Rumors on Cottage Grove Road

 

By Kristy Tate

 

Vera dipped the makeup brush in the face-powder. This simple act had taken her months to master, and this was something she would never let herself forget. Gratitude for the small things kept her sane. She turned up the light on her magnified mirror and leaned in, brush in hand. Doctors, therapists, and a daily regimen of pills had gotten her here—to this place where she could gaze at her reflection without horror.

If nothing else, her accident had taught her monsters don’t live beneath beds, lurk in shadows, or captured behind bars. The evil keeping her awake at night, the one whispering you can’t, you mustn’t, and who are you to think you can? lived inside her own head. If she listened to these voices, her constant companions, they’d shape her life. She could call them prettier names, such as common sense, wisdom, or prudence, but they were really just fears. Creatures of her own design. Past hurts, wounds, and insecurities transforming into excuses, justifications, and rationalizations.

She had shut them down.

Just like she’d unwrapped the bandages covering her skin, she had set her fears aside. Still, at odd moments when she really didn’t mean to, she’d spy her reflection in windows or lakes, and her breath would catch.

This is not who I really am, she’d think. I’m not the monster.

Vera selected the tube of lipstick and clicked it open. Two years ago, she only wore make-up on stage or before a show. She’d rocked the down-to-earth country girl image. Now, she relied on cosmetics to transform her. She’d grown to love the sweet and sometimes toxic smell, the silky coolness on her skin, the colors, and, especially, the ability to reinvent herself to suit her mood.

Satisfied with her handiwork, she selected a soft cottony dress and a pair of Steve Maden sandals. The lacy dress hung loosely on her slight frame, flitted around her knees, and covered a host of fading scars. In the past, she would have chosen a pair of short cut-off jeans, cowboy boots, and her favorite red and white checked halter-top. Or maybe even a bikini.

Were her swimsuit days over? She’d only been to the beach twice this summer. Both times it had been in the evening, and she’d worn a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.

Since the accident, every day had become a series of tests. She failed as many as she passed. In the beginning, it was the nurses, doctors, and therapists administering the exams—squeeze the tennis ball, walk the hall, balance on one leg. But today, she’d undergo another sort of test. An important one. One that could determine the rest of her life.

If she passed, she’d set her plan in motion. If she failed, she’d…

Failing wasn’t an option. She didn’t have a backup plan. Grabbing her purse, she swung out the door. In the garage, she settled behind Ben’s 2004 Mercedes convertible and stuck the key in the ignition. She’d sell this car, along with the house, as soon as she dared.

Today’s test was the first step.

Vera slid on her sunglasses and tied a scarf around her hair. Moments later, the convertible roared down the palm tree lined street. She eased onto the Pacific Coast Highway and crossed the bridge leading to Balboa Island. She parked in a beach lot, undid the scarf, took off the glasses, and tidied her hair. She blinked at her reflection. The scars along her hairline were only faintly pink.

They’ll never know, she promised herself.

She heard the party before she actually saw it. Reynold’s beach bungalow sat on a spit of sand overlooking the harbor. Music—Hootie and the Blowfish— poured through the open doors and windows. A man with a flushed face manned the steaming taco bar and grill while girls dressed in string bikinis carried trays holding wine flutes and bottles. Vera paused at the railing separating the sand from the lawn. She’d played this game long enough to know the trick was to act like she belonged.

But the stakes had never been this high.

She heard Reynold’s laugh and her attention swiveled in his direction. He wore a Tommy Bahama’s Hawaiian shirt and a pair of white linen pants. His blond locks—hair-plugs—lifted in the slight breeze. Kayla Gaynor and a redhead Vera didn’t recognize stood beside him, giggling at something he’d said. He looked up and caught Vera’s gaze. His eyes lit with interest.

Had he recognized her?

In another lifetime, before she’d met Ben, Reynolds had first spotted her on a beach. She’d been playing frisbee with friends from high school. At first, she’d thought he—an older guy trying to suck in his paunch—had been hitting on her. And he had been, in a way. But the modeling contract he’d eventually presented had been real enough. And that had led to the singing gigs. He’d even introduced her to Ben.

