What She Wanted (2 page)

She hefted one in each hand. “Yellow would make the lemonade look more lemony. Blue would create a nice punch of color.”

I opened and closed one palm in the universal sign for “gimmee.” “Art majors are the bane of my existence.”

She cast her gaze from one pitcher to the other, deliberating several seconds, before handing me the yellow one. “We also make the world more beautiful.”

“Uh-huh.”

Heidi wandered into the living room, where my mom’s senior photo hung over the mantel beside a picture of Mark and Grandma on their wedding day.

I turned for the kitchen. Heat rose up the back of my neck. “Don’t say it.”

“It’s just that you look so much like her.”

She always said it.

I kept moving.

Grandma died of breast cancer when I was eight. Mom died of leukemia when I was one. She was seventeen.

Looking like Mom probably added to the list of reasons Mark didn’t look at me. I was a sad reminder of what he’d lost. What she’d sacrificed. I was already older than Mom ever had a chance to be. I got to graduate. If she’d agreed to treatment when they found out about her cancer, she might’ve lived. But, she’d watched her mom struggle through chemo and radiation when she was young, and though Grandma had beaten cancer the first time, Mom hadn’t thought I’d survive her treatments. Stupidly, she’d bartered with Grandma and Mark until they’d given in. She’d agreed to any treatment they wanted
after
I was born. Mom had been Mark’s world. Now he was stuck with me.

I cut lemons in half and dragged the sugar bowl to the sink.

“It’s not your fault.” Heidi filled the pitcher with water. “I know what you’re thinking. What you’re always thinking. No one knows what would’ve happened if she started treatment sooner. My mom says they didn’t find the cancer until it was already bad.”

The sleek blond hair in Mom’s photo was a wig. Her sunken cheeks and haunted eyes had been doctored by the studio, but technology sucked then, and the efforts were obvious. “If she hadn’t been hiding a pregnancy, she would’ve gone to the doctor and found out about the cancer in time to do something.”

We’d had this conversation so many times I’d memorized the script. I let it play out because I needed to hear it again.

“Katy.” Heidi placed the pitcher gently beside my lemons. Her voice softened to a reassuring whisper. “It wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. Your grandpa’s not a bad guy. He’s just stubborn like you. He’s grieving losses I can’t fathom and missing out on his chance to know an amazing, talented, hysterically funny you.”

I ran the pad of my thumb along the bottom of both eyes. “I’m hilarious.”

“Yep.”

“His loss.”

“Totally.”

My tummy knotted.
Totally.
“I think the grill’s ready.” I went outside and moved four hamburgers to the heated grill while she finished the lemonade. Heat rose from the lid like an apparition.

“There you are.” Mark’s gravelly voice scared the crap out of me. “Dinner ready?”

I pressed a palm to my chest. “Just a few minutes.”

He stepped onto the porch and the screen door banged shut with a smack. Beside me, he drove a rag around his face and over sweat-slicked hair. The factory where he worked was hotter than any place in town. Guilt raced through me for whining about our lack of air-conditioning. I could walk outside and enjoy the breeze or make lemonade with my friend. He had to work over molten steel inside a building that reeked of crude oil and kerosene. His navy coveralls were lined in grease. The soles of his work boots were worn to the ground, smooth and flat where thick rubber used to be. He’d get them resoled again soon.

He caught me staring and lingered his gaze over me, as if he might say something more. My heart jumped into my throat. Maybe he was sorry he didn’t sign the FAFSA papers or was thankful I made dinner.

“Mark?”

He batted bloodshot eyes and turned the corners of his mouth into a sour look. “I’m not hungry. I think I’ll go out to my shed.” He lumbered off the porch and across the lawn, rubbing his arm and occasionally the back of his neck.

Heidi opened the screen door and poked her head out. She scanned the yard where Mark was unlocking the padlock to his shed. “What do you think he does in there all the time?”

“Besides avoid me?” I flipped the burgers and dropped a slice of cheese on each. “I hope you’re hungry. I suddenly have plenty.”

She slipped black, cat-eye sunglasses over her nose and ferried two glasses of lemonade to the patio table.

I held my breath, praying she didn’t have to leave. Something in Mark’s eyes had unsettled me. Maybe because he’d seemed to see me for the first time.

