a psychopath. I checked to make sure there were no drugs or dead bodies in the trunk, then tossed my duffel bag inside and climbed into the passenger seat.
Country twang and cigarette smoke filled the car. A woman with leathery skin and long, straight hair the color of flint sat behind the wheel. “Where you headed?”
“A few miles west of Navarre Beach on Route 399.”
The lady pursed her lips. “You buy me a pack of smokes and fill up my tank and I’ll get you in the general vicinity.”
I pulled the seat belt across my lap. “Deal.”
Nodding, she shifted the car into drive and hit the gas.
My mother used to search for fresh starts in the creek waters of New Hope, Texas. I grasped for mine in a cloud of cigarette smoke on a stretch of Florida highway, a faded postcard clutched in my hand.
CHAPTER FOUR
CARMEN
The summer between third and fourth grade, I developed an obsession with Mary Poppins. I watched the movie on repeat—over and over and over again until I knew every line by heart. There was this one scene at the beginning of the film where Bert entertained a crowd with a slightly manic song and dance. The wind shifted and he fell into this odd, trance-like state. “Wind’s in the east, mist comin’ in . . . Like somethin’ is brewin’, and ’ bout to begin . . . Can’t put me finger on what lies in store . . . But I feel what’s to ’appen, all ’appened before . . .”
I’ve often thought how convenient it would be if this happened in real life. If change would announce itself before arriving. At least then, we could brace for it beforehand. But change did not confer with the wind or the mist. It often came when we least expected it, which made its beginning difficult to pinpoint. For the Banks family, change began when Mary Poppins floated in on her umbrella after all the other nannies blew away. For me, I believe, it began with a mental breakdown in a Toys “R” Us parking lot.
I took a deep breath.
I can do this.
I simply needed to walk into the store, print a list, pick the first item, smile at the cashier, and leave. No reason to think. No reason to browse. No reason to imagine what might never be. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, ran my fingers beneath my eyes, and tucked a strand of wavy hair behind my ear. Despite straightening it earlier, Florida’s humidity always managed to coax out my natural curl.
Hitching my purse strap over my shoulder, I stepped out into the muggy air and headed toward the front doors of Toys “R” Us, peering once or twice at the cloud-dotted sky—big, bright, sharply defined pillows outlined by a blanket of blue. They were the kind of clouds my dad and I used to spend hours looking at when I was a little girl. The kind of clouds Mary Poppins sat on while powdering her nose during the opening credits.
The doors slid open with a blast of cool air and the heels of my tan pumps went from clunking to clicking as they hit composite tile. I veered right, toward the Babies “R” Us portion of the store, where a friendly faced woman in a purple-collared shirt stood behind a counter.
“Is this where I print out a registry?” I asked.
“Sure is. What’s the last name of the registrant?”
“Dolten. D-o-l-t-e-n. First name is Katy with a y.” Katy was a good friend from church, one I should be happy for. Correction—one I was happy for. Truly. The problem wasn’t my lack of happiness; it was the inescapably deep pang that accompanied it.
I waited as the lady typed the name into the computer, printed out the list, and handed it over, recognition seeping into the chocolate brown of her irises.
In different circumstances, I might have stuck around and talked about the weather. People liked when I did that. Today, however, I was on a mission. I thanked her for her help, then scanned the first page of the registry. Everything was already purchased. I shuffled to the second page. Then the third.
What in the world?
Not until the fourth did I find a few unpurchased items—all inexpensive and unrelated. A Philips Avent BPA-Free soothie pacifier, Safety First Sleepy Baby nail clippers, a bulb syringe, bathtub stacky cups, and a Diaper Genie refill. I flipped to the fifth and final page, hoping for something bigger, like a bathtub or a baby carrier. Something that would require visiting one aisle, and one aisle alone. I found nothing but more miscellaneous odds and ends.
I moved my finger down the list until I found the aisle number for the pacifier, then made my way to the right place. Tunnel vision. That was the key to survival. I didn’t look at the adorable baby clothes surrounding me on all sides. I didn’t look at the happy mothers with their adorable children looking at the adorable baby clothes surrounding me on all sides. I didn’t think about how desperately I wanted to be one of those mothers.
