Rediscovering Rebecca

When we reached the suite, Becky showered for an hour. I could hear her crying as she scrubbed herself raw in water as hot as she could stand, trying to remove not just the blood but the memory of it from her face, her limbs, her hair. She stuffed the blood-soaked dress she wore into a plastic laundry bag she found in the hotel closet and instructed me to immediately take it outside and throw it into the nearest dumpster. She could not bear seeing it again, much less cleaning or wearing it regardless of whether the stains could be removed.

She put on gym shorts and a sweatshirt and sat on the edge of the bed in her room, her arms clutching her knees against her chest, almost in a fetal tuck, weeping. She stayed like that for nearly two hours. I sat in a chair nearby to keep her company. When fatigue ultimately prevailed and she slipped into a fitful sleep sometime around 3 a.m., I arranged her into a more comfortable sleeping posture, covered her, kissed her forehead and turned off the lights, mercifully without waking her, before retiring to my bedroom across the suite.

The next morning, Becky was up before 7, using the in-room coffee maker to brew herself a cup. Her bags were already packed and waiting near the door. She had not intended to wake me but the aroma of coffee always does.

On the drive back to Norfolk, she sat expressionless and stared straight ahead almost the whole way, saying little, almost as if in a trance. I tried to engage her.

"Beck, remember that two people are alive this morning because of you," I said.

She shook her head. "You think you see it all as a nurse when accident victims arrive in the ER, but you don't see where it happened and how it happened, the gruesome and inhuman conditions that allowed their bodies to get so mangled and broken. By the time they get to us, medics have already extracted them from that, stopped the spurting blood, administered sedatives that ease the pain and stop the fear and screaming by the time they get to us. I learned today that first-responders are real heroes, and somehow they do it... every day."

"I won't ever be able to get what I saw last night out of my head," she said. "This changed me, Rick, and not for the better. I know that."

I nodded in support and sympathy, hoping for all the world that it would pass. But it didn't. Not for months. Actually, not for years.

Word of her heroism didn't stay quiet. A few weeks after the accident, she received a call at her office of the governor. Virginia's secretary of public safety told Becky that Lieutenant Ordoñez had nominated her and she had been unanimously selected as one of about a dozen everyday Virginians to receive the Governor's Volunteerism and Community Service Award at a ceremony in the Executive Mansion in Richmond in October. She graciously declined but was recognized in absentia anyway. Even though she declined every reporter's attempt to write a story about her actions that night, her award from the governor the first thing that comes up when Googles her name.

She went into a shell that year, haunted by what she saw in that crushed, upside-down bus in an accident that killed its driver. She was reminded often that the death toll most likely would have been three if not for her, but she couldn't put it behind her and come out of her self-imposed exile. Not before I met Denise.

My adventurous best friend and almost-lover was gone. In her place was a tormented, withdrawn person I scarcely recognized. Eventually, it became clear that there was no prospect of reviving our budding romance or the physical intimacy we were developing. Worse, we found it impossible to enjoy the trips and the walks and the conversations we had.

Still, I will always wish I had tried harder. She was worth it.

▼▼▼

"It took me a long time and a lot of therapy to learn to live with that. I can't say that I put it behind me because it will never fully be behind me. But I don't have nightmares the way I did, and I have come to believe that for whatever reason, we were supposed to be there, in that place at that time, and that it changed the courses of a lot of lives. I have come to accept that yes, I had some role in keeping those two boys alive," Becky said.

"A couple of years ago, one of those boys -- his name was Rob and he ran the 400-meters for that track team -- looked me up and sent me an invitation to his wedding. In the invitation was a handwritten note. Rob wrote that he was one of the two boys most critically injured that I attended that night and told me he would be honored if I could attend so he could introduce me to his bride. He wanted me to meet her, he said, because without me, he would not have survived to marry her," she said. "I went. It was very moving... very healing."

My hand squeezed hers as a smile returned to her face.

"You know, Beck, that's the first time that I've seen you say anything about that night that didn't make you tremble or grimace or even cry," I said, lapsing into my long-ago pet name for her.

She nodded her acknowledgement of my point, then looked me in the eyes.