Heidi dropped onto an empty seat and smiled, tucking tan legs beneath her. “Make mine a double.”

After dinner, Heidi had to babysit her little brother, so I cleaned up, wrote Mark a note, and secured my camera bag cross-body. I had a date with the sunset. If Mark managed to find his appetite before I got back, he’d also find two leftover burgers in the fridge. I suspected he’d be hungrier once I was gone.

I jogged down the front steps and instantly breathed easier. The balmy summer air smelled like freedom. I’d cherished my evening walks since I was old enough to circle the block alone. Now I was finally turning eighteen and moving out. Freedom would be real and permanent soon for both of us. It was the least I could do for him after he’d tolerated and housed me all these years.

I hooked a left at Main Street and basked in the pre-storm breeze. Judging by the clouds and gentle rumble of thunder, rain was imminent. With any luck, I’d get some fantastic shots of a country rainbow after the storm. I loved the rain, but I suspected the group of Little Leaguers gathered on our elementary school ballfield didn’t share the sentiment tonight. A flash of lightning drew the ballers’ attention. They raised leather mitts to their foreheads, searching the sky for what would end their fun. Moms sprang to life, flattening popup chairs and sprinting to their minivans, handbags and paperbacks at the ready for use as makeshift umbrellas.

I unpacked my camera and snapped a few shots of the scampering women in yoga pants and mom jeans. Tiny ballers framed the backdrop. Sometimes, the local paper paid for amateur shots. I’d made two hundred dollars last summer photographing historic Mail Pouch Tobacco barns after Heidi and I joined her mom on a mission to collect barn siding for her store. Apparently, reclaimed wood was all the rage for the over-thirty-with-money crowd. I’d eventually made enough cash to buy all my school supplies, plus a few new outfits from the thrift store.

Thunder rolled again, a little louder this time, and I picked up my pace.

Woodsfield was a stereotypical rural Ohio town, complete with clichéd street fairs and communal hayrides. At the moment, strawberries were blooming and preparations were underway for the annual festival and parade. I didn’t hate it. It was the kind of place exhausted people dreamed of visiting and, in my opinion, the true inspiration for half of Stephen King’s novels. Unlike the books, nothing monumental ever happened in Woodsfield. Definitely nothing sinister. We still had a fancy blue sign on the main drag claiming Home of Miss America 2008. Also known as the last newsworthy thing that had happened here.

I ignored the occasional raindrop, still too insignificant to deter my plan, and scouted for potential money shots. Aside from the fleeing moms, everything was the same, and the storm was more threat than action. Firemen played cards underneath the station’s red awning. Families pitched horseshoes on oversized lawns. Couples held hands on front porch swings. I rested one shoulder against an ancient oak and caught an elderly couple in my camera lens as he pressed his lips to her forehead. The shutter blinked. I checked the little screen for quality and composition. I could do better.

“There you are!” Mrs. Baxter, my grandma’s best friend and my surrogate family, speed-walked up the sidewalk in my direction, waving a handkerchief at the couple I’d photographed. Her teal blouse and white pedal pushers were the epitome of vintage chic.

“Hi, Mrs. B.” I lowered my camera, unsure what she’d think of me taking what must’ve looked like surveillance photos. “I couldn’t help myself. They look so happy.”

“They are. They’ve been happy for nearly fifty years now.” A sweet smile crinkled the skin around her eyes. “I’m sure they’d be honored to know you thought they were worth the time. Have you given any thought to the brochure for my butterfly garden?”

“Yes.” I dug into my bag for a set of sketches I’d drawn up. “I made this. It’s a mockup of the kinds of shots I want to look for. I’m not a very good artist, so Heidi helped. It’s really rough. The gist, really.”

She examined my wrinkled sketches as if they held the winning lottery numbers. “Don’t be so coy. You’ve obviously given this a lot of time and thought. I appreciate that. Anyone would.” Her sharp blue eyes widened and narrowed as she took in the numerous notes and doodles. She’d given the same look to every report card I’d brought home since Grandma died. The harder I’d tried to withdraw during those dark days in second grade, the tighter she’d held my hand. Mrs. B had lost her closest friend, and that had given us a bond. A broken-hearts bond. “This is very nice work. How’d you decide what sorts of images to include? I thought artists waited for their muse.”