With my shoulders pulled back, I convinced myself that it would happen. Maybe not in the conventional way I had imagined when Ben and I got married, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that as of last week, we officially took our place on the adoption waiting list. After all the classes and the required reading, after all the frantic cleaning to prepare for the home visits, after fingerprinting and background checks, credit reports, references, never-ending paperwork, and a substantial chunk of money, I’d finally put the finishing touches on our portfolio and sent it off to our agency’s social worker. One day soon, I’d join the Mother Club and that deep, inescapable ache would let go of my heart and melt away.
I marched down an aisle, picked up the pacifier, then turned down another aisle for the nail clippers and syringe. I managed five items altogether before my hands were officially full. Time for checkout. Halfway there, someone called my name.
“Carmen?”
Mandy approached from the distance, dressed in yoga pants, a Blue Angels T-shirt, and a baseball cap with Just Do It stitched above the brim. She waved enthusiastically as she closed the gap between us. “I thought that was you!”
I swallowed a groan.
Mandy Thom was the president of the Bay Breeze High School booster club. She had three sons. Her eldest played quarterback for the University of Central Florida. Her middle son was Ben’s first-string tight end. The last time we’d seen each other had been during the booster club’s annual spring trivia night—a fund-raising event that brought in the entire town of Bay Breeze. Mandy put Ben and me at her table, which meant I spent the evening listening to her flirt with Ben and gush about what a cute couple we were and when were we going to give her some gorgeous Hart babies to coo over already?
She meant well. She really did. That didn’t, however, make the urge to run away from her any less real.
“How are you?” She wrapped her arm around my neck and gave me a squeeze. “Can you believe another season is upon us? I’m so excited I could just cry.” Mandy’s thick southern accent turned words like cry into two syllables.
“Ben’s been hard at work, that’s for sure.”
“Of course he has. It’s Coach Hart.” She gave me that knowing look of hers and waggled her eyebrows. The booster moms were very open about their affection for Ben. “That husband of yours is too good to be true, I’m telling you. The way he loves those boys? And this year’s lineup? He’s gonna be the first coach at Bay Breeze to win back-to-back state championships. I just know he will.”
I fumbled the pacifier.
Mandy picked it up off the floor and handed it over with wide eyes. During last spring’s trivia night, I told her about our adoption. As soon as she asked me how much the baby was going to cost, I knew it’d been a mistake. “Oh my heavens, does this mean what I think it means? Are congratulations in order?”
“Oh, no. These are gifts for a friend.” I took back the pacifier and tightened my grip on the Diaper Genie refill. “We’re, um, still waiting.”
“Bless your heart. Y’all have been waiting so long.”
“Well, technically, we haven’t.” According to our social worker, once on the waiting list, some couples were matched with a child within months. Others waited years. The possibility of the latter made me feel like a dried-out husk. “Not nearly as long as some couples, anyway.”
“So how does that work—y’all just have to wait until some woman picks you off a list?”
“Basically.”
Mandy looked horrified.
I crept toward the nearest cash register, eager to get away.
“That must be so hard. How much control do y’all have in the process? I mean, do y’all even know what kind of baby you’re gonna get?”
“A human one, I hope.”
She laughed and swatted my arm. “You know, I was thinking about you a couple weeks ago.”
“Oh?” I stepped up to an open lane and dumped my items onto the conveyer belt.
Mandy pushed her cart behind me, even though there was at least one open register to the left. “I was having lunch with one of my cousins. There’s a woman from her church who adopted recently. Do you know it took them three tries? The second time, they had a sweet baby girl for two weeks, and then the birth mom changed her mind and they had to give her back. Isn’t that just awful?”
Yes, it was. My worst nightmare, in fact. So nice of her to bring it up.
She seemed to realize her snafu, because she rushed on to explain that the woman had a six-month-old boy now and they were all as happy as clams. All the pain had been worth it. God had a plan. His timing had been perfect.
I pressed my lips together and nodded.
“Twenty-seven fifty-six, ma’am,” the cashier said.
I removed my billfold from my purse and slid my credit card through the machine. I scrawled my signature, careful to keep my strained smile in place.
She means well . . . She means well . . . She means well . . .
The cashier handed me my bag and the receipt.
“I’m so tickled that we ran into each other, Carmen. Please tell Coach Hart that I say hello, and I’ll see you tomorrow night. First game of the season.” Mandy raised her fist into the air. “Go Sting Rays!”
