It was no different with Katelynn Rose, who spent a solid five minutes explaining that she’d been teaching kindergarten and recently got engaged, though all Charmaine remembered about her was that her teeth always seemed too big for her mouth.
“I met him online, of all places,” Katelynn added with a gaspy laugh. “He wants a destination wedding, but I’m trying to convince him that everyone hates those couples.”
It was yet another cute story from yet another well-meaning young woman, but as Charmaine sat there, elbows on the table, hunched toward her speakerphone, there was actually something surprisingly satisfying, even reinvigorating, about hearing these updates and recaps.
At first, Charmaine chalked it up to the afterglow of nostalgia, to hearing the girls’ voices all grown up and trying to plot the course between now and then. Or maybe it was just her own dismal expectations. But to sit here and take in the contours of their fledgling lives, to listen to their stories and all the emotion packed into them . . . just the act of tracking them down and wondering where they’ve been . . . it made her feel like a parent again. And that, for Charmaine, was something glorious.
“It’s funny, y’know what always makes me think of Maggie?” Katelynn asked, actually saying Maggie’s name, a detail most shied away from. “Convertibles.”
“Y’mean cars?”
“She took me for my first ride in a convertible, or rather Mr. Z did after one of our Scout meetings. White car, maroon top.”
“Ford Mustang, anniversary edition,” Charmaine said, the smell of the leather interior—plus a musty scent from a leak—quickly flooding her senses.
“I was ten, maybe eleven. He pulled up and told us to hop in without opening the doors. When he hit the gas and our hair started whipping everywhere, I honestly thought the car had a rocket, and we might take off. He even used to do a countdown. Three . . . two . . . one . . .”
Blast-off, Charmaine thought, a heartfelt smile lifting her cheeks. Zig had saved years for that car—he’d wanted one since high school—then refused to buy it once Maggie was born. As a mortician, he’d seen too many overturned military jeeps and the closed caskets that came with them. It was Charmaine who pulled the trigger, sneaking off to the local Ford dealership and surprising him on his fortieth birthday.
“He really let you jump in the car without opening the doors?” Charmaine asked.
“In and out. Every time. He’d blast the Beastie Boys’ ‘Sabotage’ and tell us to pretend we were seventies cops.”
Charmaine laughed with a snort, a swell of tears seeping out behind her eyes. That sounded like Zig—back when life was so easy . . . or at least before everything got so hard.
“Who’s on the phone?” a deep voice asked behind her.
She barely turned as Warren entered the kitchen, searching the fridge for a snack.
Nothing. Work call, she pantomimed, waving him away and taking the phone off speaker.
“Again, Mrs. Z, sorry I couldn’t be more helpful about Maggie,” Katelynn added. “My SuperStars days were limited to Sabrina’s horrible birthday party where she told us we were all fat.”
“If it makes you feel better, she just had a kid who’s making her miserable by refusing to sleep through the night.”
“I don’t wish bad on anyone.” For a half second, Katelynn paused. “Except maybe her.” As Charmaine laughed, Katelynn added, “Back to SuperStars for a moment, have you tried calling the Ainsleys? Their beauty supply place was in the same plaza.”
“Actually, GBS Beauty was one plaza over. SuperStars was with Kuba Thai, that pack-and-ship place, and that—” Charmaine stopped, sitting up straight.
“Mrs. Z, did I lose you?”