Redesigning Rose

Chapter 2

The North Toronto neighborhood that had been etched into my brain since childhood blurred as I drove around in circles. My foot still light on the accelerator while rounding another block, I struggled to comprehend how my life went from definitive to decomposed in less than a handful of hours. I swiped at the tears and discovered I had landed on my mother’s tree-lined street.

I tallied the pros and cons of a hotel over my mother’s. Splurging on a fancy hotel with sumptuous sheets and nothing but the television for company, or cramming into the single bed from my childhood with only my Sweet Valley High and V.C. Andrews novels for distraction. A king-size pillow-top mattress without a warm body beside me or a minuscule bed I would probably roll out of. The droning of mindless television or endless questions and chatter. Both options seemed equally horrific; both would magnify my solitude.

I crept along and sailed straight past her house. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t admit to her my marriage was probably over. I could barely admit it to myself.

I pulled over in front of a row of houses, put the car in park, and closed my eyes. A hotel downtown was definitely out of the question. I shouldn’t be driving that far. I probably shouldn’t be driving at all. My brain was more muddled than if I’d ingested a double dose of medication with a “do not operate heavy machinery” warning label. How many people are driving around at any given moment under extreme emotional duress? There’s no warning label or breathalyzer for that.

I should find my phone. It would help me find the closest hotel. I pried one eye open and slammed it shut again against the glare, against the situation, against the world. Maybe if I just rested them for a little longer before subjecting them to the blinding late afternoon sunlight. And the truth.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My eyes flew open and then slammed shut at the offending glare. I attempted to angle my head toward the noise, but my neck had more kinks than an old rubber hose. I lifted a lethargic arm and dug my fingers into the flesh to massage the knots and opened my eyes in a painful squint. I discovered a steering wheel.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My eyes adjusted to the sunshine beaming through my windshield and my neck gave way, turning toward the noise. A face peered in at me. I screamed.

A muffled “Sorry,” accompanied waving hands outside my window. When they dropped, I blinked a few times and looked closer. 

“Becky?” Emerald eyes beamed at me beneath black bangs. The same emerald eyes that had twinkled while she quipped “there had better be wine” last week when the gardening class turned into a club and we headed to my house for the “lesson.” And prior to that when I first met her looking clueless in the garden center. She had just bought her own townhouse and was determined to buy every shade of pink impatiens because her ex-husband hated the color.

She motioned to roll down the window.

“Taking a nap?” Becky asked, gathering her sleek black hair behind her before leaning down. “What’s going on?” She glanced past me and her eyebrows furrowed.

I followed her gaze. Why was my pillow in the passenger seat? I continued rubbing my neck before turning to see what she was gawking at in the back seat. Boxes. Bags. Suitcases.

The fog of sleep lifted.

I crumpled into the steering wheel, emitting a high-pitched howl that was sure to have all the wolves in the country running. Tears gushed like a broken water main.

“Oh shit. What happened?”

I could only give her a snot-filled snort, gagging myself in the process.