“Yep, go Sting Rays.” I gave my own fist an awkward pump, said goodbye, and hurried outside, frantic for a proper breath. I wasn’t sure at what point the air inside Toys R Us grew too thick to breathe. Mandy’s words had brought in a high tide of what-ifs. What if we were never chosen? What if we went through the same thing Mandy’s cousin’s church friend went through? What if Ben and I were doomed to forever be in this place we’d found ourselves, with no hope of getting out? I tried my hardest to shut the questions off.
God had a plan . . .
It was something I believed once, a long time ago. But now?
My hand settled over the flatness of my stomach, even as I attempted to keep the memories away. But they were stubborn, intrusive things, dredging up handfuls of doubt I was so sick of holding. Once upon a time, I naively thought God would bless Ben and me for doing life His way. Yet there I sat in the driver’s seat, a bag of baby items resting in my lap, with nothing but aching arms and an empty house.
A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and reflected off a parking sign straight ahead: For Expectant Mothers.
My composure snapped.
Without warning, without forethought, I shifted into drive and hit the gas, a wild scream tearing up my throat. My car lurched forward and rammed into the metal post. The sign remained standing. Its resiliency blistered all reason. I threw my car into reverse, backed up, and ran into it again, flooring the gas until a loud crunch rent the air.
I blinked several times with the steering wheel gripped in my hands. Then I rose up in my seat. A stork carrying a bundled baby was taking a nosedive toward the cement.
CHAPTER FIVE
CARMEN
I couldn’t let go of the steering wheel. All I could do was stare at the damaged sign bent beneath my bumper with wide eyes and a dry mouth and trembling hands.
A mother-child duo walked past my car. I could feel the woman staring into my window. I sank lower into my seat, wishing I had Mandy Thom’s Nike hat. After they passed, I dared a peek. Her young son gawked at me over his shoulder as his mother dragged him inside, away from the crazy lady behind the steering wheel.
I reversed so my car no longer sat on top of the sign, and for a brief moment, I considered driving away. The parking lot was mostly deserted. I could make a run for it. But even if my conscience would have allowed it, the surveillance cameras up above put that plan to death. They had no doubt caught my battle with the sign on tape and, most likely, my license plate number too. There was no escaping. I would have to go inside and confess.
I stared toward the store, listening to the occasional jet engine overhead, considering the implications of what I had just done. The adoption process was an incredibly invasive one. Over the past several months, our entire lives had been sifted like water through a sieve, all to ensure that Ben and I were fit to be parents. If the store manager decided to press charges, I would have a police record. And then what?
I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and shook my head—back and forth, back and forth—until knuckles rapped against my window.
A man with a square jaw and silver hair looked down at me through the glass. Judging by his apparel, he was the store manager. I stepped out into the humidity with my heart in my throat.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” He leaned back on his heels to take a good look at my bumper and the sign. When his attention returned to me, his brow went from furrowed confusion to raised surprise. “Well, I’ll be. You’re Carmen Hart with Channel Three News. I’d recognize you anywhere.”
I swallowed, unsure what to say. I knew how I typically responded. A big smile, a friendly handshake, followed up with some banter about the weather. This, however, was not a typical situation.
“You’re my favorite weather girl since Stacy Pine back in the eighties. You don’t even know it, but you join the missus and me every weekday morning for breakfast.”
The manager was a fan. I could have fainted with relief. Instead, I leaned toward him with a conspiratorial wink. “For future reference, I take cream with my coffee.”
He chuckled and stuck out his hand. “Dale Benson.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Benson,” I said, giving his hand a shake.
“Mighty fine pleasure, indeed.” And then, as if remembering the reason why we were meeting, he surveyed the bent sign once again. “If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Hart, how exactly did this happen?”
“I, uh ” A nervous laugh bubbled up my throat. I what? Dale might be a fan, but what if that backfired? What if he went home and told his wife and she decided to post about the odd encounter on Facebook? I didn’t just represent myself; I represented the entire news station. I was a public figure and public figures did not mess up, at least not publicly. “I am really, really sorry about this. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but I am fully prepared to write you a check covering all damages.”
Dale scratched his temple.
I held my breath and begged God for a break. One measly little break.
