A Curve in the Road(42)

I look at her and smile, because I love the idea of my mother embarking on a new adventure at her age.

I rise to my feet and cross the kitchen to pull her in for a hug. “I think that’s a great idea, Mom. And I would love to help you. As soon as you’re ready, we can get busy decluttering the house and figuring out what we need to do to get the best possible price for it, so you can live your dreams with that money.”

Her cheeks flush red, and her eyes twinkle. “Really? I was so afraid you’d be upset. Because this is your home too.”

My eyebrows fly up. “Of course I’m not upset! I want you to be happy. And I agree—this house is a heavy load. You shouldn’t be carrying it all on your own. You did your bit. It’s time for you to kick up your heels.”

She hugs me even tighter. “Okay. Let’s do it then.”

We tidy the kitchen together, but I feel tired afterward and retreat to my bedroom for a power nap, because if I’ve learned anything over the past year, it’s that sleep is a great rejuvenator. As are dreams. We always get a fresh start when we escape for a short time. Then we wake up, ready to move again—and clearly there’s going to be a lot to do around here, so I’m going to need all the energy I can get.

I come around to the sensation of Winston’s wet tongue on my eyelids, and I lean up on an elbow on the bed.

“Good boy,” I say as I stroke his thick fur and glance at the clock. He’s become very good at judging how much time has elapsed and waking me about thirty minutes after I lie down. I never trained him for this, so I can only presume it’s instinct or intuition. Somehow, he knows what I need, and he keeps me on track.

My laptop chimes with an incoming email, and I wonder if it’s work related. Dragging myself off the bed, I sit down at the desk and open my email program.

The subject line on the newest message says, in all caps, CAN WE MEET?

My belly does a sickening flip because the sender of this message is Paula—the last person in the world I want to hear from.

She hasn’t contacted me since our conversation at Alan’s apartment last year, so I wonder what this is about. My heart starts to race, and my blood boils with that familiar anger I’ve been trying so hard to purge from my life lately.

I click on the message.

Hi Abbie. I’ve been thinking of you. Holidays are rough.

I suspect you’re not thrilled to hear from me, but please consider meeting me to talk. There’s something I would like to tell you. Let me know when you’re available.

Paula

I sit back in my chair and stare at the computer screen. “Let me know when you’re available”? Isn’t it a bit presumptuous to assume I’ll say yes? Because I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of sitting down and chatting with the woman who was sleeping with my husband for three years. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.

Winston lays his snout on my thigh and peers up at me. He blinks a few times. His golden brow furrows.

I don’t know what it is about this dog, but sometimes I believe he can see into my soul. Today, he looks at me with sorrow because he recognizes the jealousy and bitterness I still feel toward this woman.

Or is it pity that I see in his eyes?

I gaze out the window at the gentle breeze in the treetops and realize that if I’m ever going to be truly happy, I need to focus on a far bigger picture.

I think of my son. I remember him as a baby in my arms—the sweet smell of his soft head beneath my lips when I kissed him good night before setting him down in his crib. I think of him as a young boy scoring the winning goal in a hockey game and raising his stick over his head with triumph. I think of how frightened Alan and I were when he was fourteen and fell off his skateboard and was rushed to the ER. But he was okay in the end.

I think about what a good man Zack has become.

Then I think about my walks along the seashore with Nathan, the girls, and our dogs, running and frolicking on the beach while we search for rocks with fossils in them. I can almost hear the sound of the ocean waves breaking onto the rocky beach, mixed with the girls’ laughter.

I love being with Nathan and his daughters. I also love being with my mom. I love our Sunday dinners and my mother’s kindness and wit. Her cooking. Her love, ever since the day I was born.

We live in a beautiful world.

I’m thankful for my life.

I give Winston a pat, lean down to kiss him tenderly on the head, and begin to type my reply to Paula.