My cheeks burned at her liberal use of “artist.” Heidi was an artist. Heidi’s mother was an artist. I took pictures. The camera did all my work. I was basically a scam. I folded the paper and stuffed it back into my bag. “I like to research, and I think a project like this is too important to wait for a muse. If you’re designing a single piece of literature meant to advertise to everyone, we have to be prepared. I needed to know what works on these types of pamphlets, so I read everything I could on the topic.”

“And now you know what works?”

I shrugged. “I know what the Internet says works.”

She rubbed my forearm with a soft, warm hand. “Well done.” Her contagious laugh lifted my spirits. “You always were wise beyond your years. How’s everything else going?”

“Okay. Everything’s good.”

She pursed her lips and waited.

I averted my eyes. No one needed details on what it was like to be me. I was fine. Life was grand. Move on. “I should go. I’ll call soon and schedule a time to take the photographs.”

“Come anytime you want.” Lines raced across her brow. “Katy?”

“Hmm?” If my smile looked as bizarre as it felt, she probably wanted to ask about my mental health.

“If you ever need anything, anything at all, you can ask me. You know that, right?”

I nodded my head. “Sure.”

“Are you doing something marvelous for your birthday?”

Mrs. B never forgot my birthday, unlike another adult I knew. “No, ma’am.”

She clucked her tongue. “Well, it’s settled then. Come to my place for lunch. Nothing fancy, just a little girl time. We can catch up on things.”

“Okay.” The way she said
things
bothered me.

“You look more like your mother every day.”

A lump formed in my throat. Why was I still standing here? “Thank you.” I forced myself not to ask the questions always on my mind. What would my mom be like today? Would she like me when we met in heaven, or wherever we went after this life? Would I like her? Mrs. B couldn’t answer those questions, but maybe at lunch, we could talk about Mom and Grandma. She had hundreds of stories I never tired of hearing. I was in a few of them, though I was young, and I’d heard them so often, I wasn’t sure if I truly remembered the moment or just the stories. Hopefully the first one.

A band of children squealed down the sidewalk, swinging sparklers and hopping over cracks. I snapped a shot of their backs as they sprang across the town square. A pair of women bounded along behind them, yelling about the proximity of sparklers to heads, hair, and eyes.

I checked the tiny window on my camera. Chased by a worried mother. What must that be like?

Thunder rolled, and Mrs. B adjusted her salt-and-pepper ponytail. “I’d better let you get back to your walk before we’re caught in a downpour. I’m going to invite those women and children to see the butterflies. Let me know when you’re available for lunch.” She squeezed my hand and smiled. “Tell your grandfather I said hello and let him know about our plan. Maybe he’d like to join us.”

“Sure.” I bit back an argument. She’d been in my life from the beginning and taken over when Grandma’s cancer came back, but Mark didn’t seem to like her much more than he liked me. Surely she knew he’d never join us for lunch.

Dark clouds sped across the sky, devouring the sun and casting shadows over my feet.

I took a right onto Home Avenue, determined to make it to the library before getting wet. Tonight, I wanted shots of the local ducks outside our public library. The cobblestone footpath around the perimeter was polka-dotted with bushes and flowering trees. I loved the area deeply, and so did the ducks. I hoisted my camera to one cheek as the little oasis came into view. An obstinate ray of orange and amber light shone between bullying clouds and illuminated the area like a campfire. “This one’s for the blog.”

“You always talk to yourself?” A jovial tenor scissored through my concentration.

I froze as the voice registered. I hadn’t heard it in almost a year, but I could effortlessly picture the sexy smile that went with it. I squelched the urge to flee and turned on my toes toward the beautiful sound.

Dean Wells leaned on a shovel handle, amidst a pile of fresh mulch. “Storm’s coming. Shouldn’t you tuck that away?” His shirtless torso was completely unfair and broader than last summer. His shoulders and biceps glistened with evidence of a long day’s work. Those were the kind of muscles that impressed the pants off girls. Frequently, I imagined.

“Uh.” I couldn’t tear my eyes off his lips, jaw, neck…shoulders. I jerked my attention upward.
Tuck what away, cowboy? My camera or my lolling tongue?
“Uhm.” My traitorous gaze drifted to the luckiest belt buckle ever made.

“Eyes up here, Reese.” His jibe startled me into silence, but at least I stopped making that stupid noise and hawking his crotch.