though he’s still losing weight at a consistent rate from his chemo treatments. “And the sooner the better.”
***
“I like, I like.” Cora nods approvingly, running her hands across the tailgate of the royal blue 1998 Ford Ranger pickup parked next to her car just outside our dorm. “Mikey did good.”
“Yeah,” I say, tugging the handle on the driver’s side door. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I was much of a truck girl and it’s kinda old, but it works.”
“It’s perfect, Maggie. Just imagine all the stuff you can haul around in that bed.” She slips into the passenger seat next to me and scrunches up her nose. The cab has a weird funk to it—a mix of peanut butter and mothballs—and I’ve Febrezed it four times already, but can’t get it out. Could be worse, I suppose. “Let’s go pick out a tree!”
I get the truck in gear, even though the handle sticks a little, and slip out of the parking lot onto the main country road that connects our campus to the outskirts just beyond. “You sure you want to hang around here for the break, Cora? You don’t want to go home?”
She shakes her head and her blonde curls bounce along her shoulders. “No. Chris is still deployed and Mom and Dad plan to go to Aunt Jenny’s. Believe me, it will be much more relaxing to hang out here than to go to her house for the holidays.”
“I thought Jenny was single and doesn’t have any kids?”
“Yeah, she is, but she’s got like 25 cats and I’m crazy allergic. I can think of many other ways I’d rather spend the break than stocking up on Kleenex and lint rollers. Plus, there are a few others on our floor that are hanging back, so we’re planning our own pepperoni pizza Christmas feast.” Cora twirls her hot pink gum around her finger three times and then slurps it back into her mouth. “You sure you don’t want to stay with us? It’ll be fun.”
“No. Thanks though.”
We drive for about five more minutes until I see the turn off for the tree farm up ahead.
Cora angles toward me as I make a hand over hand right turn. “Isn’t your dad working? What about Mikey—what will he do?”
“He’ll be with Sadie’s family.” I see the lot of trees about ten yards up ahead, and an enormous, inflatable Santa Claus with an overly large midsection bobs in the wind just outside the entrance.
“I bet they are so relieved she’s not knocked up.” The truck breezes past Santa and the rush of it nearly pushes him completely backward like he’s doing the limbo. Once we’re out of range, he pops back up and continues billowing in the wind. “That would have been a messy situation.”
To say the least. When Sadie’s period came two days after Mikey’s confession, I’d never seen him more relieved about anything in his entire life. Even when the doctors originally told him his tumor removal was mostly a success—that look on his face was nothing compared to the sheer relief he displayed knowing that he wasn’t going to become a father before he was ready. I just hope he remembers that emotion—the feeling of being off the hook, of being given another chance—and doesn’t do anything to screw it up. I love Sadie and all, but motherhood is not something she’s prepared for. It’s strange how that seems to be the case for a lot of the mothers I know.
“I measured and we’ve got about this much to work with.” Cora holds out her hands with the small stretch of space between them indicating the size of tree we can accommodate in our dorm room.
“That’s not much, Cora.” I fit the truck into a spot in the dirt lot, but have to back up and re-park it twice before I’m certain I won’t sideswipe the vehicles next to me. Becoming familiar with the size and shape of the truck is going to take some getting used to.
The truck finally fits snuggly in its place, so I crack open the door and head toward the entrance. A family with two young children squeezes past us, and a twenty-something guy wearing a red and white striped scarf follows on their heels with an impressively large evergreen slung over his shoulder.
He lifts his chin our direction. “I’ll be right with you ladies as soon as I get this dropped off.” The guy flashes Cora and me a dimpled grin and the