"I wonder all the time, too, what would have happened... with us... had we taken I-64 that night," she said. "I wanted you so badly when we left the drive-in. Where would things have gone had we made an uneventful drive and returned to the hotel, to our room? Had we made love?" she said.

Now her clasp on my hand tightened.

"We just never got there, did we? And we couldn't find our way back. I hated that. Still hate it. Even as the thing with Denise caught fire and burned bright and hot, I hated it," I told Becky in a moment of searing candor that I never dreamed I was capable of.

"I wondered often over those years if I should call you, check on you, come see you. But, crazy as this sounds, I didn't... know how. But more truthfully, I think I was a coward. On one hand, I let myself think it would have been disloyal to Denise, and on the other hand, I felt like it would have been exploitative and crass toward you," I said. "But I think the actual truth is I was scared."

Becky stared at the tabletop, inhaled deeply and sighed as she exhaled.

"I was in no condition to deal with that back then, Rick, so you probably did the right thing. But I missed you so. I missed my friend Rick, even though I knew I had no claim on you because I had walled myself off... from you, from everyone," she said.

"A couple of years after that, Philip came along and we had a lot in common -- both of us were in the health care industry, him in sales and me in administration -- and we knew a lot of the same people. We had been acquaintances for several years."

"It was a comfortable relationship, but never really passionate. He is a kind, sweet, easygoing and generous man. He didn't demand anything of me really. Sex wasn't a big thing for us, and that was OK. I was content, but he...," Becky put both of her hands on mine, "... he couldn't make the world fun the way it once was for us. He couldn't make me laugh."

We let a long interval of silence lapse. We had just told each other so much. There was nothing untoward about letting it all sink in. We took comfort in sitting there, two old friends, two almost-lovers, now 11 years removed, holding hands and speaking truths we had both bottled up far too long.

Her iPhone buzzed. She pressed her finger to the button to unlock the device and read the text.

"Oh, that's Alyssa," she said, referring to her eldest daughter. "Asking me if I am still OK picking Dylan from tee ball tryouts this afternoon. So I better be shoving off."

I held her gray coat and helped her put it on. "May I walk you out?"

She grabbed my hand. "I'd be honored."

So there we stood by her Volvo, that awkward moment of parting after our impromptu first meeting in a dozen years.

"Ninety minutes," she said. "We were in this doughnut shop for an hour and a half and it feels like just five minutes. How is that possible?"

"Time always seemed too short when I was with you, Beck," I said. "So let's make a promise right here: let's never slip out of each other's lives again, let's be intentional about staying in touch. OK?"

Her smile had a momentary faltering quality to it. She blinked her eyes and swallowed hard. Then she nodded.

"You bet your sweet ass, Richard Talbert Ailey," she said.

"Then let's seal it with a hug, Rebecca Irene Parsons," I said.

Instantly we were in each other's tight embrace again, and we stayed that way far longer than a casual parting hug should take. Neither wanted to be the first to let go. Again.

As the embrace broke, what came next seemed instinctive. We kissed -- a chaste, between-friends peck like those at the dawn of our relationship 13 years earlier -- and then just looked at each other, smiling.

"My cell is the same number as it was then. Yours?" I asked.

"Same. Use it, will ya?" she replied.

"Deal," I said.

I watched her Volvo disappear down Ocean View Avenue and I checked the contacts on my phone. Sure enough, there it was: "BECK." And beneath it the designation "Mobile."

Having her back in my life, even for a fleeting few moments in a sex toy store and 90 minutes in a doughnut shop, felt right. It felt as though fate or the universe or divine design -- whatever you want to call it -- had decided to make up for what it did to us along that dark stretch of Highway 250 one April night in 2012.

► SATURDAY AT NANA'S

I was as nervous as a 14-year-old boy calling the cutest girl in ninth grade for the first time to ask her out. My thumb was actually shaking as it pressed the call button on Becky's phone number, something I had not done in a decade.

"Rick, good to see your number pop up on my phone again," she said.

"Good to hear you answering again," I replied.

"What's up?"

"Guess who's got two tickets to the March Madness second-round games in Greensboro on Saturday. I was hoping maybe you could join me," I said.

