Epilogue
Light from the setting sun glinted off the baby blue hood of our 1955 Thunderbird as Digger swiped a cloth over it in our driveway. “You ready, baby girl?” He put his hand on my tummy. “Both my baby girls?”
“It could be a baby boy,” I said. It was too early to know, and too early to tell anyone, but we were both so excited and happy I didn’t think we’d be able to hold it for in much longer. Digger was about to burst with pride every time he looked at me, like I was some kind of walking miracle. I put my hand over his. It did feel like a miracle, though. Everything in my life felt a little miraculous, and this little guy—or girl—was more proof of it.
My dad was in jail. Well, prison. Funny, I rarely thought about him, not anymore. The trial had been difficult, more for Ian than for me, with him going to school and being under the microscope of his classmates and sometimes their parents. But he was a tough kid, and Maryam had helped a lot. It also helped that he had adopted our Brody/Lindhart family motto: fuck them. We were thinking of making t-shirts. And the school had come through in a major way, giving Ian a scholarship for his senior year so he could graduate from Lamb’s. He and Maryam had dated through the rest of high school, and although they had broken up when they went to college, they were still good friends. I always thought that maybe…
The scholarship to Lamb’s was necessary because everything in our prior lives with our parents was gone. The house, the cars, the art, the business, everything had been sold or seized as profits from my father’s illegal enterprise. And good riddance. Ian had gotten himself a scholarship for college, too, the smart cookie that he was. With that and his job, and our help, he would graduate almost debt-free. More important, we were both free of our father. He would die in prison.
“Hop on in, Cinderella. We don’t want to be late.”
I got into the beautiful T-Bird, that Digger had brought back to life, and the engine roared when he turned the key. I definitely wanted to be there on time.
So Ian was doing great. Our mom was doing all right, too. After a long struggle with figuring out her future and coming to terms with our past, she had settled with my grandma in Louisville. Ian and I had an ok relationship with her, and we saw her sometimes. She was going to be happy about the baby. Melissa, Digger’s mom, was going to be over the moon. She had been after us to start a family from almost the moment Digger and I said “I do.” After a few years—seriously, it took that long—Melissa and I were getting along a lot better. It helped that Digger let her know, repeatedly, that no matter what, he was on my side. For keeps.
Everyone else in our lives was doing fine. Lorelei had left the garage to sell real estate, and it turned out it was like a calling for her. She could sell anything, to anyone, and she was a beast when she got into negotiations. Scary. The happiest time in some of the dark, difficult weeks after my father got arrested was the day that Sylvie Everhart called her at the garage and told Lorelei the good news that Joaquim had gotten into Lamb’s Academy, with a full scholarship. He was thriving there, but I thought he would have thrived anywhere. That kid was going to go far.
And on the topic of people thriving, Tracey was, too. It had also taken her a few years to get on track, but she had done it. And she had married Digger’s friend Ash, the police officer, which meant she was on the straight and narrow for life.
The engine of the T-Bird purred, and Digger looked over at me and smiled. We both loved this car, but the Ford Fairlane would always have a special place in our hearts. After all, our baby had been conceived on that bench seat.
My hair whipped around and I pulled it back into a ponytail, my preferred hairstyle. It showed off my hearing aid. So what? Really, I never thought about my hearing much anymore. I still had problems in crowds, and I didn’t like things too loud, but it was just who I was. It wasn’t something to be embarrassed of or ashamed about, something to hide. No one was perfect, not even Digger (although I thought he was pretty close.) I didn’t ever want our baby to think that she—or he—wasn’t good enough because of being different in any way. I was too busy with Digger, and my bakery, and my house, and our family and friends, to care too much about what other people thought, anyway.
“I wonder if she’ll look the same,” I said out loud. It had been a long, long time.
“Does she look like you?” Digger asked. My dad had destroyed all the pictures of her, so Digger had never seen my sister.
“Prettier, but her hair is more like Ian’s. Nuts.”
Digger laughed. “No one’s prettier than you,” he told me. “Are you nervous to see her, baby girl?”
“Excited.” It had been a long road, getting in touch with Margot and rebuilding our relationship. It had begun with a lot of apologies and hurt feelings on both our sides, but we had moved to a lot of acceptance. Now she would be visiting for a while, and excited was an understatement about how I was feeling.
Digger picked up his arm and motioned to me. “You’re too far away.”
“I know how you need that arm rest.”
He pulled me in close. “I need you, Rebecca, all of you. Always. I love you.”
We drove off into the Detroit sunset.