​Chapter Forty-Nine
Rochelle

I realize I’m dressed like I’m going to a funeral. I’m wearing my black pants and gray sweater and pearls at my ears. I swim a little bit in my clothes, the weight loss hitting harder this time than the last. I look in the mirror and don’t see Rochelle but someone who would prompt others to go “Is that Rochelle? She kind of looks like her but...not really.” I’m starting to forget what I actually look like.

But I’m starting to remember it doesn’t even matter.

I feel Him at my shoulder. Jesus. Glenn’s not here, so I can talk freely, and boy, do I give Him an earful. He knows how scared I am. How sorry. How worried I am that this is all going to blow up in my face. I imagine a non-believer sneaking up on me to watch the ravings of a lunatic. And maybe they’re right on some level. But definitely not for trusting Christ.

I’m all ready, and there’s a sense of comfort where bone feeds into bone in the middle of my chest. I know it’s going to be okay before it even plays out before my eyes. So I rest in that. I find my Bible. I used to do this thing where I’d run my finger through it to receive some sort of inspiration when I needed it, but it would undoubtedly always land in Leviticus. So instead, I go to an old favorite.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. There. I say and pray a million prayers under my breath.

I wish I could call Jerry and let him know I’m on my way, but I wasn’t smart enough to grab his number. He knows I’m coming or at least assumes it. I hope.

I pull up to the apartment complex. It sits in Sunday morning sunlight, but that does it no favors. The buildings are painted in pastel colors as if each one is a past-due Easter egg. The paint peels. The sidewalks crack into tiny bits of rock. There’s a man in a black hoodie smoking a cigarette, watching me roam around the parking spaces with his hidden eyes. This is home for my Wren.

I want to blame Glenn. I want to think that I was sucked into his vortex having to care for him and be the trophy when I should have been checking up on my granddaughter no matter what it took. But Glenn is powerless. I know that. I’m the one with the choice. And I’m the one who chose poorly.

Again, there’s comfort there. Past is past. This is now. 

I find the right building and make my way up, ignoring the gentleman in the hoodie who sits stout like a chimney. I’m wearing my black felt coat and clutch my hand bag like an old lady. But then I remember I’m not far from that label. But no matter. I stand straighter and push ahead when I remember the girl near the tree, looking up.

A wave of smells hits me. Food cooking, grease. Languages I don’t understand. When I find it, number thirteen, I give myself a few moments to realize what it is I’m about to do.

My fist works without listening to my heart, and I find it knocking on the door without my permission. I hold my breath. And then Jerry answers the door.

“Rochelle,” he says. He looks distressed, his memory snapping into place. “That’s right, you were coming by today.”

“Is it a bad time?” Please say it isn’t, I think. I don’t think I can do this again. He pauses, thinks about it. But Jerry and I both know he’s not one to turn someone away.

“No, no come in. Just give me one second.” He ushers me inside into a cramped foyer with bars on one side and an accordion door on the other. He moves off to the right, down a hall. When I look straight and over to the left, I see her. Wren.

“Mimi?” she asks. She’s herself but not. It looks like someone’s vandalized her with makeup and a poor wardrobe. She’s wearing spaghetti straps, and even though we’re inside, I can feel the draft in this place even under my coat. Her eyes are ringed round with eyeliner and her lips are stained. Faded. She looks...used.

“Little duck.” I move to the kitchen table where she sits with an oversized Tupperware bowl and plastic spoon. She’s fishing out off brand Lucky Charms and has made a pile of marshmallows next to the bowl. I can’t feel my heart.

“What are you doing here?” I’ve practiced this, rehearsed it so many times, I think the answer will be robotic. But it gets stuck in my throat. There’s a stud in her nose and rings in the cartilage of her ear. It looks like...punishment.

“I...well, I–”

“Rochelle.” If I wasn’t ready for Wren, I’m definitely not prepared for Natalie. She’s dressed in an open bathrobe, shorts, and a thrown-on tee underneath. She literally looks like Jerry went and pried her off the road.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were sick.” 

“I’m fine,” she says, bringing a delicate hand to her temple. “Rough night.”

“Oh, sure,” I say, wondering what that means in her world. I pray her sobriety is still in check.

“Why don’t we sit in the living room,” she says. I follow her, wanting to hug her and Wren and rescue them from this place although I’m not sure what I’d be rescuing them from. Jerry seems harmless. But it’s obvious hurt’s holding them captive and writing its will all over their faces. Natalie won’t stop wincing.

“I...I know it’s strange I’m here. I’ve missed you both.” I look at Wren who looks down at her bowl. She’s sixteen now, but I can’t find that on her other than her outward shell. The inside seeps out, in her downturned eyes and her hands that she’s brought back to her and rests in her lap. She looks like she hasn’t been hugged in a very long time.

