Page 116 of Babies at Coconuts

Chapter 81

After meeting with a new student whose outlandish hair looked as though he had stuck his finger in an outdoor light socket during the rain, Hope gave him his class schedule and an inch-high stack of forms to fill out. After he left her office, she craved an apple and retreated to the teachers’ lounge.

After walking up the shiny, poster-filled hallway, she sat at a rectangular table across from Willow who sipped coffee. As always, the art teacher greeted her warmly, barely glanced up, and continued reading the local newspaper.

As Hope bit into the juicy, red fruit, her eyes widened. Leaning forward, she squinted to read the feature article on the front page. After several seconds, she gasped. “Oh, my God.” Reaching across the table, she said, “Can I see that?”

Willow lowered the paper, finally making eye contact. “See what?”

“The-The paper.” Hope snatched it out of Willow’s hands, studied the photo of the woman, and held her breath while she read the article. Her hands shook so much the paper rattled.

The woman in the photo was pictured in what looked like a hospital bed propped up by several pillows. Mounds of braided cotton cord and wooden beads surrounded her on the white sheet. Hope considered every detail of the room and noticed three macramé plant holders—one purple, another blue, and one green—hung from the bed posts. Her mouth opened but she couldn’t speak. She had no words.

“What’s wrong?” Willow asked. “The color has completely drained from your face.” The art teacher studied her friend. “Your hands are shaking.”

Hope stabbed the photo. “I know this woman.”

“What woman?” Willow didn’t wait for an answer, got up, and read over Hope’s shoulder. After a few seconds, she said, “This looks like a nice feature article about someone who makes macramé plant holders.” Pointing toward the text, she read aloud. “It says she makes the plant holders for fellow nursing home residents. That’s lovely, don’t you think? Very sweet.”

Hope’s mouth went dry.

Willow studied her friend. “Hope, you’re very pale. Would you like some water?”

“No.” Still pointing toward the photo, she said, “This-This—” Hope’s voice wobbled as tears streamed down her face. Putting her head on the table, she sobbed.

Willow wrapped her arms around her colleague. “You’re scaring the crap out of me. Who the hell is this?”

After wiping her runny nose with the back of her hand, Hope said, “I think it’s Montana.”

“Montana?”

“Yes, she looks exactly like the woman who raised me. The woman I knew as Mom. The one I presumed had died in the train accident.”

Willow sucked in her breath. “That’s unbelievable—and wonderful, right?”

Hope sniffled and swiped at tears as she rescanned the article. “It says she’s in a nursing home in Nashville.” Plucking several tissues out of a box, Hope blew her nose, and continued tapping the photo. “Montana always made those silly macramé plant hangers. In fact, I have one hanging in my office. It’s one of the few things I have of hers.”

Inhaling and exhaling in an attempt to calm herself, a range of emotions including relief, sadness, shock, and anger overcame her. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Surely Larry—Mac has mentioned her to you.”

Willow’s face was a complete blank. It was clear she had zero recognition. Voice flat, she said, “No, Mac never mentioned a Montana. Why would he?”

Hope’s thoughts jumbled. Exactly. Why would Larry mention his thought-dead wife to his girlfriend? He doesn’t even remember me.

Willow glanced from the article to Hope. “I’m at a loss for words. You know I’m here for you, friend. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Whatever I can do to—” She stopped mid-sentence as the history teacher and basketball coach walked inside the lounge area. The men said hello and stood by the coffee pot discussing last night’s game, oblivious to this extraordinarily awkward, momentous occasion.

After several strained minutes where Hope and Willow stared at one another, then at the newspaper, and finally at the squeaky, polished floor, the coaches left.

When the door opened to the hallway, the light reflected off Willow’s left hand.

Hope sucked in her breath. A modest silver band with a tiny, barely identifiable diamond adorned Willow’s ring finger. “What the hell is on your hand?”

Willow tucked her left hand between her legs. “We were going to tell you. We’ve been so excited with our planning that I guess we forgot to mention . . .”

“When were you going to tell me? My God. I can’t take any more surprises. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend. But I’m in love with Mac.”

“This is rich.” Hope shook her head. “Not to mention uncanny timing.” Snatching the newspaper, she stormed toward the door and yelled over her shoulder, “Mac’s name is Larry, by the way. I’m sure of it.”

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