The Fifth Stage Part 2

15.

16.

I should move. I loved this house when we bought it, but it was never really my style. It's too modern, too beige and white on the outside, and has too much crown molding and recessed lighting on the inside. And it has too many windows. Whatever happened to the old-fas.h.i.+oned houses where you could close one curtain and sleep all day, never knowing whether it was sunny or cloudy outside? And what do I need with four bedrooms? I haven't even been upstairs since my brother was in town at Christmas. If the cleaning lady didn't come once a week, there'd be at least three inches of dust up there. I've even got a formal living room and dining room. That makes about as much sense as a hat on a dog.

On the way to the kitchen door, I placate myself with frail rea.s.surances that life will go on, that my ordeal will one day seem like last-week's nightmare: fuzzy and unreal, and not nearly as frightening as it seems today. I think how lucky I am to have a nice home in an upscale section of town, how fortunate I am to have good health, and how successful I've been with my career. Yet when I throw open the kitchen door, the house caves in on me. I ward away the panic with a feeble shake of my head and catch a breath. I slide the Choppy's leftovers into the refrigerator and open the freezer to let the cold air hit my face.

Yes, I should get away from here. I should leave all the memories, leave her dust behind for someone else to clean up. But I won't. I'll live in this house till I die. And she will be here, teasing me with images of what might have been. She'll linger in the rooms like an apparition, shadowy and untouchable. She'll lie with me at night as I struggle for sleep and berate myself for not doing the right things. She'll remind me that she's never coming back.

I put my purse on the kitchen table, step out of my pumps, and walk toward our room, opening the door to the guestroom as I pa.s.s. Like a hairy tornado, Jitterbug invades the hallway with her hippity-hop routine of sideways cartwheels and barks at my briefcase.

I don't scold the dog when she scratches at my legs and tears my pantyhose. Rebecca already ruined this pair. I smile, relis.h.i.+ng the shared experience. A run in my stockings is a small price for a tiny connection.

Probably nothing more than an uncomfortable incident to her, but a weapon for me. I'll wield the memory against my black-eyed demons, slice them down to manageable size, and deal them a deathblow with the one ounce of pride I've been granted. I am empowered for the evening.

Jitterbug follows me to our room and waits for her after-work scratch behind the ears before curling up at the foot of my bed. Every time I look at the little buff-colored c.o.c.ker, I thank G.o.d for the

17.

company. The first time I saw her, though, I wasn't so sure about the arrangement. To be frank, I didn't want a dog in our new house, didn't want to deal with pee on the carpet and p.o.o.p in my shoes. But with two sets of big brown eyes begging to let her stay, I never stood a chance and Jitterbug has been here ever since. If only I could say the same about her benefactor.

I flip on the overhead light and survey the room, just in case. I keep hoping that one night I'll saunter in and find her waiting for me. Not tonight. The sleigh bed is empty, the plaid comforter still askew from last night. The pine dresser and chest of drawers still hold only my clothes, and that one silly snapshot of us is still missing from the wall beside the bathroom door. Now there's just a lonely nail.

I pick up the picture frame from the bedside table. From behind the gla.s.s, the pressed four-leaf clover looks almost as green as the day she discovered it, over twenty years ago. She said it was our good-luck charm, and as long as we kept it, we'd be together. The clover's magic worked in our first d.i.n.ky apartment and in our first house. For a while it worked here, but then the spell withered.

I put the frame back and glance into the mirror over the dresser.

The years fall in on me all at once. I sailed along, never realizing how quickly time was pa.s.sing. Then, before I had a chance to enjoy them, my twenties were gone. I'm too thick-headed to learn from experience, so my thirties will soon be gone as well, and I'll have little to show for either decade. Nothing important, anyway. I spent all that time, all that energy, to end up alone in a big house with a c.o.c.ker spaniel and a large-screen TV. Even my own gray eyes look at me too sternly, and I turn away.

CHAPTER 5.

It was the fifth day of school during my senior year, and Franklin High's Lady Warrior basketball team was preparing to take on Cross City's Lady Devils. The usual crowd of parents and friends filled only half of the bleachers lining both sides of the court, but the faint odor of my own sweat and the need to prove myself pumped me up tighter than the practice ball I'd been dribbling for the last twenty minutes.

I smelled the fresh wax on the court, saw how it made the hardwood s.h.i.+mmer. I knew each board by name. They were mine now.

This time, I was going to hang the champions.h.i.+p pennant in the rafters.

It would be me who hopped up on the stage at the head of the court and led the pep band in our fight song during Friday morning's pep rally.

We were going to win, and I would get us there. It was my turn at last, and I wasn't about to miss a minute of it.

In pre-game warm-up, I'd shot my umpteenth lay-up and was rounding the court to join the rebound line, when I noticed Lora sitting in the bleachers. I was surprised to see her. In my four years on the team, she'd never come to a game, probably because Coach Larson had recruited her like a mad dog. Lora had turned him down flat, citing the conflict between the girls' basketball schedule and the football schedule as her main reason for not playing. Sure, she had the size and natural ability to be a star forward, but with all her other extracurricular activities as well as a part-time job at Pizza Oven, she had enough on her plate.

"Hey, Study Buddy," she shouted, hands cupped around her mouth.

"Go get 'em!"

I grinned and waved. Lora and I had met after school for a c.o.ke a couple of times and gone to the bookstore once, but I didn't know she considered me a friend. Her presence at the game told me she did, and although Lora Tyler was friendly to everyone, she had only a select few cronies. I was flattered to be one of them, and a drop of pride pushed my adrenaline a little higher. I couldn't be beaten, not tonight, and not with my own personal cheerleader in the stands.

