Like Dandelion Dust (9 page)

Something about Beth, about the way she believed in her even when Molly felt ugly and worthless, gave her strength to pick up and go back onto the field. Whenever she found herself looking for Connor’s number among the players, she would catch Beth’s eye. Beth would shake her head and force a smile, reminding her to do the same.

After the game, Connor came looking for her. By then he’d heard the news that the entire cheer squad had caught him kissing another girl. He was panicked when he found Molly in the school parking lot. Beth was with her, but she walked a few yards ahead so the two of them could talk. Connor’s apology was only just underway when Molly held up her hand. “We’re done, Connor.” She caught up with Beth and grinned back at him. “My life’s about to get very exciting.”

Before she and Beth met up with their ride that night, one of the other cheerleaders snapped their picture. Beth and Molly. Sisters and best friends.

Molly turned the page. There were several layouts of Disney pictures. The cheerleaders competed at a sports complex outside Disneyworld and afterwards they spent two days at the parks. Even though they were locals.

She and Beth walked through the gift store on the second day, taking pictures of all the things they couldn’t buy. There was a photo of the two of them wearing pointed princess hats, and another with Beth dressed as a pirate, and Molly as Tinkerbell.

A few more pages and there was the beach trip they’d taken to Sanibel Island the summer before Molly’s senior year. Their parents had invited another couple, so that left Molly and Beth by themselves much of the time. One of the pictures was of the two girls standing between two guys—locals they met the second day of the trip.

Again the photo didn’t tell the whole story.

That night, the boys invited them to a bonfire half a mile down the beach. Beth hadn’t liked the idea from the beginning, but Molly—always the sillier, more spontaneous one—had pushed until Beth agreed. Their parents were playing bridge that night with their friends, and gave their approval without asking many questions.

Molly and Beth and the boys walked to the party, and at first their behavior seemed harmless. But then one of the boys brought them glasses of punch. Beth took a sip and spit it out on the sand. “Don’t drink it, Molly. It’s spiked.”

The guys laughed. “Looks like your little sister’s never had island punch.”

“Island punch?” Molly sniffed it. “Is she right? Is there alcohol in it?”

“Of course not.” One of the guys put his arm around her. “Your sister’s just a worrier.”

“Molly, don’t!” Beth took hold of her free hand. “Let’s go. We shouldn’t be here.”

But Molly didn’t want her younger sister telling her what to do. She grinned at the boys and drank the cup of punch in a series of quick gulps. Fifteen minutes later she knew the truth. Beth was right. The drink had to have been mostly alcohol. Molly was so drunk she couldn’t talk or walk straight.

There wasn’t much she remembered about that night, but she found out later what happened. The guys tried to talk Molly into taking a walk with them down to the water, but Beth wouldn’t let them. She took hold of Molly’s arm and half-carried her all the way back to the hotel. When their parents wanted to know what had happened, Beth covered for her.

The pages of the photo album hinted at stories Molly had almost forgotten about. Near the end of the book came the saddest photo of all. Molly had a guy friend, Art Goldberg, someone she’d been close to since fifth grade. Though the two of them never dated, she could always call Art when she needed advice from a guy or just a fresh set of ears to tell her stories to.

Art hung out at the house, and Beth and her parents often teased Molly that the guy had a crush on her. Molly never saw it. She and Art were buddies, nothing more. But on the last day of Christmas break her senior year, Art’s mother called with tragic news. Art and a few of his guy friends had gone up to Michigan for a snowmobile trip. Two days before his eighteenth birthday, a few of them took an afternoon run on a well-marked trail. Art was leading the way, but he took a turn too fast, flew off the machine and hit a tree.

He died at the scene. His mother was crying on the other end of the phone. “I . . . thought you should know.”

Molly remembered her reaction. She was unable to tell Art’s mother how sorry she was, unable to ask for details or even hang up the phone. The pain was so great, it was like someone had cut off her right arm. She collapsed to the floor in slow motion and from somewhere in the depths of her heart she let out a deep, gut-wrenching wail that rang in her heart to this day. Their parents were at work, but Beth was reading in the other room. She came running, and when Molly could finally explain what had happened, Beth held her and rocked her for almost an hour.

