She felt her stomach flutter with joy at what she’d received, overlaid by nerves about being late. She shouldn’t have opened the box, but she was too excited to feel any regret. She reached into the ceramic dish next to her mail basket, grabbed the key to her Honda Fit and proceeded through the garage door before reason could stop her.
Door open, laptop bag on the passenger seat, thumb drive with her slideshow ready as backup in case her own computer was wonky and it was easier to use Holloway’s. Garage door up. Seatbelt. Key in the ignition.
Maybe today. It had to happen sometime. Why else had she put off selling the car, once she’d broken up with Scott and had no one else to drive or even halfheartedly maintain it?
Because you’re going to want to drive again. You’re going to be ready at some point.
The hatchback didn’t look anything like the small Subaru sedan she’d smashed up. This was new and bigger, silver, ridiculously clean. Well, of course it was clean. It had less than fifty miles on it.
Her hand gripped the gearshift without taking it out of park. She touched her toe to the gas pedal just to feel the positioning—no surprises—then placed the slippery bottom of the boot squarely against the brake. Quick glance at all mirrors. Another squeeze, preparing to shift into drive. Out on the dead-end road, there wasn’t a single car or pedestrian to worry about. Look forward. Look right, even though there were only woods that way; still, there could be cyclists or walkers coming from the trail. Look left. Right one last time.
Ready.
Then she saw it all at once. New Year’s Day. The bridge, the car with its hungover driver braking too fast on the icy road ahead of her, the guardrail.
She knew what would come next—the vision, terror-fed illusion, whatever it had been. She couldn’t let her mind go there, or her body would follow into a full panic attack.
Heart in her throat, Ruth yanked her foot off the pedal and her hand off the gear shift.
“Oh, god,” she sputtered.
She took a deep breath as her mind slammed that door shut just in time. She fumbled with the seatbelt, hands shaking, desperate to be free of the strap. She would move slowly, tricking her body into a state of calm. She would gather up her things and exit the garage without drama. She swallowed and inhaled again. As she opened the door, she checked her watch. Ten minutes to two.
Now you’ve done it.
At the school, Ruth hurried toward the metal detector, eyes focused on the yellow banner beyond: we love our visitors / horizon high. But the seated security guard called her back.
“Quick look at your ID and you’ll be on your way.”
“I don’t have anything on me.”
“You don’t have a faculty ID?”
“I’m not faculty.”
“But I’ve seen you around here, haven’t I?”
“My fiancé teaches here.” She’d barely spoken the words before regretting them. Scott wasn’t her fiancé anymore. It just slipped out sometimes.
“Another official ID from this list, then. You can’t enter the school without one of these. Plus, you have to sign the visitors log.”
She hadn’t brought anything except her laptop and keys. In her flustered state leaving the garage, she’d forgotten her purse.
Past the security station, classroom doors opened and teenagers spilled out, the halls echoing with squeaky footfalls.
“I’m running out of time,” Ruth said. “Is there something we can do?”
From the corner of her eye she noticed a student, maybe sixteen or seventeen, standing behind her: dark hair, tall. Skinny jeans and a collared plaid layered over a graphic T-shirt, jacket hanging from one hand. The guard gestured for him to go around Ruth and show his school ID, but the boy remained where he was.
“That’s okay,” the boy said. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“Oh, sure.” The guard laughed. “You just want an excuse to be late for class. Tell ’em you were stuck behind a terrorist.” He added for Ruth’s benefit, “This isn’t the airport. We can make jokes.”
“But you can’t make exceptions.”
“No, ma’am.”
So she was not only late, but apparently a “ma’am” at thirty-two. Wonderful.
Ruth asked, “Can you at least get a message to Mrs. Holloway for me?”
Making no move to rise from his chair, he gestured back outside. “Main visitor center. South side. Past lots B and C, then swing a left past the bus zone. Guard there can send someone to hand-deliver a note, but she probably won’t see it till end of the day.”
At the beginning of the year, she’d given herself until December 31st to make a professional appearance—anywhere. When Jane Holloway issued the invitation in September, Ruth knew this was the easiest way to finally check one item off her Rehab Resolution List. Someday she’d work outside the house again, and the last two years, terrible as they were, would be sealed away, moved into deep archival storage.
But that was someday. For now, she’d settle for much less: just one good, purposeful, dignified hour.
From among the scattered students still milling around, pocketing gadgets or fumbling with backpacks, a familiar figure emerged.
“Scott!” she called out. “They won’t let me in.”
He paused, squinting. New sweater, same old glasses.
“Jane Holloway’s looking for you.”
“I know. I left my wallet at home. I don’t suppose you could vouch for me? All this new security . . .”
“Tell me about it.” He approached, calling to the boy in line behind her. “Reece, get going. You’re late for your next class. And hey, you weren’t in calculus.”
The boy slid his school ID out of a tight back pocket and handed it to the guard. “Did I miss anything?”
Scott’s most detested question, Ruth remembered.
“Did you miss anything? Oh, no—we were just hanging out. Besides the quiz and the chapter review.” He turned to Ruth. “I’ll send someone to tell Holloway you’ve got a hitch. And Ruth—sorry. I’d drive you to your house if I could, but my own class is starting. You can take the shortcut, right? Ten-minute walk?”
Reece was still lingering, fists crammed into his tight pockets. “I’ve got a car.”
“That’s all right,” said Ruth.
“No, really. I can drive you.”
She glanced at her watch. “It’s okay. You get to class.”
“It’s, what, three minutes by car?”