"Damn. Wish I could. Alyssa and Doug are going to this bougie spa resort somewhere in western North Carolina around Asheville for their 12th anniversary so Dylan and Margaret are staying with Nana Friday through Sunday."

I apologized for the short notice but explained that a former law firm colleague of mine -- an alumnus of Kansas State, which would be one of the teams in the tournament -- found out a client had an emergency hearing in Washington on Monday and has to spend the weekend preparing.

"Maybe next time?" she said. "But you should go. It would be fun!"

"Nah. A solo trip like that might be something I'd do if UVA was playing, but they're not. I'll give the tickets to my former law firm practice assistant. Her grown sons are huge college hoops fans," I said.

"Well what are you doing a week from Saturday? Could you join us for our monthly Saturday at Nana's? My girls, their husbands and all four grandkids come over, they play til they're exhausted and then we dial up a flick or watch a ballgame that night. You've never met the grands, but the girls remember you fondly. I think they'd love to see you again," she said.

"I don't know. Seems it might be sort of awkward after a decadelong absence, like I'd be intruding," I said.

"Not at all. Same as they were back then. You know the drill. Very laid back," she said. "We order pizza or grill something. Have a few beers. Come over for the whole thing or just part of it. Whatever's comfortable."

"Can I think about it and get back to you tomorrow?"

"Sure. No pressure, but it would be lovely to have you there," she said.

It seemed awfully daunting to me. After 11 years apart, such a full immersion so soon seemed... weird. Back in the day, her oldest daughter had been married for a couple of years and the youngest had just graduated from Old Dominion University and recently gotten engaged. They would bring their husbands/fiancés over in the late afternoon, they'd relax, eat and drink. Sometimes we'd gab into the night, and other times they'd excuse themselves early for other pursuits. The new wrinkle was the grands.

I tossed and turned that night unable to sleep until I heeded my heart. The next morning, I called Becky back and accepted her offer.

"Oh, Rick, wait'll I tell the girls. They'll be over the moon. They never stopped talking about you, kept pushing me to reconnect with you. They saw you as my fun friend, the guy who made me laugh, made mom less cranky," she said.

"That's sweet, and I appreciate your telling me. It's going to be nice to see them again after all this time," I said. "And meeting the grands, too!"

I got increasingly nervous over the next nine days as "Saturday at Becky's" (now rebranded as "Saturday at Nana's") drew nearer. By the time I parked on the curb near her house in one of Norfolk's toniest neighborhoods, I had butterflies the size of frying pans fluttering in my stomach and my sweaty hands were visibly shaking. My legs felt a bit unsteady as I walked up her driveway with a gift bag in one hand on the gusty early spring afternoon.

Through a front window opened to let the clean ocean breeze blow through, I heard someone exclaim, "Alyssa, look! It's Rick!" My guess was it's Nina, Becky's younger daughter. Seconds later, the front door burst open and the two sisters bounded out and approached me with arms outstretched. They are excellent huggers, just like their mother.

"Rick, it's so great to see you again. We had concluded that we'd seen the last of you and we missed you," Nina said.

"Mom did, too," Alyssa added.

I think they could see by the joy on my face that seeing them again had delighted me, recharged my batteries and relieved any apprehension I might have had about joining this Parsons family gathering. It was almost as though time had reset itself to 2010 or 2011.

"You two are even more lovely than I remember. I missed you, and now I realize how much," I said.

Nina turned back toward me and smiled. "Come on in," she said, grabbing the hand that wasn't carrying the gift bag containing a chilled bottle of pinot grigio I brought for Becky.

"Mom, look who we found out on the lawn...," Nina called toward the kitchen.

And there she was. Becky rounded a corner in her extensively renovated and upgraded midcentury Craftsman-style home, her silvery hair in a bun and an apron covering the front of her N.C. State Wolfpack sweatshirt. Not a hint of makeup but as naturally, unpretentiously gorgeous as I can remember.

"Welcome back, stranger," she said as she walked into her roomy den. "I would hug you but I've had my hands in chicken wings and barbecue sauce."

"Well, let's make do with this," I said, bending forward and pecking her on the cheek. "And this," as I pulling the bottle from the bag for her to see.

"Oh my, Rick. Santa Margherita. I've been to the mountains in northern Italy where this is imported from. That's really, really good," she said. The girl knew her white wines. "You shouldn't have."