He tucked his thumbs into the waistline of his pants. “Well, I don’t see any reason to call in a report to the police station over a dented sign. Or any reason to have you pay for anything when we have some extras in our warehouse. I think the important thing here is that nobody got hurt. You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No, I’m not hurt. Are you sure you don’t want me to write you a check?”
“How about this? You give me an autograph and we’ll call it even.” The manager smiled. “It’s the missus’ birthday on Saturday. I think she’d be pleased as punch if I stuck your autograph inside her birthday card.”
I wanted to place my hands on both sides of Dale Benson’s cheeks and plant a big wet kiss in the center of his forehead. Instead, I searched inside my purse for one of my business cards, swirled my name in black pen across the back, and laughed when Dale said he’d “see” me tomorrow morning. By the time I got back into my dented car and drove away, my entire body was shaking.
Thank You, Lord.
It was the first expression of gratitude I’d offered Him in a long, long time.
I had no idea the offering was premature.
* * *
I picked up a playing card from the deck, slid it in between an eight of clubs and a nine of hearts, and discarded a king, even though I suspected Aunt Ingrid had at least one.
Every day after work, I drove to the Pine Ridge Continuing Care Retirement Facility to visit with my great-aunt. We played Gin Rummy 500 on her good days, War on her bad. Hearts in the dining hall with friends on her exceptional days, which were fewer and farther between.
She looked at me over the top of her hand, paused for dramatic effect, then picked up the king, laid it with two others, and discarded her final card facedown.
I smiled. Aunt Ingrid was having a good day. All things considered, so was I. I still couldn’t believe the store manager let me off the hook so easily. The entire ordeal had restored some of my faith in God’s grace. Maybe He hadn’t forgotten about me after all.
Ingrid counted her points. I counted mine, then added both to our running totals while she shuffled the deck and dealt with the proficiency of a card sharp.
“How’ve you been sleeping?” I asked, picking up my cards one at a time.
She harrumphed, whether at the question or the way I collected my hand, I wasn’t sure. According to Aunt Ingrid, a card player wasn’t supposed to pick up her cards until the full hand was dealt. I’d never been very good at waiting. “Last night I dreamt that Gerald bought me a rhinoceros.”
Chuckling, I moved an ace of spades next to its accompanying king.
“There was this giant box under the Christmas tree that kept moving. Gerald told me to open it, and when I did, I found a full-grown rhino with a wreath around its horn. It started singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.’”
“The rhino?”
“No, the wreath.” She dealt my final card and started arranging her hand. I couldn’t help noticing the thinness of her wrists. It wasn’t enough that dementia was stealing her mind; osteoporosis was eating her bones. “It was the most bizarre thing.”
“Dreams can be that way.”
“It’s the first one I’ve had in a long time. I miss them.”
I thought about my recurring nightmare as of late. I wouldn’t have minded some dreamless sleep. I drew a card, laid down three jacks, and discarded a five. Ingrid muttered something about a lucky deal. “I woke up thinking about Christmas.”
“Yeah?”
She discarded a two. “And how nice it will be celebrating at The Treasure Chest.”
I looked up from my hand. We hadn’t had a Christmas party at The Treasure Chest since her husband, Gerald, died four years ago. In fact, Dad and I had to close down the family-run motel and board it up last April when the manager quit. It had been incredibly depressing to see the place I’d loved so much in such a run-down condition.
“Remember the Christmas parties we used to throw when you were a kid? Gerald would dress up as Santa Claus, and you and your cousins would nearly wet your pants with excitement.”
I smiled a nostalgic smile. “What about the Christmas Dad surprised me with a guinea pig?”
“How that little devil ended up in Mrs. Pennington’s shower, I have no idea.”
My smile grew wider. Mrs. Pennington had sprinted out of her room faster than I’d ever seen a woman run. After my Christmas pet had been safely returned to its cage, Aunt Ingrid spent a solid hour assuring Mrs. Pennington that The Treasure Chest did not have unusually large mice. “Or the time Ben tried making Dad’s eggnog?”
Ingrid put her hands on top of her dark hair and let out a hoot. “That recipe called for two pints of rum, and he used quarts instead! I think my Scot of a husband was the only one who enjoyed it.”
“And that Irishman in room 4.” I shook my head. “Ben felt awful.”