18.

19.

I took my place in the rebound line behind my best friend, Jill McMurray, a lanky kid with somber blue eyes and short-cropped brown hair that was feathered away from her long face. Her claim to fame was wearing a size eleven sneaker, the biggest of any girl in our cla.s.s.

Jill glanced toward Lora and wrinkled her freckled nose. "What's she doing here? I thought she didn't have time for basketball."

Most people didn't know how to take Jill. Roaring mad or deliriously happy, she always kept the same even expression, the same level manner, but I caught a note of resentment in her voice. As starting forward, Jill could be great. She could also be lousy, and it was no secret that my best friend would've lost her position if Lora had decided to play ball. That irked Jill plenty.

So instead of expressing delight at my new friend's presence, I shrugged. "Maybe she's waiting for Jock. The guys are practicing late."

Jill started to say something, but the scoreboard buzzer sounded, signaling the start of the game.

"I might as well have been throwing bricks at the basket," Jill moaned as we filed into the dressing room, which was already humid from the running showers.

I gave her a pat on the back. "Don't worry about it. We won, didn't we?"

"No thanks to me." Jill collapsed on the bench in front of her locker and wiped her forehead with a towel. She'd been off her game, making the first compet.i.tion of the season a hideous testament to her ball-handling skills.

"Don't worry about it," I said in a firmer tone. "You had a bad night, that's all. We'll shoot some extra baskets this week and work on it, okay?"

Jill nodded, but tears welled in her eyes.

I wanted to help my friend, but I was riding high from my own performance and not yet ready to come down. I had run the offense like a seasoned pro, feeding one perfect pa.s.s after another to our best shooters and hitting five out of six jump shots from the floor. After each successful basket, I had glanced toward Lora, and her enthusiastic applause propelled me to the other end of the court where I'd managed to force five turnovers.

I had been invincible, empowered by the unmitigated energy radiating from the bleachers. Not only from Lora, but from all those 20 she'd infected with her team spirit. Everyone had stood and clapped, spurred on by a single off-duty cheerleader. By the end of the first half, I had been convinced that Lora Tyler could single-handedly propel the girl's basketball team to the state champions.h.i.+p without ever setting foot on the court.

Not everyone shared my sentiment. Jill smirked when she saw Lora peeking around the far end of the lockers.

"Well, if it ain't the mouth of the south," she quipped, at a volume only I could hear.

Lora bounced toward us. "Excellent game, girls."

"Thanks," I said, gus.h.i.+ng. "It was your cheering that got us fired up."

"Gave me a headache," Jill mumbled. "Couldn't hear myself think." She opened her locker and tossed her court shoes onto its floor.

They hit the metal with a cold slap.

Lora straddled the bench between the rows of lockers and looked toward Jill. "I'm sorry. I'll keep it down next time, okay?"

"It's okay." Jill looked away, blus.h.i.+ng.

Lora fished her car keys from her purse. "Let's go down to Pizza Oven. My treat. It's the least I can do to make up for my big mouth. I'll be waiting at the south doors." She loped away, not giving us a chance to refuse.

I snapped my towel toward Jill's ankles. "Hear that? Free pizza.

Can't beat that, can you?"

"She works there. It's not like she's paying for it out of her own pocket." She stood up, peeling her sweaty jersey over her head. "I'm not going."

"Why? You can't have homework this early in the year."

"I don't want to go."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

My mood deflated as I opened my locker and untied my sneakers.

"Then I won't go, either."

Jill glared at me, clutching a towel to her chest. "Go. Have fun."

I kicked off my shoes and mopped the back of my neck with a towel. "I can't have fun while you're still p.i.s.sed about the game."

"I'm not p.i.s.sed. It's early. I'll get my rhythm." She tugged her sweat socks off and grimaced. "Really, go on and don't worry about me.

I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Sure."

21.

With that I raced toward the showers, leaving my best friend alone in a stinky locker room after the worst basketball game she'd ever played. I should have been there for her, but I didn't understand. I didn't realize that one friends.h.i.+p was about to blossom while another was about to fade.

CHAPTER 6.

"Claire. Are you awake?"

"Huh?" I barely recognize Tonya's voice over the static of her mobile phone. I roll over to check the time3:00 a.m. I've known Tonya since college, and it still startles me when she calls at this time of night.

My friend belongs in Vegas, where time is an insignificant notion, a mere regulator for unfocused and weak-minded drones who live by the clock's steady hands. But my inconsiderate friend doesn't fall into the drone category. For over three years, the clock on her DVD player has been sixteen hours slow.

"I'm losing you, hang on," Tonya says.

I close my eyes and pray the connection is gone. After going to bed with a blinding migraine and a handful of pills, I do well to remember my own name, much less absorb one of the famous Tonya Knight escapade stories.

"Still there?"

The link is clearer, but it still sounds like she's calling from the bottom of a whiskey barrel, which might be the case. Jack Daniels was her best friend in college, and she still likes to cut loose once in a while.

In younger days, her pa.s.sion for partying and loose women earned her the nickname of Fly By. And she still wears it like a diamond- studded tiara, even naming her business Fly By Knight Interiors. But my friend isn't the wild child she once was. She'll never settle down with one woman, but she's got her little black book trimmed to a short list of about five regular s.e.x buddies. Most are married women with husbands who either don't know what their wives are up to, or do know, and choose to look the other way. That's the way Tonya likes itno strings, no bother.

I look at the clock again. "Do you realize what time it is?"

"No, but I've been thinking about you and thought I'd better check in."