Last Chance (Chances Are #3)

Part 1

The Good Life

Chapter 1

As someone who grew up in the early ‘70s, I used to make fun of the kids who listened to Bob Dylan and James Taylor and all that hippie folk shit. Then were the feminists with their Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez and all that stuff that prompted girls to burn their bras. I didn’t care about any of that; I was a rock n roller. My idols were Creedence, the Stones, and Zeppelin.

So it’s funny that forty years later I lie in bed with an acoustic guitar in my lap while I strum the chords idly. The me from back in the ‘70s would laugh at the little Chinese girl with her big guitar and tiny voice. He would say, "That’s not real music!"

And to be honest I don’t like the acoustic guitar. I took a whole class on how to play it, but I can still only play a couple of chords. While an electric guitar might feel a little more natural to me, I can’t bring an amplifier to bed. So I make do with the acoustic while I scribble in a notebook.

Hey babe, I call out, what’s a word that rhymes with orange?

Mac sticks his head out of the bathroom door. Orange, he says.

That’s what I’m asking.

Nothing rhymes with orange except orange.

Oh. Shit. I cross out the line I’ve just written.

I stare at the notebook for a long time and think. I barely passed my songwriting class in college and that was only because I cheated. I paid Mac’s nephew a hundred bucks to write a song for me. He can write songs pretty much in his sleep while I struggle to get two lines down.

Mac only wears a towel as he crosses the bedroom. He leans down to kiss the top of my head. You’re trying too hard, he says.

I put the guitar down. I’m supposed to be a musician, I say. What kind of musician can’t play an instrument or write her own songs?

You’re a singer, he says. There’s nothing wrong with that.

"But I want to be more," I insist.

Mac sits on the edge of the bed. In that level tone he uses with patients he asks, Why do you think you need to be more than a singer?

"I guess I want people to think I’m an artist, not just some girl with a cute voice."

Unlike his patients, he gives me a kiss on the cheek. That’s an admirable goal, but there’s no reason you can’t be an artist with only your voice. That throat of yours is an instrument too, just like the guitar. You can use it to interpret songs however you want.

You think so?

I know you can. You’re my little songbird. He gives me a longer kiss, this one on the lips. I try to pull him down onto the bed with me, but he resists. He pulls back from me and gives me a smile. I’d like to, but I have to go.

Yeah, sure, I say and pout.

Are you free for dinner tonight?

I might have to move some things around, but sure, I say with a grin. I don’t really have any plans except to sit on the couch with Tess; we’ll watch Grey’s Anatomy and pig out on ice cream while I mope about what a shitty songwriter I am.

Great. I was thinking Lorenzo’s at eight.

That’s pretty swanky, I say.

There’s something I think we need to talk about. Something important.

Oh. I see. We can’t talk about it now?

He kisses my cheek again. I’d like to, but I have to get moving.

I should probably get going too, I say. If someone left me any hot water.

There should be plenty if you don’t take too long.

Me? Never. I dart into the bathroom and shut the door before Mac can say anything. I lean against the door and sigh. I know what Mac wants to talk about. Tonight he’ll finally ask me to be Mrs. Robert Macintosh.

***

On the train the old lady across from me gives me a dirty look. Before long she’ll probably ask why I’m not in school. That happens at least once a month.

It’s an easy mistake to make. I’m dressed in a white blouse and short plaid skirt. I’ve got my bright red hair—dyed to match the red of my glasses—put up in cute pigtails. Add to it that I’m only a smidge over five feet tall and it’s easy to see why most people think I’m fourteen or fifteen, not twenty-three.

I’m not really twenty-three either; that’s just what my state ID says. My body is only about twenty-one. My head is a lot older than that, more like fifty-five years old. It gets really complicated around my birthday to decide how many candles we’re supposed to put on the cake.

Before the old lady can say anything, my stop comes up. I get off in the garment district and as is customary, I stop to buy a copy of The District Discourse. I wouldn’t usually touch a rag like that, except for the article on page 3A about a counterfeit subway token ring broken up by the police; the byline for the article says, Madison Griffith. The article is short enough that I can read it in two minutes in the subway station. Then I go up to street level.

It’s not a long walk to Second Chances Boutique. The ‘Boutique’ part is a pretty fanciful description since it’s just a rundown little hole of a shop stuffed with old clothes no one else wanted. But it’s my rundown little hole of a shop, at least for now. If my singing career ever takes off and I have to do world tours with the Rolling Stones, then that might change.

The front door is already unlocked. I see Maddy at the counter with her iPad. She looks up at me and gives me a stern look. You’re late, she says.