Aunt Ingrid’s coffee-colored eyes twinkled with an entire labyrinth of memory. One I wished I could crawl inside and live in again. “Well,” she said, “it was an honest mistake for our cabana boy to make.”
Cabana Boy.
The two words nudged up against my affection, as if attempting to rouse it from a deep and abiding slumber. How long had it been since I’d thought about that nickname?
CHAPTER SIX
CARMEN
My car idled at the intersection of Bayou and Ninth while thoughts of The Treasure Chest churned in my mind. Over the past several months, life’s circumstances had strong-armed my affinity toward the place into hibernation. I had relegated the motel and its fate to a mental holding room—the space for all the things I would deal with later. Reminiscing with my aunt, though, had stirred that affinity awake, wiggling loose a whole host of memories. One in particular stood apart from the rest—the time Aunt Ingrid had warned me to be on the lookout for the new cabana boy.
I had responded with a snort of laughter. “Cabana boy?”
She wiped down the surface of the front desk with a Pine Sol–dampened rag. Over the past three years, I’d entertained two distinct identities—from September through May I was the overachieving meteorology major at the University of Virginia, determined to learn everything I could about the tempestuous atmosphere as though it could be tamed; and from June through August, I was Aunt Ingrid’s free-spirited, right-hand gal, with a sunburn on my nose and flip-flops on my feet. In all my years at The Treasure Chest, Ingrid had never once required a cabana boy.
“I hired him for you.” She wagged her eyebrows at me over her shoulder, then disappeared into the back room.
She hired him for me?
What was that supposed to mean? The question lingered as I answered the phone, took reservations, and fielded inquiries from guests wanting to know where to eat the best seafood or shop for the best antiques or golf the best putt putt courses. It wasn’t until my shift neared its end that Aunt Ingrid’s words made any sense at all.
I was in the back, moving a load of sheets from the washer to the dryer, when the front door opened. I threw in a few dryer sheets, hurried into the office, and came to an abrupt stop. A man stood in front of the desk—tall and broad-shouldered with a surfer’s tan and an Ivy League haircut, the color of which could be brown or blond, depending on how the sun hit it.
“Welcome to The Treasure Chest,” I said, using the extra-friendly voice I reserved for motel guests. It came out sounding so unnaturally high that I had to clear my throat. “Are you, um, checking in?”
One corner of his mouth quirked. “Ingrid sent me in here to fix the dryer.”
“The dryer? But the dryer’s not . . .” Cue the mental light bulb. “You’re the cabana boy.”
“Cabana boy?” He donned a lopsided grin and a furrowed brow at the same time. He wore both distractingly well.
“My aunt tells me we hired a cabana boy. I’m assuming you’re him?”
He set his elbow on the front desk. “I’m no cabana boy.”
I forced my feet to move forward, momentarily sidetracked by the blueness of his eyes—bright like sapphire without a hint of anything else, not a speck of green or gray or even lighter blue. Not even the nose-to-the-grindstone version of myself could have resisted them. “Okay then, who are you?”
“Ben,” he said, offering his hand, “summer maintenance man.”
I slipped mine into his—his palm the perfect combination of rough and warm. “Carmen, summer guest service representative.”
“And famous niece.”
“Famous?”
“Ingrid talks about you a lot. I’ve only been here a week and I think I could have a go at writing your biography.”
I cringed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I think she’s trying to play matchmaker.”
“Wanna make it easy on her?”
A few butterflies took flight in my stomach. Cabana Boy was flirting with me.
He winked. “So, the dryer?”
“Not broken.”
“I had my suspicions.”
“Really?”
“Your aunt had a definite gleam in her eye when she sent me in here to check it out. I’m getting pretty good at figuring out when she’s up to something.” He gave the desktop a few light taps and leaned closer. “Carmen, summer guest service representative, it has been a pleasure.”
A car honked, wrenching me from the nine-year-old memory. The same smile that had puckered my cheeks then puckered my cheeks now.
The car honked again.
I made a quick decision and headed south on Ninth, away from the auto repair shop on Summit Boulevard, toward the Pensacola Bay Bridge instead. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Bay Breeze High School, not entirely sure why. After checking in at the front office and saying hello to several familiar faces, I put on a visitor’s badge and headed toward Ben’s classroom in the basement.
