If You Loved Me Read online

  Shawna, the girl from creative writing who never shows her eyes, works here, too. Tyler says she’s different at work, more relaxed. I tried to get him to check out the color of her eyes, so I could win my bet with Blake, but he says that would be cheating. Really, Tyler’s got to be about the nicest, most honest guy in the whole universe. Sometimes I can hardly believe he loves me—like what are the chances of having something that good happen?

  Greener Nursery is where I first met Tyler. I’d seen him at school. He’s one of those guys that girls notice, but he doesn’t even know they’re noticing him. Anyway, on this one Saturday about a year ago, Grams asked me to go to the nursery with her, to pick up some “autumn color.” Well, my social calendar being a complete blank, I said sure, I’d go along. Lucky for me, because when we got there, Tyler was the one who waited on us.

  He led the way to the pansies.

  “I think I’ll use mostly whites and purples with a touch of pink for the garden this season. What do you think, Lauren?”

  What I thought was I wished I could say something clever, to impress Tyler. But what I actually said was, “Okay.” How weak!

  Tyler pulled out the best plants in white and deep purple and

  put them on a cart.

  “We just got some Mexican sage. That’s got a great purple stalk. It’s hearty and it would give you some height variation with the pansies,” Tyler said, leading the way back past a big, gurgling fountain, to the area of drought-resistant plants.

  Tyler pulled off a sprig of sage, rubbed it between his palms, then held it out for Grams to smell.

  “Delightful!” she said.

  Tyler beamed. Then he held it out for me to smell. I took a big whiff and sneezed all over his hand. He and Grams both laughed while I fought the urge to drown myself in the fountain.

  When we were finished choosing all the new plants, there wasn’t room for everything to fit in Grams’ Toyota.

  “We deliver, you know,” Tyler said.

  “Oh, I know. But I always want to take things right home and get started,” Grams told him.

  “No charge,” Tyler said.

  So Grams agreed to have the plants delivered and she and I drove home emptyhanded.

  “What a nice boy,” Grams said.

  I said nothing, still totally embarrassed by my ill-timed, ill-placed sneeze.

  “He was quite taken with you, I noticed.”

  “Oh, puhleeze,” I said, in my most sarcastic tone. “He didn’t even look at me, except when I sneezed.”

  Grams laughed.

  “It’s not funny! It’s soooo embarrassing!”

  “Oh, come on. It was a sneeze, not a fart,” Grams said, laughing even harder.

  “At least I’m not like Lloyd,” I said.

  The thought of Lloyd got me laughing, too. I couldn’t help it.

  When we finally stopped laughing, Grams said, “That boy was looking at you most of the time, just not when you looked at him.”

  “He’s probably never seen such a weird creature,” I said.

  My grandma got all serious. “You’re a beautiful young woman,” she said.

  “You think that ’cause you’re my grandmother.”

  “No, I think that because I have eyes to see. Beauty’s not as important as some other things about you. You’ve got a good heart, and you’re dependable, and smart. But make no mistake, you’re knock-em-dead beautiful, too.”

  Sometimes my grandma exaggerates.

  Back to that Saturday, though. Grams and I had only been home for a few minutes when Tyler came driving up in a Greener Nursery and Fountains truck. Guess what color? Yep. Grassy green. I watched from the dining room window as he got out and came up the porch steps to the door. He rang the bell and stood back, checking out the potted plants that lined the front porch.

  “Lauren! Could you get that please?” Grams called from the back.

  “Yeah, could you, Lauren?” Tyler called from the front.

  So I left my spying place and went to the door.

  “Where do you want me to leave the plants?” Tyler asked.

  He flashed that double-dimpled smile of his at me and my stomach got all fluttery. I always thought when love hit, it was your heart that fluttered, but not with me. It was my stomach.

  “Plants?” he said, his smile broadening.

  “Let’s take them back here,” Grams said, rounding the corner of the house from where she’d been working in the backyard.

  “In the back,” I said, and started to go inside.

  “Lauren?”