She owed him a lot—for the good and the bad.

Encouraged, she made her way across the lawn. She felt the gazes of men and women on her back as she entered the fray. She recognized many of them—Meggie Brentwood, Angela Parsons, Dean Kramer—their glances bounced off her. Hope trilled along her spine. Not one of them said her name.

It didn’t take her long to reach Reynolds’ side. She plucked a wine cooler off a proffered tray, thanked the girl, and met Reynolds’ frankly curious gaze.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He stuck out a thick paw. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

Vera couldn’t hold back her smile or the joy bubbling through her.

She’d passed.

#

Lance met Vera on the sidewalk in front of the beachside café. Because they were meeting during his lunch, he was wearing his scrubs and an ID card on a lanyard. Hoag hospital loomed on the distant hill. Vera knew at any moment Lance could get a call that would send him scuttling back.

He gave her tight, soap-smelling embrace.

Before he could speak, she said, “Call me Vera.”

Lance pulled away and rolled his eyes, but schooled his expression when he caught her seriousness. “Why would I call you Vera?”

“It’s my name now.” She strode past the gate and took a seat at a bistro table with a view of the ocean and the surfers toting their boards. Because it was a weekday, the gulls outnumbered children and parents. She preferred it this way.

Lance settled onto the chair across from her and picked up a menu. It had taken so long for her to regain her sense of taste or smell. She’d craved certain foods, like butter pecan ice cream, only to be disappointed when her tastebuds finally returned. Like everything else in her life, butter pecan ice cream just wasn’t the same. She already knew she’d order some sort of vegetable soup because it would be filling and make eating unnecessary for at least three to four hours.

While she waited for Lance to order his roast beef sandwich from the perky server who was probably trying to start her Hollywood career, Vera studied his caramel-colored skin and thick dark curly hair. It had taken her weeks to determine his nationality. He hadn’t been forthcoming, as if being from Pakistan was something to be ashamed of. His proper name wasn’t Lance, of course, but Lazim. That had also taken her weeks to discover. The nurses at UCLA Medical Center had been completely gaga over him. Vera knew this because she’d spent so much time there, the medical staff had become like family. One nurse, Annie, had been especially aggressive with him. Could Annie have been the reason he’d transferred to Hoag?

Vera didn’t want to think about nurses—seeing one of her doctors was hard enough. Because she didn’t need it, she set her menu beside her water glass. “I’m completely starting over.”

“Why would you want to start over?” Lance plucked a roll from the basket the server had placed in front of him. With his thick hair falling over his forehead and shielding his face, Vera couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or confused. “At twenty-eight, you’ve only just begun.”

His I’m so much older and wiser attitude annoyed her, especially since she knew he was still in his thirties. With her appetite disappearing, she set her own roll on a plate at her elbow. “You like to think you’re the fount of wisdom and I’m a babe in the woods, but the past eighteen months have changed me. Aged me.”

He raised his brown eyes to meet hers. He blinked. “You’re wearing contacts.”

“Do you like them?” She fluttered her long false lashes.

“Your eyes were the one thing you had left.” His voice sounded strangled.

“You’re missing the point.” Vera wrapped her fingers around her cool water glass and liked the feel of the condensation against her skin. She’d stopped drinking alcohol after the accident and never picked it up again. She found it interesting that so many people struggled to quit, but for her it had been as easy as deciding what shoes to wear.

“Are you still going to group therapy?” Lance asked.

“Yes.”

“And what do they think of your new name?”

“They like it.” Vera sipped her water and watched him over the rim of her glass.

Lance snorted.

She set the glass down with a solid thunk. Why did his opinion matter so much to her? “I don’t really get you. When did you change your name?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” His gaze skittered away from hers.

“Lazim isn’t so hard to pronounce. Why did you change it?” When he didn’t answer, she changed tactics. “You know I was depressed.”

“That’s completely normal. You experienced a serious trauma. You’re very lucky to be alive.”