As I get out of my car on the main street in town, I hope I’m doing the right thing. Maybe it would have been better to meet Paula in a private location rather than a public coffee shop, because I certainly don’t want to cause a scene. Not that I plan to fall apart or get into a screaming match—I would never lose control like that, not now—but it’s hard to know what she plans to say or do.

Yet here I am, sitting down at a table at Tim Hortons, waiting for her to arrive.

The door opens, and she walks in out of a strong wind that blows dead leaves in the street.

I forgot how beautiful she is—with long, flowing blonde hair and giant blue eyes. That alone causes heads to turn. Today, she’s dressed in an ivory fisherman’s sweater, faded jeans, and sneakers.

Our eyes meet, and she approaches my table. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I reply coolly.

We stare at each other. I have no idea what to say. I don’t even know why I’m here. I hope she doesn’t think there’s a chance we might bury the hatchet and become friends, because as much as I want to put my anger to bed forever, I’m quite certain the only way I can do that is to leave all this behind and stop wrestling with it.

At least this isn’t a dive bar, and she’s not passed out after guzzling multiple glasses of wine.

She tells me she’s going to get a coffee. Then she approaches the counter. I sit there, tapping my finger on the table, waiting.

A moment later, she returns and sits down. “Thanks for coming.”

“I couldn’t very well say no,” I reply with a hint of antagonism I’m not proud of, because I hate being rude, and Lord knows I’m trying to rise above all this. “The suspense was killing me.”

Paula peels the brown plastic lid off her coffee cup to let the steam escape. “Sorry. I just thought we should meet in person.”

“Why?” But I believe I already know the answer. I’m guessing she’s had time over the past year to reflect upon the choices she’s made, and she wants to apologize for the pain she caused me and ask for my forgiveness.

If that’s the case, I’m just going to give it to her, because I’ve already decided that the time has come to move on.

So here we are. I’m staring at the light at the end of the tunnel. I want to reach for it. I suspect Paula wants to reach for it too.

But she doesn’t apologize for anything, nor does she ask my forgiveness. She reaches into her purse, withdraws a photograph, lays it on the table, and slides it toward me.

I gaze down at it and feel a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. Why is she showing me this? Has she not trespassed enough? And how did she come upon it?

I pick up the photo of Zack as an infant, look at it closely, and frown at her. “What are you trying to do here?”

Her eyes fill with wetness. “I just want you to know.”

“Know what?”

Then suddenly I realize that I don’t remember this baby picture. I certainly never took it myself, and if Alan had, he would have shown it to me. And why would he have given it to Paula anyway?

As I look more closely, the shock of discovery hits me full force. My eyes lift, and I meet Paula’s troubled gaze across the table. “Is this what I think it is?”

She slowly nods her head. “Yes. That’s my son.”

My heart is pounding so fast I’m afraid I might fall out of my chair. The resemblance between this child and Zack is uncanny.

It’s obvious that the baby belongs to Alan. There can be no denying it.

I drop the picture onto the table as if it has just burst into flames.

Paula struggles to explain. “I’m so sorry, Abbie. I didn’t know I was pregnant when I met you in the bar that day. I found out a few weeks later, and I haven’t had a drink since. Michael kicked me out when I told him, but not before he lost his mind with rage. So I’m not sorry to be rid of him. I’m living with my mom now, and I’m getting a divorce.”

I stare wordlessly at her. I’m still numb with shock, and anger is swirling around me again. I feel like I’m being sucked back into the vortex of my grief and bitterness.

“I’m telling you this,” she continues, “because we’re connected. And I’m sorry that I ruined your life, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Alan was so good to me. He was such a decent guy. He wasn’t anything like my husband, and I don’t think you know how lucky you were.” She holds up a hand. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I wanted to say to you today. What matters now is that we have these two boys who are half brothers, and I just couldn’t keep that to myself.”

My head is swimming, and I feel sick as images of my late husband flash before my eyes.

The first moment I laid eyes on Alan in the anatomy lab.

His battered body on the table in the ER when I first realized he was the drunk driver who hit me.