  “How did you know my name?”

  “That’s what she’s been calling you,” he said, nodding in Grams’ direction.

  “Oh, yeah, duh,” I said.

  “Come help me with this stuff.”

  So I did, happy for an excuse to be near him. We unloaded flats of pansies and four Mexican sage plants, and lots of purple and pink primroses.

  “I brought some heather, too,” Tyler told Grams. “I know you didn’t buy it, and I can take it back, but I thought it would fit with the colors you were talking about planting.”

  “You’re a genius,” Grams said.

  It turned out we needed more planting mix, so I rode back with Tyler to pick some up.

  “I can take my lunch break now,” Tyler said, after we loaded the planting mix and plants for another delivery onto the truck.

  We got sodas at the drive-thru Jack-in-the-Box on the way back, and Tyler got chicken pieces and fries. Then we parked under a tree and I drank my soda while Tyler ate his lunch. I’d never been able to talk with a guy without feeling all self-conscious, maybe because I didn’t have any brothers or sisters and grew up as sort of a loner. But it was different with Tyler. From the very beginning we talked as if we’d known each other forever.

  When we got back to the house Grams was still planting. We unloaded the planting mix.

  “Would you like some iced tea? Or lemonade?” Grams asked us.

  “I’ve got to make another delivery,” Tyler said.

  “Well . . . I’d like to call your boss and tell him how helpful you’ve been. Would you mind?”

  “No problem,” Tyler said, his face turning a primrose shade of pink.

  I walked with him back to the truck.

  “Can I call you tonight?” he said.

  “No problem,” I said. Luckily, with my dark complexion, no one can tell whether I’m blushing or not.

  When I went back to help Grams finish planting she took one look at me and said, “I told you so.”

  “Told me what?” I asked, all innocent.

  “He likes you,” she said. “And from the look on your face, you like him, too.”

  I didn’t say anything, just kept digging, but we both knew she

  was right.

  So that was it. Tyler and I’ve been together every day since that Saturday. We’ve got a big, one year anniversary coming up next month. That’s from our first real kiss. The one that let us both know something important was going on between us.

  After waiting for what seems a long time, I spot Tyler at the far end of the parking lot, unloading about a ton of baby plants into the trunk of a big, silver-gray Mercedes. I walk closer to where he is, but stand back a bit until he’s finished. Ms. Mercedes hands him something. He opens the car door for her, waves good­bye, then comes trotting over to me.

  “Hi, Mr. Green Jeans,” I say, poking at his overalls.

  “Hi, Curly,” he says, running his hand over my hair.

  “How’re things on the farm?”

  “Don’t kick it,” he says, flashing a five at me. “I like carrying supplies to the luxury car crowd.”

  “You want me to pick you up when you get off tonight?” I ask, knowing his car is without a battery until he gets paid.

  “That’d be cool. I don’t get off until ten, though. We’re shifting our summer/fall stuff out of the interior section, making room for Christmas.”

  “That’s okay.
Grams’ll let me keep the car out until eleven.”

  Tyler gives me a quick hug and a kiss.

  “See you at ten. Gotta go now.”

  He runs toward the nursery and I get back in Grams’ car and drive home. As I turn into the driveway I see Grams up by the porch, cutting roses.

  “Hi, Sweet Thing,” she calls to me as I get out of the car lugging my backpack.

  I dump my pack on the lawn and walk over to give Grams a peck on her soft, saggy cheek.

  “How’s your day?” she asks, the same question she always asks.

  “Fine,” I say, the same answer I always give.

  She holds up a bouquet of roses. “Two Mr. Lincolns,” she says, holding out the deep red ones, “and two President Kennedys.”

  “Is this the assassinated Americans bouquet?” I ask.

  “Oh, oh,” she says. “I’d better cut a couple of these Peace roses to balance things.”

  “Or toss in a Martin Luther King Jr. and stay with the theme.”

  She laughs. Even though my grams is old, she gets things.