In the months that followed, when Molly wanted only to go to the room they shared, crawl under the covers and sleep away the afternoon, Beth wouldn’t let her. The two of them started taking runs after school, and holding long conversations about Molly’s memories of Art and how much she missed him.

Beth’s perfect 4.0 grade point average slipped that semester, and she had little time for after-school activities. She devoted that much of herself to Molly, making sure Molly survived. No doubt, that’s what happened. Molly had survived because Beth willed her to survive. Those were the days before Beth found God, so it wasn’t about praying and reading Scripture. It was just one sister devoting herself to another so that healing could happen.

Tears filled Molly’s eyes as she studied the pictures on that page. Throughout the album, there’d been shots of Art Goldberg and Molly. But this page was sort of a tribute, a collection of last moments. The first was of Art and Molly, sitting next to each other on her family’s sofa, watching television. It was dated fall, her senior year—one of the last times they shared an afternoon that way. The next showed Art and her sitting in a single lounge chair near the pool in her family’s backyard. This time the date was November—still plenty warm enough for parties around the pool, and probably the last time the two of them swam together.

There was a copy of Art’s senior picture, and next to it Beth had written, “Art will live on, always, in the memories the two of you made together.”

The last picture was taken at his memorial service. It showed Molly, dressed in her church clothes, standing at the podium, tears streaming down her face. She could never have said good-bye to Art without Beth’s help. Never. Molly ran her finger over Art’s senior photo. “I still miss you, friend. Why did you have to drive so fast, you big dummy?”

She wasn’t quite ready to turn the page when the phone rang. It was Beth. She knew even before she glanced at Caller ID. She picked up the receiver and clicked the On button. “Hey, you.”

“Hey.” Beth let out an exaggerated breath. “I thought I’d get an hour to myself, but Jonah was bouncing off the walls.”

“I tried to call you earlier. It was busy.”

“I know.” Beth laughed. “Jonah was practicing his phone manners—something they’re working on in Kindergarten, I guess. Only does he tell me he’s got the phone off the hook? Of course not.” She paused. “So what’s happening at your house?”

“Well . . .” Molly could hear the sorrow in her voice. “I was looking at that old photo album, the one you made me when I graduated from high school.”

Beth’s laughter faded some from her voice. “Saddest day of my life.” She made a sound that was more sigh than laugh. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever forgive you.”

“I was looking at the page about Art Goldberg.”

Beth allowed a few seconds of silence. “He was a good guy, Art.”

“I never would’ve gotten through losing him if it weren’t for you.” There were tears in her voice. “I guess I’d forgotten how much you were there that year.”

“It made your leaving for college that much harder.”

“Yes.” Molly turned the page. Almost every photo was of the two of them, Molly and Beth, inseparable. “I left the last day of August. I cried all the way to my dorm room.”

“I cried every night for a month.” Beth groaned. “You weren’t that far away, but all of a sudden everything was different. You might as well have been halfway around the world.”

Molly sniffed, working hard to keep her tone light. “I was going to get there, turn right around and come home.”

“I remember.” Beth’s voice was quieter, as if she too were reliving that day. “You called that night and said it was too much—you could attend community college, stay at home.”

“And you told me not to dare think of such a thing.” Molly smiled, even as her tears clouded her eyes. “You reminded me of every reason I’d chosen Florida State and you told me that besides, you were looking forward to having your own room.” Molly laughed. “Something about your speech gave me the strength to stay. By Christmas I was in love with the place.”

“I have a confession.” Beth sounded sheepish. “I didn’t want my own room. It took me most of that year to figure out how to fall asleep without those talks we had every night.”

“I know, Beth. I think I knew it then.” Molly leaned her head back and held the phone a little tighter. “Ever notice how we weren’t like normal sisters? I mean, I was the oldest and you, the youngest.” She sat up and looked at another picture of the two of them. “But every time I turned around, you were looking out for me. You never, ever let me fall apart.”

Beth sniffed and Molly wondered if the memories had stirred tears for her, as well. “That’s because you needed me. And I needed you.”

