Jean lay awake on Natalie’s hideously uncomfortable loveseat. There had been times during her marriage when Milt’s snoring had kept her from sleeping, and Natalie’s fold-out bed, with its dense-as-soapsuds mattress, was like the torture of Milt’s snoring made physical.
As she lay with her eyes open in the darkness, her mind drifted to Cheryl Nunley. She pictured Cheryl’s face—the miserable one in Welland’s printout—and imagined the first words they would say to each other, after all the hugging and tears.
Cheryl would want to know what Jean had been doing all her life. And Jean would insist that no, the first thing she needed to do was apologize. She needed to say what a bad friend she had been. How she had abandoned Cheryl for the worst, most immature reasons. She would say this even as Cheryl shook her head, telling her it was all forgotten, all in the past. No! Jean would say. Yes! Cheryl would insist. And Jean would repeat the words as often as she needed to, as loudly as required, that she was deeply sorry and hoped Cheryl could forgive her. And there would be more tears, and maybe some justified anger from Cheryl, sprung loose after all those years. And once all that had passed, Cheryl would forgive her.
Because she was like that, as far as Jean could remember.
And maybe that’s all Cheryl would need to start feeling less miserable. Knowing she had a friend who had gone to all that trouble to find her and ask for absolution. That would perk someone up, wouldn’t it? And then Jean could tell Cheryl that she was going to make it up to her, and that it would be a surprise and not something to worry about. Don’t even think about it, Jean would say, when Cheryl tried to object. Just know that I am here for you, and it’s going to be all right now. And Cheryl would smile a little. She would relax. And if the mood was just right, Jean might even tell Cheryl, Guess what? Ash Birdy married Ruth Donoghue, and she ballooned right up! They could chuckle about that together; they could bond a little over stupid Ash Birdy. And wouldn’t that be a lovely irony?
With all that out of the way, the two of them would get down to the joyful business of sharing their histories, reliving all those missed moments, good and bad, and all the decisions that had shaped their lives. Cheryl would want to know if Jean had had any children, and Jean would tell her no. She would say that it was a choice she had made years ago, not to bring something so helpless into the world, something so dependent on her. That every so often, when she had a yearning she couldn’t otherwise explain, she would wonder if she had made the right choice. But that she no longer had any regrets.
And you, Cheryl? Jean would ask immediately. Did you have children? It would be safe to ask then, because the subject would have been broached. She tried to picture Cheryl’s face brightening as she began to answer. Because that would mean good news.
Just before she was finally able to fall asleep, Jean spent a moment or two thinking of the more distant future, the one that came after seeing Cheryl. How life would unfold for her, without Milt, and without her friends.
The picture there wasn’t nearly as clear. And she thought she wouldn’t dwell on it. Not right now.