“That’s an understatement,” Natalie says bluntly. This is the Natalie I remember from last time when Wren and I would visit her after the arrest. She’d sit on one of the white couches in the recovery clinic and icily hunt me down with her eyes. She’s changed, different than when she was with Mack. And I know I’m a terrible person if I blame her. But I was just hoping nine years had worked some sort of magic. Suddenly, I feel it again. My heart.

“I’m not doing too well,” I start. I can see Wren shift in my periphery. “The cancer’s back. It’s incurable this time.” It’s too quiet but Jerry pierces it by rustling his way into one of the back rooms. “And I left Glenn.” I process this information the same time Natalie does. It’s never real until you can say it out loud.

“Well, if you’re looking for a place to stay, we’re a little cramped at Chez Reynolds.” Natalie lifts her hand like Vanna White. “We obviously have yet to win the lottery.”

“I’m not looking for a place to stay. Glenn found a place for me. Divorce isn’t final yet, but we’ve worked out a system.”

“One where he pays you off?” She’s hurt, I have to remind myself. I keep my bitterness at bay, the way I feel that she just kicked me to the curb once she was set free. I wanted to help her get on her feet. We offered to set her up for success. But she quickly knocked down anything I suggested.

“I came here to reconnect with you, with Wren. I just...I’m so sorry, Natalie. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch, but I also know you didn’t want that.”

“No, no don’t even Rochelle. Don’t play the victim. We all know how good you are at that one. But I won’t let you unleash that kind of monster, not in my...home.” She glances around and puckers her lips like she’s tasted a lemon. “If you had wanted to stay, you would have. But you had to go back to Glenn and your pile of money, taking off in that Jaguar of yours like you were riding off into the sunset. Well, I don’t consider you much of a hero, Rochelle. Your granddaughter’s missed you for a very long time.” We both look at Wren, which is a mistake. She gets up from the table and heads back to wherever Jerry headed to.

“Maybe,” I say. And I think about it. Maybe she’s right. On some level, I wanted to be the hero. I had ruined things with Mack. I had made a mess of him, and maybe I thought this was my redemption. My heart throbs inside of me–spastic like it’s going to break free. Maybe I wanted to prove I had something to offer. And maybe I just wanted to go home to Glenn because, at the time, he was the only one I could run to.

Natalie quickly looks up. I can tell she’s surprised. She shuts her robe closed with both hands and her eyes look like they’re sorting through multiple options. “Rochelle, I don’t know what’s happened.” She curves over a little bit, a tiny “c” in her spine. I almost go to touch her, but I don’t want her to stop talking. “This isn’t anywhere near where I thought we’d land. And I had tried so hard. I mean really. Even with the whole arrest thing, before that, I mean I know I screwed up. But I had a plan. I had worked hard. I was going to do so much and give Wren so much. But look at me.” And I do. She’s herself but hardened. She’s who she’s always been but a rougher, worn out version. I wish I could lift that burden from her, but I’m only human.

“I know, Natalie. You’ve always been so resilient, such a hard worker. But take it from someone who hasn’t exactly landed where she thought she would either. Sometimes, doing it your own way blows up in your face. But only if you’re lucky.”

“What does that mean?” I think of Glenn. How he’s always riding high even if there’s some young thing chirping at him like an angry little bird.

“It means there are those of us who skirt through life, building our own destinies. Castles in the sand, really. But God allows it, keeps the structures nice and strong so we can stand at the top and pat our backs, looking at everything we’ve created.” I think of being smack dab in the middle of my marriage to Glenn. How good it felt to live in the big house. To host all those parties. To sit at the pool and see my reflection and smile. “But then there are the rest of us. The ones who try to build what God knocks down, repeatedly sometimes. And it’s easy to get angry. To look over the fence and wonder why your neighbor still has it so good while you’re left on your rump to comb through the broken pieces of everything you tried to make. But that’s the kicker. It was all trial and error. And God knows the only way He’ll bring us to Him is if we’re left to sift through our mistakes.”

“Broken,” Natalie says. She takes her hands to her stomach.

“‘Even our brokenness is for God’s good. God can take the bad things in life and use them for His purposes,’” I say, quoting Romans.

“That’s good. You should put that in a book.”

“Fortunately, one’s already been written,” I say. I smile at her. I chance it, moving my hand behind her shoulder blades. She looks at me.

“Rochelle. How long?” Her question could refer to anything, but I know she’s asking how much longer I have on this earth.

“Only as long as He’ll allow.”