A Mother's Homecoming(38)
What the girl obviously meant was I want to spend time with you. In a deep down, undisciplined part of her herself, Pam was thrilled, flattered that her daughter cared enough to seek her out. But panic was right behind—Pam knew from experience what happened when she gave in to her undisciplined, damn-the-consequences side.
Pam pondered her options. “All right. Stay then, but I’m taking that walk.”
“Didn’t you just get off your break?” Nancy whined, reminding Pam anew that no conversation with Faith would be private as long as they remained in the salon. “Our policy is one break in the afternoon and one in the morning.”
Feeling more claustrophobic by the second, Pam whipped her head toward the reception counter where Maxine sat. “I’ll be back in fifteen. If that’s a violation of policy, fire me.”
Maxine’s eyebrows shot up, but there was amusement in her voice when she answered, “Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
It ended up being a more dramatic exit than Pam had intended when she first suggested to Faith that they go elsewhere. At least now the matrons of Mimosa had something to text about this afternoon. All Pam had really been trying to do was remove Faith from the situation so that the girl wasn’t fodder for gossip. Pam was passing through—nearly anything was tolerable if it was only for a month—but this was Faith’s home. The girl was entering her teen years, which would be hard enough without her mother’s identity making her the object of speculation or ridicule.
Pam had acted out of a desire to protect her daughter but was left wondering if she’d done the wrong thing. Had she hurt Faith by walking away? Little late to worry about that now. Twelve years ago would have been the more appropriate time to second-guess that decision.
Fifteen minutes, as it turned out, were hard to kill. It wasn’t long enough that she could truly get anywhere, like Granny K’s to order some fries, but it was way too long for her to simply loiter in front of the salon. The way her day was going, the police would pick her up for looking like a suspicious character. Can’t say I’d blame them. Salon dress code required all employees to wear black. On vivacious, curvy Dawn, her work smock looked like the Little Black Dress, reinterpreted for day wear. On greyhound-thin Nancy, the black added edge to her look, making her the neighborhood femme fatale. But Pam?
Well, she was still too skinny and since she was cramming in as much renovation work as possible before and after salon shifts, her short, pale hair was often standing on end, accessorized with the occasional paint chip or handful of sawdust. Her build and coloring were not meant for the chic head-to-toe black—she looked like a cotton swab gone goth.
Only a few sidewalk squares from the burbling fountain where Pam sat, there was a tinkle of chimes, announcing the coming or going of a salon customer. Had Faith backed down and finally left? Pam glanced up hopefully but saw only a dark-haired woman who had considerably less gray showing in her hair now than when she had arrived two hours ago.
Pam turned away, hoping to discourage conversation. But the older woman trotted up to her and leaned against the fountain railing.
“I’m Martha,” she said. “Want a licorice whip?”
Despite Pam’s mood, she almost smiled. As hellos went, offering someone licorice seemed a bit random. “No, thank you.”
The woman fished a resealable plastic bag out of her oversize purse. “My husband tried one of those patches when he gave up smoking a few years ago, worked like a charm. But not me. This is the only thing that’s worked. Whenever I get the craving, I have red licorice. Honestly I think it’s been harder for me to quit smoking than it was to quit drinking.”
Pam swiveled her head sharply toward the woman.
Martha smiled, keeping her voice low. “You don’t recognize me, do you? I saw you at the last meeting, but I came in late and sat in the back. I won’t intrude on your privacy, I just wanted to let you know … well, you’re not alone. And I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to between get-togethers.”
“Thank you.” Pam was genuinely touched. This wasn’t some passerby who had an overdeveloped curiosity about someone else’s life, this was somebody who had been through it. “How long have you been sober?”
“Eight years.”
“Wow.” Even though Pam hoped to make it that far—fully intended to make it—the thought of all those days and weeks and months strung together, stretched in front of her … She swallowed, her throat dry and tight.