“Yes.” Molly turned to the last page. There were photos of her high school graduation and the going-away party her family threw her before she left for college. “We were something else.”

The sound of children’s voices made it hard to hear Beth’s response. Instead Molly heard questions about snacks and homework being fired at Beth from Cammie and Blain and Braden.

“Hey,” Beth had to yell to be heard. “The Indians are home.”

“And they’re restless.”

“Exactly.” The noise in the background grew. “Can I call you later?”

“Sure.” Molly hesitated. “Hey, Beth. I love you.”

“Yep.” She could hear the smile in her sister’s voice. “I love you, too.”

They hung up, and Molly read the words Beth had written on the final page of the photo album:
Life will take us far from here. But one day when we’re all grown up, when all our questions are answered, maybe we’ll be neighbors and raise our kids together. For now, I’ll miss you. I’ll never forget sharing a room with you. And a whole lot more. I love you, Beth.

Molly closed the book and held it to her chest. Beth was right. Life did take them far from their Orlando home. Beth got a scholarship to the University of Washington, and both girls married in their early twenties. Molly and Jack moved to West Palm Beach, and Beth and Jack settled in Seattle. They never went longer than a week without a conversation, but nothing had compared to those first growing-up years, the days when she and Beth were inseparable.

Never for a minute had either of them really believed that one day they’d be neighbors. But here they were, a lifetime spread out before them, endless seasons raising the children they loved and living with the men of their dreams.

And she and Beth, together again, right in the middle of it all.

Molly wiped at an errant tear and put the photo album away. Life couldn’t possibly get better than this. In fact, it was so good it almost frightened her. As if by recognizing the idyllic lives they lived, she might somehow jinx them. Molly blinked and headed down the hall to check on Joey. Her fears were completely unfounded. Life was amazing and getting better all the time.

It was as simple as that.

Chapter Seven

T
he office was in a brick building in the heart of downtown Cleveland. Department of Children’s Welfare, the sign over the front door read. Wendy held tighter to Rip’s hand. She hadn’t slept at all the night before, replaying in her mind again and again details about the Florida couple. Were they wrong, coming here? What they were about to do
would
be for their son’s best welfare, wouldn’t it?

She stopped, her high heels unsteady on the wet sidewalk. Overhead another thunderstorm was rolling in. “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?”

“Of course.” Rip smiled. He’d been mostly charming since their conversation on the hallway floor a week ago. He kissed her cheek. “Back then we weren’t ready to be parents. Now we are.”

“Right.” She nodded, and he led her up the stairs and into the building. They had contacted the department the afternoon she showed Rip the file. Allyson Bower, the social worker, was still there.

They walked up to a window and Rip spoke into the small hole in the glass. “We have an appointment with Allyson Bower. I’m Rip Porter.” He touched Wendy’s elbow. “This is my wife, Wendy.”

The woman at the desk checked her computer. “It’ll be a few minutes.” She looked at Rip. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

Rip thanked the woman, and he led the two of them to a pair of open chairs. There were two other people in the waiting area: a sad-looking man in his thirties and a young girl, probably no more than eighteen. Wendy shivered and leaned into Rip’s arm. “I’m nervous,” she whispered near his ear. “What if they don’t believe us?”

“They will.” Rip’s upbeat tone faded a little. “Remember what I told you? Act like it’s true and this’ll be a cinch.”

“Okay.”

Wendy didn’t want to disappoint him. Not when this whole thing was her fault in the first place. In the past week, Rip had grown frustrated with her a few times when they’d rehearsed the story at the dining-room table. She would become flustered or miss a piece of the story and he’d snap at her. But right away he’d calm himself down and apologize. So far the anger management, or whatever they’d taught him in prison, was working.

Besides, there was no reason to be nervous. So far the social worker seemed to believe everything she’d said.

On their first phone call to her, the woman pulled her file and seemed to remember their case. “Your husband was in prison. You gave your baby up because you were concerned for his future.” The social worker stopped short of saying whether she remembered the bump on Wendy’s collarbone, or the fact that Wendy had feared for her son’s life if Rip ever got out of prison.