  “I’m taking flowers to the book group tonight, instead of my usual spinach dip. I’m afraid I’m in a spinach dip rut.”

  “Must be messy,” I say, following Grams up the steps of the porch and into the house.

  “I told Tyler I’d pick him up after work tonight, but I guess you want the car, huh?”

  “Betty’s stopping by for me. I thought you might want the car later, and I’m right on her way.”

  “Thanks, Grams.”

  “And there’s some of that leftover veggie stir-fry in the fridge, and rice, too.”

  “Okay,” I say, hoping maybe there’s still some pizza left from last week. Veggie stir-fry is my gramma’s idea of helping me get my five-a-day fruit and vegetable portions. It’s okay, but not two nights in a row.

  “What book are you talking about in your group tonight?”

  “I hate to tell you,” she says, concentrating on stripping the lower leaves and thorns from the rose stems and arranging them in a ceramic vase.

  “Now I’m curious. What did you read this time?”

  I reach into the fridge, get out a Diet Coke and wait for Grams to answer. She keeps fooling with Mr. Lincoln and President Kennedy.

  “Grams?”

  “Oh, if you must know! We read Vox. It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Vox?”

  “It was Millie’s idea. I swear to goodness, she’s the oldest one in the group. She’s got to be at least seventy-two. And whenever it’s her turn to choose a book she always chooses something . . . well . . . sexy.”

  Grams takes the flowers out of the vase, drops a handful of those little glass rock things in the bottom and starts over again.

  “What’s it about?”

  I can’t believe my gramma’s blushing, but the back of her neck is turning pink. I move to the end of the sink where I can see her face. She is blushing.

  “What’s it about?” I repeat.

  She lays the flowers back on the counter top and looks me square in the eye.

  “Phone sex,” she says, then turns back to her flowers.

  “Phone sex?”

  “Yes. Phone sex. But if you want to know anything else you’ll just have to read the book yourself. It’s ridiculous. It’s not worth talking about.”

  “You’ll talk about it tonight, won’t you?”

  “Oh, I suppose. Ridiculous! A bunch of old grannies sitting around sipping wine and talking about phone sex!”

  “You’re not an old grannie,” I tell her.

  “Oh, look at this hair—white as snow.”

  It’s true her hair is white as can be, but even though she’s sixty, she works out at a gym three days a week, and walks four miles on the days she doesn’t work out.

  “Just feel these muscles,” I say, grabbing her biceps.

  She flexes and it feels like there’s iron beneath her wrinkled skin. We both laugh.

  “When it’s your turn to choose you should have them read this,” I say, digging my library book out of my backpack and handing it to her. She wipes her hands on the kitchen towel and takes Angela’s Ashes from me.

  “You can read it when I’m through,” I tell her. “I’ll call and renew it.”

  “I’ve heard good things about this,” she says, handing it back to me. “Anything’d be uplifting after Vox . . . Did you see Sally

  when you were in there?”

  “Yeah. I forgot to tell you. Sally told me to say hello for her.”

  Grams used to work at the library. She’s not really a librarian, but she knows a lot about books. When my grampa died, before I was even born, she went to work for the Hamilton Heights Library System. She said it beat sitting around feeling sorry for herself.

  “Well, I’ll see Sally when I return this silly book tomorrow.”

  “I might like to read that Vox book,” I say, kind of embar­rassed.

  “It’s trash,” she says, giving me a long look. “But you’re welcome to it. I won’t return it yet.”

  I’m supposed to be reading all this other stuff for school, like Jane Eyre, and seventy pages a week from my history text. Both cures for insomnia as far as I’m concerned. I don’t even know if I want to read that Vox book or not. I mean, what exactly is phone sex, anyway? But if it’s something that makes my gramma blush, it must be interesting.

  The phone rings and I reach for it, hoping it’s Tyler calling on his break. Instead it’s Grams’ friend, Betty. I hand the phone to her and go back to my room to start my homework.

