CHAPTER EIGHT
AMELIA MAKES THE SALAD WHILE her dad tends to the chicken on the backyard grill. She likes making the salad, because he always cuts the onions too thick.
When her dad comes in, Amelia asks him, “Do you think that if Mom had died when you were young, you would have married someone else?”
He takes a dish of marinade and a brush from the utensils drawer. He’s not being evasive by not answering. He’s taking his time, really thinking about what he wants to say. “I’ve been in love with your mom for nearly all the years I’ve been alive. It’s hard to say what I would have done back then if I’d lost her, but at this point, I doubt that my heart knows how to beat without her.”
“You’ve never once gotten your heart broken,” Amelia says.
“Don’t hold it against me!”
“I’m not. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Like a miracle.”
“Never thought about it like that before, but I guess you’re right. With the drama I’ve witnessed in the high school hallways, I guess I should be thankful.”
There really is something special to that kind of love, Amelia thinks—when teenagers fall in love and stay together—that kind of closeness, of really knowing a person. Her parents have it. And Amelia always hoped she’d have it too. But it didn’t work out that way for her.
There have been a few boys over the years, and always during the school year. Ty Straub was her first kiss, during the eighth-grade overnight field trip to Washington, DC. Jeb Browning took her to the movies last Valentine’s Day, Wyatt Barnes the Valentine’s Day before that. And there was Andy Farkas, who she would stress-French after SAT prep classes. Andy was also a great prom date, very careful about pinning on her corsage, always making sure she had something to drink when she came off the dance floor. But there’s been no one permanent, no boy who made her feel like she might be falling in love.
Cate’s even more cautious with her heart, though she flirts more and has kissed double the number of boys as Amelia.
Maybe because it’s been drilled into their heads by older stand girls not to expect much from high school boys. It’s the science of puberty. Girls develop faster, emotionally and physically. How can any girl expect a high school boy to give her the moon and the stars when he’s basically an overgrown testosterone gland with legs? Better that you wait until college, or maybe even graduate school, before you really let someone into your heart. It was different in her parents’ day, and definitely when Molly was her age. Amelia’s not sure why, but back then, it seemed like boys were more earnest, more devoted, more ready to be in love.
A few minutes after six, Mom comes through the back door. She’s dressed in her work clothes—a pencil skirt, blouse, and scarf—and removes a manila folder from her briefcase before setting it down at the door. Like Amelia’s dad, she had studied math in college, and was pursuing a master’s degree when she got pregnant with Amelia. She switched gears when Amelia was born, becoming a full-time mom until Amelia entered kindergarten. Then she took a job as a teller in Sand Lake, a career choice that felt more manageable and would keep her close to home. However, it wasn’t long before she began rising up the corporate ladder, and her job became more and more demanding. She now manages services at several branches around the area.
She kisses Amelia’s dad. “Hey there.”
“Hi.”
She gives Amelia’s ponytail a playful swat as she passes by her seat. “I have a bit of good news to share.” Amelia’s reaching for a napkin when her mother says, “Specifically for you, Amelia.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Her mom sets the folder down in front of her. “I found out today that we’re hiring a new teller at the Sand Lake branch.”
Amelia takes a long, slow sip of her lemonade. “They hire high schoolers?”
“You’re a college girl now, Amelia.”
“Oh. Right.”
“It’s a good job,” her mom says. “Pays well. Air-conditioned. And a terrific résumé builder. I wouldn’t be your direct supervisor,” she clarifies, and then, with a smile, adds, “but your boss would work for me.”
“I’d have to dress up,” Amelia hedges. She can’t imagine having to wear a skirt and heels every day. She still has some sore spots from the strappy sandals she wore to prom. She slipped them off about halfway through the night, but the damage had already been done. “Also, I suck at math, Mom. You know this. Dad knows this.”
“You would need to dress up, yes. And, lest you forget, you’re the one who chose not to attend a state school, so you’ll do what you need to. And it would be genetically impossible for you to suck at math! Anyway, everything’s automated. There’s very little math you’d have to do.”
Amelia flips through the materials in the folder and tries to imagine working there. It won’t be Meade Creamery, but maybe if she can work the drive-thru lane, it will feel similar. She imagines herself on top of her steel stool, elbows on the counter, chin in her hands, gazing listlessly out of the bank’s large drive-thru window. When a car pulls up, she can send out the little tray and get a whiff of fresh, non-air-conditioned air.
“Mom, can you feel the sun through those drive-thru windows? Or is it too thick because it’s bulletproof?”
“You know, I never noticed one way or the other. You can see for yourself on Tuesday. Your interview is at noon.”
“Tuesday? But I might have to help clean out the stand or something.” Amelia has no reason to suspect this, of course, but she says it anyway.
Mom reaches across the table and takes Amelia’s hand. “Meade Creamery isn’t your responsibility anymore, Amelia.”
It isn’t said to wound her. Amelia knows her mom is right. But it still hurts to hear—the definition of a painful truth.
* * *
The next morning, Molly’s obituary is in the paper.
MEADE, Molly Anne—died of natural causes on Wednesday. She was 88. The only and beloved daughter of the late James Meade and Erin (Kelly) Meade, sister to Liam Meade and Patrick Meade (both deceased).
Ms. Meade was a lifelong resident of Sand Lake and a graduate of North High School. During WWII, she sold her homemade ice cream at the Meade Dairy Farm stand. Her signature flavor, Home Sweet Home, was reportedly created when war rations depleted available sugar. After a fire destroyed the barn, her parents retired, and Ms. Meade took up operations. She relaunched the business as Meade Creamery and focused solely on the production of ice cream until her passing.
There are no known surviving relatives.
A memorial service will be held on Sunday at 2:00 PM at Holy Redeemer Catholic Church on Poplar Street in Sand Lake.