Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [3]
Why did I remember what I wanted to forget, yet forget what I wanted to remember?
I stared at the ceiling, my eyes stung by my own thoughtlessness. Molly was probably geared up for major annoyance. Saturday mornings were reserved for our two -mile trek through the greenbelt trails of Brookforest. Late was not a time on her clock. I still wore my watch, and late ticked away: 9:00.
Molly Richardson and I met two years ago at the Christmas party for Morgan Management. Both of our husbands had recently joined the firm. She and I had barreled into the bathroom, about as much as one could barrel in ruffled silk chiffon and elastic-backed, three-inch spiked shoes. We crashed reaching for the door handle.
Molly grabbed the knob, steadied herself, scanned me, and said, “We have to stop meeting like this. People will talk.”
A woman with a sense of humor and cool shoes in the midst of granite-faced consultants. Our friendship had expanded since then beyond the boundaries of business. We knew almost everything there was to know about each other. Almost everything.
I willed myself to vertical and plodded to the phone on Carl's side of the bed. One of our concessions after we moved into this house: blinding sun in my eyes; ringing phone in his ears.
I punched in Molly's number.
One ring. “You up?” she said.
“Meet you there in fifteen.” I hung up knowing Molly would understand that fifteen meant twenty. I yanked on clean shorts and a sports bra, but kept the leftover T-shirt from yesterday. Yesterday. Apple juice. Was today the day I would practice not drinking? Did I pay for groceries? No bags on the kitchen counter. A half bagel waited on a plate.
I passed on breakfast and grabbed my keys from the top of the washing machine. Carl really needed to hang a key rack. I locked the leaded glass doors, unlocked the wrought-iron gate, and walked through a gauntlet of Tudor and French provincial houses. Molly and I always met at the cul-de-sac entrance to the trails at the end of my street.
Molly was in her ready zone. She alternated long, bouncing genuflects to stretch her legs.
“I’m always amazed that your calves are almost as long as my legs,” I said and slid the fuzzy banana-yellow headband hanging around my neck to around my head to tame my disobedient hair.
“Save that for one of your hyperbole lessons.” A tint of anger edged her words.
“Hey, Moll, I’m sorry. Carl forgot to wake me up when he left for golf this morning.”
“It's his fault you’re late?” I knew tone, and her tone definitely indicated she thought exactly the opposite. “Did he wake you up for school too?”
Sarcasm lesson. “Sometimes,” I said.
She smiled.
I moved close to forgiveness. “Okay, almost always.”
A laugh.
Suffering over.
“Let's get started before the sun sucks the life out of us,” she said.
Only a silo-sized vacuum cleaner hose could suck the energy out of Molly. Twenty years younger and she’d be on meds for hyperactivity. Instead, she's on meds for infertility. She and Devin had been baby practicing for almost two years. Practice had not made perfect. Over a year ago, when I told her I was pregnant, I almost wanted to apologize. Carl and I hadn’t planned to be parents. But we were. For six weeks. Then Alyssa died. I stopped feeling guilty around Molly. Mostly I stopped feeling.
I bent over, pretended to adjust my shoelace, and hoped Molly didn’t see the grief floating in my eyes.
“I’m ready.” I popped up. Perky trumps pity. “And wait till you hear what happened.”
When I chronicled the latest school dramas, my body didn’t feel so heavy as I pounded my way down the path. A paralegal for trial attorneys, Molly didn’t share many details about work. We entertained ourselves some days imagining which kids in detention would become lawyers and which ones would need lawyers.
“So, get this, I’m handing out tests, and—”
Her power walk shifted down two gears. She held up her hand and said, “No, Leah. Stop.” American