Those words were the reason why she’d decided to turn toward Maurine’s for an impromptu visit. Her aunt and uncles hadn’t had much to do with her recently and she wasn’t sure if they’d even give her the time of day. But she had to try.
She took a deep breath, shifted the tomatoes, and knocked. Maurine’s potted plants and flowers still outlined the porch, along with a ceramic dalmatian that had been passed down for decades and would no doubt continue to be. The bench swing she used to play on back when Great-uncle Lloyd lived in the house, squeaked as it swayed in the godsend of a breeze. She used to stand on it, hold the chains, and swing as hard and as high as she could, ignoring the warnings from her elders about the danger. She’d obeyed when they’d told her to stop, but as soon as they’d disappeared, she’d been right back at it, until one day she’d pushed a little too far and she and the swing had flipped, dumping her headfirst on the edge of the concrete porch and onto the grass a few feet below. She hadn’t cried until she’d touched her head and saw all the blood. By the time Uncle Lloyd had reached her it was cascading down her forehead and face. That little escapade had resulted in seven stitches and several licks from a hickory switch. But she still liked to think that all the fun she’d had riding that swing had been worth it.
She smiled to herself as the breeze brought a hint of another afternoon thunderstorm. The thought of Janice and of being alone with her again in the dark during a storm, possibly even tonight, helped to keep her current anxieties at bay.
The door opened cautiously, and Maurine looked at her through the flimsy screen door. The door, like the swing, were things Maurine had yet to update on the old house and Carla was somewhat grateful. She liked coming back and finding things to be exactly like they were when she left. Like now, she wished things with Maurine were like they used to be. But in taking just a quick glance at her, Carla could see that they weren’t. Her eyes were distant beneath a faded Myrtle Beach ball cap. Carla surmised she’d been sunning on the red wood deck by the purple bikini top and cutoff jeans she wore. It didn’t take long for the scent of suntan lotion to come through the screen.
“Hey,” Carla said softly.
“Hey.” She sounded tired, and her face was drawn and void of any emotion, like she had lost the energy to battle or to even feel for that matter. The fight and fire she’d always had seemed to be gone, leaving her soul vacant. It struck Carla hard.
She swallowed down tears.
“I, uh, picked your ripe tomatoes for you. Your plants were pretty weighed down.”
Maurine pushed open the screen.
“Thanks.” She took the tomatoes.
Carla hesitated with the hopes of being invited inside. When she wasn’t, her nervousness grew and she had the urge to flee, the fear of facing another rejection all too reminiscent. But she’d come to talk, and Nadine was right, running wasn’t going to solve anything.
“I see you’ve still got your green thumb,” Carla said looking back at the thriving flower pots and numerous plants. It was a silly thing to say, but Carla was desperate to keep her engaged.
She shrugged. “I reckon.”
Carla shifted, the wait for the invite driving her mad.
“Uh, would it be all right if I came in?” She slid her hands into the back pockets of her knee length denim shorts and rocked on her heels.
Maurine didn’t hesitate very long before she shrugged again. “Yeah.” She edged the door open farther and Carla entered and followed her through the house to Maurine’s carefully decorated country kitchen. Gooseflesh erupted on her skin from the powerful cold of the windowed air conditioner wedged above the sink. Maurine didn’t seem bothered by it as she rinsed the tomatoes and placed them on a paper towel to dry.
Carla’s close assessment of her revealed a slack to her normally strong posture. The skin below her eyes appeared dark and sunken. She’d also lost weight. Her shorts hung lower on her already thin frame, and the shoulder straps to her bikini kept slipping down her arms, evidently irritating her. She cussed under her breath every time she had to push them back up. Her fair skin was pink from the sun, especially along her shoulders and cheeks, which was the only color to her pallor. Maurine didn’t have the olive skin tone Carla and Betty had, so when she was depressed or down, she paled considerably. Maybe that was why she was risking sunburn to lounge in the sun. To give herself some color. That would be the only reason Carla could come up with as to why Maurine would forego protecting her creamy skin.
“Mind if I get a drink?” Carla asked as Maurine sliced into a juicy tomato.
“Help yourself.”
Carla yanked open the old fridge and retrieved two cans of Pepsi. She shook her head and smiled. She could always count on Maurine to have two things in her kitchen. Pepsi and peanut butter. The main staples of their childhood. A twelve-pack of Pepsi was chilling in the fridge and Carla figured a jar of Peter Pan peanut butter would surely be in the pantry. She had the urge to check and see, seeking some sort of nostalgic comfort to dull the nerves of the moment. She resisted and set a can of Pepsi down for Maurine, who eyed it but continued to cut the tomato. Carla slurped her soda and retrieved the Duke’s mayonnaise and loaf of white bread and set them next to Maurine’s drink. Maurine promptly dug out four pieces of bread, spread mayonnaise on all of them, and then carefully added the tomato slices. She salted the slices generously before finishing off the sandwiches with a press of her palm to the bread tops.
She handed Carla her sandwich on a paper plate and quickly cleaned up.
“Thank you.” Carla knew she shouldn’t be surprised at her silent generosity, but she was. The gesture stirred more tears, but she managed to hold them down.
Maurine took her plate and drink and walked to the back door. Carla followed and they stepped into the thick heat onto the deck. She sat across from Maurine in a flower-patterned lounge chair, slid down her shades from their position atop her head, and bit into her sandwich. Maurine did the same. They were under the cover of two oversized patio umbrellas that Maurine had most likely recently positioned for a refuge from the sun. An old radio with a wayward antenna was next to her chair, promising thirty minutes of uninterrupted hit songs from the eighties. The music, along with the coconut scent of the sun screen, brought back summers from long ago when Carla used to lie out on the deck with Maurine and Janice. She’d felt so special, so grown up. They’d always included her when she’d asked and sometimes, she didn’t even have to. She recalled Janice, stretched out on her chair in a black bikini, the Wayfarers she’d saved her money for looking stylish on her face, while Maurine read fashion magazines under the cover of the umbrella, her own hot pink designer shades on her face. Carla could remember feeling a little excited at seeing Janice in her bikini, but she hadn’t understood why. She’d just known she liked looking at her. Liked looking at every last bit of her.
She missed those days.
When the three of them were happy and enjoyed each other.
Now everything was so messed up. Maurine wasn’t even spending a lot of time with Janice.
“I miss you,” Carla said, sipping her soda.
Maurine chewed on a bite from her sandwich, staring straight ahead through the oversized lenses of her trendy sunglasses.
“Don’t you miss me?” Her silence was maddening.