She pressed her lips together and waited for the waitress to set their meals before them. “Remember, we talked about luck. I don’t believe in luck.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into her fragrant tomato basil bisque. “As a doctor, a man of science, I wouldn’t think you would either.”

He gazed at her with his liquid brown eyes, his mouth a tight straight line. “I believe in God.”

“Everyone does,” she said dismissively.

His lips twitched. “Not everyone.” He picked up his sandwich as if he found it fascinating.

Vera plucked up a package of crackers, ripped it open, and poured the contents into her soup. “But I don’t think He has anything to do with this.”

“This?” he asked around his mouthful of sandwich.

“My decision to recreate my life.” She could tell he wanted to ask why she would want to do such thing, so she didn’t want for his response. “I’m starting over,” she repeated. “My dad just bought a place in Lake Arrowhead. I’m thinking of going there.”

“And doing what?”

“Teaching music.”

“I thought you were through with that.”

“I’m through with performing. I’ve enrolled in a music therapy program. I can take all of the courses virtually.”

“That’s…great.” He gazed at her as if he didn’t recognize her.

“I want to help others who have suffered, but I don’t think I’d be a very good counselor or therapist. But music—that I can do. I’m not sure I can help people—but I know music can.”

Lance put his sandwich on his plate and studied her. “I’m proud of you.”

Warmed by his praise, she beamed. “Thanks. So, you approve of my plan?”

“Studying music therapy so you can aid people’s healing? Yes.” He picked up the long skinny pickle on his plate and shook it at her. “Changing your name and your eye color? No.”

“Why not?”

“You already have so many decisions and changes to face. Why compound them?” He bit into the pickle.

Because the thought of never having a child slays me, but she couldn’t say this to the beautiful man sitting across from her. If he knew her true intentions, he’d try and stop her. “I’m not walking away from everything and everyone. You, for example, are invited to visit whenever you like.”

But she knew he wouldn’t. He practically lived at the hospital and rarely went anywhere that wasn’t within shouting distance of his work. It had surprised her he’d suggested they meet for lunch at the beach instead of at Hoag’s cafeteria.

“Maybe I will do that,” he said without meeting her gaze, letting her know he was lying.

#

The village buzzed with summer people. The Tudor style buildings lined the lake’s beach. Ducks and geese floated on the water, waiting for the bread crumbs children and a few adults tossed their way. A carousel at the play area spun in circles and played jangly music. Vera shouldered her purse and navigated through the crowd, glancing in the shops, daydreaming of opening her own music studio.

She stopped at a café, ordered a smoothie, and sipped it. It felt cold and refreshing on her tongue. The day that had begun so muggy in Orange County was turning cool as the sun kissed the edge of the treetops.

Vera settled on a bench and watched people wander up and down the sidewalk lining the water’s edge. A handful of boats zoomed on the lake, casting up sparkling diamond-like showers. A man in a rowboat fiddled with a fishing pole. A miniature Mississippi riverboat moored at the dock. A small fluffy sort of dog walking a very pregnant woman stopped to snuffled around Vera’s ankles. She bent to ruffle the fur between her ears, but froze when she heard a familiar voice.

“Sorry! Frampton! Come!”

It couldn’t be. Could it? Vera studied the woman. Ella. Vera searched her memory and remembered Ella’s husband, Colby, had started a pediatric office in Blue Jay Village just a few miles down the road. How could she have forgotten?

“So sorry.” Ella tugged on the leash.

“He’s…” Vera searched Ella’s friendly face—the blue eyes, smattering of freckles, pink cheeks. Pregnancy suited her. Vera’s heart twisted. She cleared her throat, trying to dismiss her grief. “He’s not bothering me. What is he?”

“I don’t think anyone knows.” Ella pulled on the dog and he skittered across the walkway. “Well, have a good day.”

Vera watched Ella waddle into the crowd. Her heart rate slowed. Ella hadn’t recognized her. Vera pressed her hand to her chest and took in a deep breath. Relief whooshed through her. Reynolds hadn’t recognized her and neither had Ella.

She hadn’t even been to visit her dad, yet. Was it a coincidence she’d bumped into Ella on her first day in Lake Arrowhead? Or was it a sign?