“Did you hear about Andrew Wanamaker? His grandpa got him into Yale. Early decisions aren’t even out yet and he knows.” Kim Heltne leaned back against a tree, sighing. “If I don’t get into Swarthmore, my dad will crap. He doesn’t care that I hate snow.”
They were all sitting in the quad, eating lunch, the “gang” who’d been best friends since freshman year.
“I’d kill for Swarthmore,” Jared said, rubbing Kim’s back. “I’m supposed to go to Stone Hill. Another private Catholic school. I’m afraid I’ll go postal.”
Lauren lay back, rested her head in David’s lap. For once, the sun was shining and the grass was thick and dry. Even though it was cold out, the sun warmed her cheeks.
“It’s Mom’s alma mater for me,” Susan said. “Yippee. William and Mary, here I come. This high school is bigger than the college.”
“How’s it going for you, Lauren? Any word on scholarships?” Kim asked.
Lauren shrugged. “I keep filling out the paperwork. One more why-I-deserve-it essay and I might scream.”
“She’ll get a full ride,” David said. “Hell, she’s the smartest kid in the school.”
Lauren heard the pride in David’s voice as he said it; normally that would have made her smile, but now, as she stared up at his chin, all she could think about was their future. He’d applied to Stanford, and it was a foregone conclusion that he’d be accepted. The thought of being separated from him chilled her more than the November weather, and he didn’t seem to worry about it at all. He was sure of their love. How did a person come by that kind of certainty?
Kim opened her pop. It snapped and hissed. “I can’t wait to be done with all this application crap.”
Lauren closed her eyes. The conversation swirled around her, but she didn’t join in.
She wasn’t sure why, but suddenly she was on edge. Maybe it was the weather: cold and clear. Storms followed days like this, when the sky was scrubbed clean by clouds that raced from west to east. Or maybe it was the college talk. All she knew was that something was not right.
A fine silver mist clung to the morning-wet grass. Angie sat on the back porch, drinking her coffee and staring out to sea. The rhythmic whoosh-whoosh of the waves seemed as familiar and constant as the beating of her own heart.
Here was the soundtrack of her youth. The rumbling roar of the tides, the sound of raindrops hitting rhododendron leaves, the creaking whine of her rocking chair on the weathered porch floor.
The only thing missing was the sound of voices; children yelling at one another and giggling. She turned to say something to her husband, realizing a second too late that she was alone.
She got up slowly, went back inside for more coffee. She was just reaching for the pot when there was a knock on the door.
“Coming.” She went to the door, answered it.
Her mother stood on the porch, wearing an ankle-length flannel nightgown and green rubber gardening clogs. “He wants me to go.”
Angie frowned, shook her head. It looked as if Mama had been crying. “Come in out of the rain, Mama.” She put an arm around her mother, led her to a place on the sofa. “Now, what’s going on?”
Mama reached into her pocket, pulled out a rumpled white envelope. “He wants me to go.”
“Who?” Angie took the envelope.
“Papa.”
She opened it. Inside were two tickets to The Phantom of the Opera. Mama and Papa had always had seats at the Fifth Avenue Theater in downtown Seattle. It had been one of her father’s rare indulgences.
“I was going to just let the date go past. I missed The Producers in July.” Mama sighed, her shoulders caving downward. “But Papa thinks you and I should go.”
Angie closed her eyes for a moment, seeing her father dressed in his best black suit, heading for the door. He’d adored musicals most of all, had always come home from them singing. West Side Story had been his favorite, of course. Tony and Maria.
That’s your mama and me, he always said, except we love each other forever, eh, Maria?
She slowly opened her eyes; saw the same play of bittersweet memories on her mother’s face.
“It’s a good idea,” Angie said. “We’ll make a night of it. Dinner at Palisades and a room at the Fairmont Olympic. It’ll be good for us.”
“Thank you,” Mama said, her voice cracking. “That is what your papa said.”
The next morning, Lauren got up early and made herself breakfast, but when she stared down at the eggs on her plate, the thought of eating that runny pile of yellow goo was more than she could bear. She pushed the plate away so fast the fork fell off and clanged on the Formica table. For a second, she thought she was going to throw up.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Startled, she looked up. Mom stood in the doorway, dressed in an obnoxiously short pink denim skirt and an old Black Sabbath T-shirt. The dark circles under her eyes were the size of Samsonites. She was smoking a cigarette.
“Gee, Mom. It’s nice to see you again. I thought you’d died in your bedroom. Where’s Prince Charming?”