Changing Lanes: A Novel (11 page)

Manny had taken over the local barbershop a few years earlier. He and I had met a few times at karaoke night, but other than that, we hadn’t had much occasion to become acquainted. From what I understood, he’d won over the town with his easy chatter, dedication to hair, and reasonable prices.

I wondered how many Paris residents had ever seen Manny eat.

“Delicious,” he said, sending a spray of food across the table in my direction.

Frankie seized the opportunity to excuse herself. My father, mesmerized by Manny’s mastication, said nothing to stop her.

A hand locked on my knee beneath the table and squeezed. I met my mother’s apologetic glance and relaxed a bit. Even she knew tonight’s guest wouldn’t be kneeling beside me at the altar anytime soon.

“So I hear good old Fred left you high and dry,” Manny said.

So much for feeling relaxed.

“He’ll be back,” I answered, but I believed the words less and less with every day that passed.

“Pack your puppets, you’re going to Paris,” Missy said, doing her best television game show host voice.

“Puppets?” Manny asked.

My mother shook her head and took a swallow of her wine. “She’s been watching too much Game Show Network.”

Manny laughed, a hearty, bellowing sound that shook the chandelier above our heads. “No such thing as too much Game Show Network.”

Then Manny shifted gears entirely.

“What about your column?” he asked. “I used to think you could use a little more oomph in your responses, but I do miss seeing your name in the paper. When are they bringing it back?”

“You read my column?” I brightened a bit before I answered Manny’s question. At least I’d had one confirmed reader. “I met with my managing editor, Max, yesterday,” I continued. “Basically, unless I can present him with new ideas that will bring in readers, I should start dusting off my résumé.”

“Then dust away, doll,” Manny said, erasing my affection for him as a reader. His features grew serious. “How are you at cutting hair?”

I shook my head. “Not good.”

“So what’s the plan?” Manny asked. “No job. No guy. Living at home. Seems to me you’ve got some work to do.”

No kidding I had work to do, but I really didn’t need Manny to tell me that.

I turned my focus to my dad instead. “I think I’d like to keep driving mornings, if that’s all right.”

Dad nodded and shot me a wink.

Manny let loose with another belly laugh. “Cabby Abby.” He slapped the table and his spoon flipped to the carpet. “That’s perfect.”

Manny made no move to retrieve his spoon, so my mother subtly plucked the utensil from the floor on her way to the kitchen. “I’ve got strawberry shortcake for dessert. Can I bring everyone a dish?”

Manny patted his belly and shook his head. “Oh, I couldn’t. I’m full from dinner.” My pulse quickened at the thought that my inquisition might soon be over, but then he tipped his well-coiffed head to one side and shot me a wink. “On second thought, how about a small piece? That’ll give us more time to visit. Right, Cabby Abby?”

“Right,” I said, raising my water glass with faux cheer. “Can’t wait.”

For the first time since I’d turned eight, my mother excused me from helping with the dishes. Apparently, Manny’s words rang just as loudly in her ears as they did in mine.

So what’s the plan? No job. No guy. Living at home. Seems to me you’ve got some work to do.

After dinner with Manny, I needed to get out. I needed to be anywhere but inside my parents’ house, faced with the reality the local barber had a better grasp on the implosion that was my life than I did.

I thought about doing a pop-in at Jessica’s apartment, but she was probably in the midst of getting Max and Bella ready for bed. The last thing she needed was an unexpected guest.

Even though we didn’t typically hang out without Jessica, I called Destiny and headed for the Pub.

“So how are things going?” I asked as we sat down, always nervous at the first few moments of conversation with Destiny.

“Things?” she asked.

And that was why. The woman was incapable of giving a straight answer.

“At work,” I answered. “With your customers.”

She pursed her lips. “A bit slow, actually.”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around.”

Destiny said nothing, merely squinted at me, as if she were waiting for the show to begin.

I waited until she took a drink before I asked my next question.

“Am I boring?”

Destiny choked on her beer.

“I thought we were here for a fun night out, not a round of
This Is Your Life
.”

She’d lost her usual ball cap for the evening, twisting her mahogany hair into a knot at the nape of her neck that made her look far more stunning than I was used to. If I hadn’t known Destiny most of my life, I might have found her intimidating. Heck, I have known her most of my life, and I
do
find her intimidating.

“I think I used to be more fun,” I said.

She nodded. “Your point?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Were you always this obtuse?”

She grinned and took another swallow of beer, straight from the bottle. “Were you?”

I studied her, taking my time before I answered. Her dark gaze waited for me to find my own answer, even though, in my heart of hearts, I’d already found it.

I’d found my answer every time I left another message for Fred. I’d found my answer watching Frankie and Mrs. O’Malley living in the moment.

The answer was that I used to know how to live.

I used to get up onstage for karaoke night. I used to sing more, laugh more, and live more. I used to plan less.

Hell, I’d done jail time.

The harsh reality settled in the pit of my stomach. Somewhere along the way, I’d become the person I thought I should be.

“I want me back,” I said.

Destiny leaned over, slapped my shoulder, and snatched my wineglass.

She put her fingers to her lips and whistled. Every head in the Pub turned, but Destiny paid no mind. I loved that about her.