Most people assumed he taught physical education, since his favorite and most time-consuming role was head varsity football coach. But Ben taught Ceramics and Sculpture 1 and 2, two of the school’s most popular electives. We even had a pottery wheel in our basement. Once upon a time, Ben used to give me personal lessons. He would joke that we were channeling our inner Ghost. I would laugh and call him a cheeseball while he sat behind me. In truth, I thought my husband was a thousand times sexier than Patrick Swayze, especially when he brushed spine-tingling kisses along the side of my neck.
As soon as I pushed through the double doors at the bottom of the stairwell, the smell of chlorine and sawdust greeted me. Ben’s classroom was located across from the pool and up the hall from shop class. School had started on Monday and already a layer of dust decorated his floor and students worked busily on what appeared to be coffee mugs.
Ben stood with his back to me at one of the high tables, still broad shouldered and narrow waisted, wearing work boots, tan Levis, and a casual buttonup shirt cuffed to his elbows. One of the girls at the table noticed me in the doorway and said something to him. He turned around and cocked his head, then met me where I stood. I wasn’t in the habit of showing up at his classroom in the middle of the school day.
“Hey.” His brow furrowed with the greeting, a question sprouting in his eyes. I often forgot how striking his eyes were in their blueness. But I didn’t forget today. Not after reliving the Cabana Boy memory. “What are you doing here?”
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Is everything okay?” He set his hand on the small of my back and led me out into the hallway, away from the unwelcome attention of his pupils. “Did the social worker call?”
Oh, Ben thinks . . .
My heart contracted. He thought I’d come with good news to share. He thought I’d come because a birth mother had chosen us. He thought our wait was over, that we somehow flew through the process in record timing. The hopeful look in his eye had me regretting my decision to come. “No, she didn’t call.”
“Oh.” He curled his hand around the back of his neck. “So why are you here?”
Because I missed him? I missed us? I had a memory that resurrected feelings I hadn’t felt in much, much too long?
Ben raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“I ran into a sign.”
“A sign?”
“Earlier this morning. In the Toys R Us parking lot.”
“How did you run into a sign?” The condescension in his voice was audible enough to set me on edge, faint enough to make any defensive words on my part unreasonable. Ben had this delicate, frustrating balance down to an art form, and I was pretty sure he didn’t realize it.
“It was for expectant mothers.”
He scratched the stubble underneath his chin. Ben shaved three times a week, never enough length in between for a full beard, but long enough for thick scruff. “So . . . is there something you need me to do?”
“No.”
“Then why did you come here to tell me?”
“I don’t know, Ben.” Maybe I didn’t want to have the conversation later. Maybe all the reminiscing with Aunt Ingrid had made me nostalgic. Or maybe some part of me, deep down, no matter how much I balked or prickled, really did want Ben to do something.
“Is the car damaged?”
“There’s a dent in the front bumper.”
“How bad?”
“We’ll probably need to get it replaced.”
His jaw tightened.
I pressed my lips together to keep from screaming.
We stood there in the hallway—he and I—all the tension in the world between us, and I couldn’t help but wonder how we got here. To this place of constant misses. I thought about that ancient Chinese proverb often quoted on the cusp of a long endeavor: The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. People associated it with inspiring journeys, worthwhile journeys. But the thing was, it was every bit as true for the accidental, unfortunate ones.
My phone chirped inside my purse. I fished it out and said hello, thankful for the distraction.
“Carmen, it’s Dad.”
“Dad?” He didn’t usually call in the middle of the workday, not without some sort of provocation. “Is everything okay?”
“Not exactly. A dispatcher from the Escambia County sheriff’s department called me. Apparently, somebody reported a trespasser at The Treasure Chest.”
“A trespasser?”
Ben leaned closer, trying to tune into the conversation.
“They sent a deputy to check things out. I guess she found signs of a break-in. They need someone to drive out there to secure the property. Do you think you could go?”
“Yeah, sure. I can do that.” After the conversation I was having with Ben, some time at my old stomping ground sounded like the perfect way to recalibrate. Besides, I was long overdue for a visit.
“Thanks, sweetie.” He paused on the other end, then filled the empty space with a sigh. “You know, we’re going to have to decide what to do with the place soon.”
His words, though softly spoken, stretched a seam of longing stitched inside my chest.