"Yes, I should have. May I uncork it and pour you a glass?"

Becky smiled, not so much that I had spent nearly $200 on a housewarming bottle of wine but that I had remembered something she enjoyed immensely. She nodded and said, "Yes, my dear, you may."

I met the grands who were either running about the house or napping. Becky took me out onto the deck where I reconnected with Alyssa's husband, Doug, and Nina introduced me to her husband of seven years now, Mark. Becky's two sons-in-law were trying to figure out how to ignite the gas grill she had last used in the fall.

With all the introductions complete, I saw myself back into the kitchen where Alyssa had gotten the wings ready if the outdoor grill would ever come to life (or the oven all set if Plan B was needed).

"You've dropped a good bit of equity into renovations in the last few years," I told Becky. "It's beautiful."

"I had a designer come in about five years ago, just sort of do a total gut job, kind of like you see on 'Property Brothers' or 'Fixer Upper,'" she said. "I stayed at Philip's place when he was away or bunked occasionally with the girls for about two weeks when the house was unlivable. The stuff I could never do on a nurse's pay I was determined to do while I was bringing home insurance company paychecks."

Just then, Doug opened the French door to the deck and said in his booming voice, "OK, Mama B, we got it going. Give it about three minutes to heat up."

I had forgotten how accepting and laid back Becky's Saturday gatherings could be. An unflappable host, she seemed to relish the chaos and the mess and the noise of a house full of kids. An errant Nerf toy Dylan had thrown toppled and broke a vase filled with fresh-picked daffodils that Mark had brought her: she cleaned it up and shrugged it off. One of the kids had overfilled the toilet before flushing, and Becky coolly used a plunger to narrowly overt an overflow. When the grands got more of the chicken wings sauce and the nacho salad on the floor and the wall than in their mouths, she was unfazed. Nothing a few seconds and Clorox wipes can't handle.

After Becky's daughters and their families had bade farewell and headed home, Becky and I stood in the house that was suddenly quiet for the first time in hours.

"Well... can I offer to help you with the cleanup?" I said.

She nodded. "I'd like that. Just like old times."

With her washing and me drying and wiping down the counters, we were done in 10 minutes.

"Now what?" I said.

"Let me show you what else I did with the renovation," she said, leading me outside to the deck. She flipped a switch on the post by the steps that led down to the lawn and strings of incandescent lights strung over her landscaped lawn came to life, casting a soft amber glow over it. She led me across the grass to an area in the farthest right quadrant of the backyard with a large wooden pergola. A plaza made of smooth stone pavers and pea gravel in between them formed the floor beneath the pergola with a rectangular, stainless steel fire pit as its centerpiece. From two sturdy crossbeams on opposite sides of the pergola, porch swings facing each other across the fire pit were suspended by brass chains.

"This is sweet," I said. "Can't remember what used to be here."

"A shed filled with lawn and gardening crap. It was on its last legs so after a huge branch from the big oak that used to be over there smashed it during a really bad thunderstorm, I had it removed and had the contractor add this when they did the reno," she said. "Here, let's try it out."

She opened the face plate to a control panel on one of the Pergola's four sturdy six-by-six cypress support columns. Speakers hidden along the perimeter hedge crackled to life. Seconds later, after a few taps on her iPhone, Aretha Franklin's "A Natural Woman" poured from them. She removed the cover of the fire pit, twisted a nob on one side of it, pressed a button and a natural gas flame leapt to life, taking some of the edge off the late-March evening chill. She sat on one of the two porch swings as I warmed myself over the fire for a few moments before joining her on the swing.

"So... you're doing OK. Better than OK, by many appearances," I said.

"By many appearances, yeah. I'm financially secure. I've learned to love the job I do for the insurance company, and the money's not bad. When I saw the girls had established themselves in good careers and both got happily married to great guys who are excellent providers, I decided I didn't have to pinch pennies and hoard dollars for them the way I used to, so I paid off the mortgage and put more equity into the house. I splurged on some of the creature comforts I used to deny myself. Nicer car. Nicer golf clubs. Over the years it took to make peace with the accident that night, I decided to be nicer to myself."