“Jerry,” she called out, “would you please bring my friend a beer?”

Jerry winked from where he worked at the end of the bar, then slid a bottle of Corona in my direction. I snagged it, took a long drink, and savored the feel of the familiar, cold beverage gliding down my throat.

“Corona is good,” I said, pressing a kiss to the side of the cold bottle.

“Welcome back,” Destiny said. “What’s your next move?”

I told her about my visit to the
Times
and my mother’s two dinner guests. I told her about my calls to Fred and about how much I’d enjoyed driving Dad’s cab.

Much to her credit, Destiny sat quietly as she listened to me unload the events of the past week. After I finished, I waited for her to hand down her advice, but she said nothing.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what to do?” I asked.

“Been there, done that.”

She’d no sooner spoken than Jerry announced the start of karaoke night. I found it difficult to believe I’d sat in this very spot one week earlier, shell-shocked by the events of that day.

Since then, I’d had time to process a little of what had happened. I’d had time to listen, to watch, to learn.

Maybe the time had come to dive back in, Fred or no Fred.

Pat Benatar’s “Heartbreaker” blared out through the sound system, and I started to sing along, softly at first, then more loudly, enjoying the moment.

“Go for it.” Destiny tipped her beer toward the stage.

“Want to come with me?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not on my bucket list.”

I’d missed the sign-up but knew that didn’t matter. When I raised my hand to snag Jerry’s attention, I kicked at Destiny’s stool. “Come on.”

“Special guest, Abigail Halladay,” Jerry called out, having grabbed the microphone to perform the double duty he pulled every karaoke night. “You’re next.”

I reached for Destiny’s arm, but she pushed me away. “Go be you.”

An odd sensation fluttered deep in my belly, and I hesitated. I’d watched from the sidelines for so long, I wasn’t sure I could remember how to be onstage.

Destiny leaned close. “There’s a difference between maturity and living like a corpse.”

She was right.

I hopped down from my stool and headed for the small stage, pausing long enough to give Jerry my song choice.

Applause filled the air, pushing me forward. I stepped up on the wooden platform, grabbed the microphone, blinked against the glare of the lone spotlight, and waved to the crowd.

For one fleeting second, I felt victorious. I felt free. I felt alive.

Then I began to count faces, couples, clusters of Paris residents, all staring at
me
.

What were they thinking? That I was a failure? That I was bound to screw this up just like I’d screwed up my engagement, my career, and my choice of home?

I wasn’t sure whether my brain shut off before I stopped breathing or after, but all I could envision in that moment was the smirk on Max Campbell’s face when I’d called myself edgy.
All I could hear in my mind was Fred’s voice, crackling across the overseas connection, telling me how bored he was.

He was right. Max was right. I wasn’t edgy. I was boring.

I’d been crazy to climb up onstage.

Words scrolled across the video screen as the speakers blared Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman.” Yet, there I stood. Doing nothing.

“Abigail Halladay,” Jerry called out again, probably hoping he could shock me into action.

He hoped wrong.

I held my ground, the microphone white-knuckled in my grip, and I did nothing. I said nothing. I sang nothing.

Jerry had the decency to lower the volume until the song faded away. The audience, all of whom had sat in uncomfortable silence watching me freeze, clapped politely as I hooked the microphone back on its stand and stepped off the stage.

As I reached my place at the bar, Destiny handed me my beer and tipped her head to one side. “Guess you won’t need the make-an-ass-of-yourself-in-public coupon I’ve been saving for you.”

“Thanks for your support,” I said, climbing back up on the stool.

I sat, shoulders slumped, watching from the sidelines as the rest of karaoke night went on without me.

When I woke the next morning, I rolled over and looked at the clock. Seven fifteen. I had forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and meet Mick at my termite-ravaged house.

A short while later, I stuffed one of my mother’s chocolate-chip muffins in my mouth and headed for the cab keys.

My father’s fedora sat neatly on the corner of the credenza, the Beast’s keys tucked just beneath the brim.

The fedora, much like Bessie, had been officially off-limits for as long as I could remember. But now, Dad had entrusted me with not one, but two of his most prized possessions.

Had I even said thank you?

“Mom?” I called out. “Where’s Dad?”

I heard Madeline O’Malley’s muffled answer from the mudroom, but I had zero idea of what she’d said. When I rounded the corner, I could barely believe my eyes.

My mother’s cheeks appeared stuffed, and muffin crumbs marred her perfect lipstick. Even more astonishingly, her apron appeared wrinkled. Rumpled, even.

“Mom?” I said cautiously. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, but in her eyes I spotted the faintest trace of tears. I crossed to where she stood and wrapped her in a bear
hug, something I’d done routinely in my youth, but hadn’t done in…well…I honestly couldn’t remember how long.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

But my mother had slapped her mask of perfection back into place. “Just doing some quality assurance, honey.” She hugged me back, straightened, brushed the crumbs from her mouth, and smiled. “In answer to your question, your father went out for another ride.”

“To where?” I pushed.

She forced a smile. “Your guess is as good as mine, darling.”

“Did you ask him?”

She shrugged. “He’s exercising. It’s a good thing.”

Our gazes locked and held. My mother might talk a good game, but there was no way the man was taking four- and five-hour rides.