  Grams has this habit of walking around in the backyard with the clippers while she talks on the phone. I guess that’s how most of the pruning gets done. I don’t mean to eavesdrop but she’s right outside my window, cutting away at the scraggly growth of baby limbs at the trunk of the pepper tree.

  “Phone sex!” Grams says.

  I have no idea what Betty says, but whatever it is gets a shriek of laughter from Grams.

  “I can only imagine what Ray would have said if I’d told him, ‘Let’s do it by phone tonight, Honey.’” More shrieks of laughter.

  “What is wrong with people these days that they don’t know the difference between sex and a phone call?”

  More laughing and then Grams moves back by the fence and I open my notebook.

  Chapter

  4

  When I finally get serious about starting my homework, after a glass of water, and then an apple, and then another glass of water, I turn to the math section of my notebook. It’s best to get that out of the way first. I write my name at the top of a sheet of notebook paper, stare at examples of equations, look at the first problem, and go on to the creative writing assignment. Maybe Amber and I will do our math together after school tomorrow. It’s not due until Wednesday. Why rush things?

  I read what I wrote in class today. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to write about my early life. That’s all stuff I want to put behind me. But that’s what I start writing about anyway, like I have no control.

  “You don’t know me unless you know how messed up the first five years of my life were,” is how I start, and then the words rush out as if someone opened a secret door—all that stuff I try not to think about, because what good can it do? I write so fast my hand cramps up. I rub my hand, change pens, change writing positions, and start again, fast, just trying to keep up with the words that are flooding from my mind.

  When I was born, I was all strung out on drugs and so was my mother, Marcia Bailey. I nearly died. Can you believe it? That a woman would do that to her own kid? Every Mother’s Day I hear so much of that mother-love stuff I want to puke! The love of my mother would be enough to kill a person. (From here on I’m going to call my mother by her name, because every time I call her “mother” it makes me mad all over again.)

  By the time Marcia was seventeen, the age I am now, she was on the streets, being a slut for drugs. Most of the time no one had the slightest clue about where she
was living. I was already three months old before my gramma even knew I’d been born. When she found out about me, though, she got me out of foster care and took me home to live with her.

  All the time Marcia was in prison she was writing to Grams, saying how she’d put drugs behind her and she couldn’t wait to get out and take care of her little girl. She’d say how much she loved me and Grams, and how sorry she was for all she’d put us through. Grams says she meant it, but she was too weakened by drugs to carry through. I don’t believe it. I think if Marcia’d loved me she’d have kept her promises. I used to read those letters over and over again, and when I’d get to the part where she promised to take such good care of me, I’d say out loud, to the ghost of Marcia, “You were a selfish, rotten mother.” I’ve had a lot of conversations with Marcia’s ghost, but none of them has been very satisfying.

  When Marcia got out of prison she came to get me. She told Grams she was going to take me to Texas, to be with my dad. We’d be a family there. Grams tried to talk her out of it, but one day Marcia just up and left, taking me with her. No forwarding address. Grams says she prayed for me every day, and did all she knew to do to find me. She kept thinking she’d hear from Marcia, at Christmas, or on her birthday, but that never happened.

  Looking through old pictures, like when Marcia was in high school, before she turned into a full-time druggie, she doesn’t look familiar to me. Sometimes I think if by some miracle she were to walk into my room right now, I wouldn’t even recognize her. I have no pictures of her, or of me, from the time she took me away from Grams to the time she was gone from my life forever. I have no memories of her either, or from that time. Maybe I remember a loud, shattering bang, and searing heat, and someone grabbing me and running with me. But maybe I only dream it. Anyway, I got out before the house blew up.

  The newspaper clipping from Amarillo, Texas, says Marcia and a bunch of others were manufacturing methamphetamine in a makeshift kitchen lab when the whole thing blew up on them. Four people, including Marcia, were killed. Some eyewitness thought he saw a black man running out of the house with a child in his arms, but he wasn’t sure. I’d like to think it was my dad, carrying me to safety. He’s black, so it could have been him. I’d like to think at least one of my parents cared enough to save my life.