The boss is never late, I say. I hold up the newspaper so she can see it. They gave you the front page of the metro section, huh?

She snorts at this. Yeah and then they cut it down to like two hundred words so they could stuff a few more ads in there. She shakes her head. For an indie paper they’re pretty corporate.

It’s a job, right?

Yeah, beats the Krappy Koffee, she says. The Kozee Koffee is a couple of doors away; Maddy worked as a barista there for five years, until she lost her job after she went missing for six months. Six months we spent as a couple of little Chinese sisters, me ten and Maddy five. She might have been able to get her job back, but then she saw a flier for the Discourse, which was new and in dire need of anyone with real journalism chops.

What’s next for Lois Lane? I ask.

I’m doing a retrospective on this Uwe Vollmer guy.

Who’s that? I ask, though I already know the answer. I was the one to slap the cuffs on Vollmer and send him up the river. But there’s no way a cute little girl like me would know anything about him.

He was this serial killer, they called him the Skinhead Strangler.

He killed skinheads?

No, he was a skinhead. He strangled a bunch of people around here and in Chinatown. They were all minorities. That was his thing; he was trying to purify the city or something.

But they caught him, didn’t they?

Yeah, my dad and Grandpa Jake caught him. He’s still in prison, but it’s been twenty-five years, so we’re doing this whole series about the case. Real true crime stuff. Maddy sighs. They’ll probably cut it down to a hundred words so they can put in a half-page ad for some cell phone store.

I’m sure they won’t do that.

Anyway, I was going to ask Grandpa Jake about the case later.

I could give her all the material she needs, but I haven’t ever told Maddy about my former life as Detective Steve Fischer. We weren’t on the best terms before I died and was reborn as cute little Stacey Chance thanks to a shot of a drug called FY-1978. Mac says at some point I’ll have to do it, but I’ve continued to put that off.

I’m sure he’ll give you whatever he can, I say instead.

But hey, tonight we can have a family dinner, just like old times, except I won’t have to sit on a booster seat.

That sounds great, but Mac and I are going out tonight. To Lorenzo’s.

That’s a pretty classy place. Is it your anniversary or something?

No. I can’t contain my excitement anymore. I think he’s going to pop the question.

We squeal like a couple of schoolgirls. Maddy grabs me and crushes me in a hug. When she became an adult again she weighed two hundred fifty pounds. She’s lost a hundred of that, so she’s still a bit heavy, especially with someone like me who only weighs a hundred. Oh my God! she says. I can’t believe it!

I feel my face turn warm. I sit down on the stool behind the counter. Well, I’m not a hundred percent sure yet. But it makes sense. He said he wanted to talk about something important and I mean we’re pretty much living together, so what else could it be?

Wow, that is so awesome, Maddy says. Little Stacey is getting married. To a doctor, even.

A psychologist, I amend.

I never thought you would be the one to marry a shrink first.

Right on cue Maddy’s shrink comes down the stairs. Grace is already dressed and made up for her shift at the Windover Rehabilitation Clinic. What’s going on down here? she asks.

Stacey’s getting married! Maddy blurts out before I can.

Grace’s reaction is a lot more subdued. She hugs me, not nearly as bone-crushingly tight as Maddy. Congratulations, she says. Dr. Macintosh finally asked you?

Not yet, but he’s taking me to Lorenzo’s and said he wants to talk about something important, so you know—

That’s so wonderful, Grace says. You deserve it.

Thanks, I say.

Grace checks her watch. I have to run. We’ll have to talk about it later.

She gives Maddy a kiss before she leaves, but I note how brief and chaste that kiss is, not like their usual goodbye kisses. Then Grace is out the door.

***

The good thing about managing a clothes store, especially one like the Second Chances Boutique, is it makes clothes shopping easier. Most of the time the only problem I have is to find stuff small enough to fit me. When Grace ran the place she avoided taking kid’s clothes, but I rescinded that policy if only because teen sizes are the ones better suited for me.

I browse the formal wear, to look for something classy enough to wear to Lorenzo’s. I want to have something really nice for this special occasion, an occasion I’ll remember for the rest of my life. As I browse, I run a hand along one red pigtail. You think I’ll have time to dye this back? I ask Maddy, who’s still on her iPad.

What? She looks up from the computer, startled.

My hair. You think I could get it dyed back before tonight?

Your hair is cute. It goes really well with the glasses.

I just mean if we’re going to a fancy restaurant, it might be nice to look normal.

Lots of people have red hair.

Not this red.

Whatever.

Some help you are, I grumble. Maddy’s probably not the best one to ask on that subject. When I first met her as Stacey, she had pink hair. She’s let it go natural since then, back to the light brown she got from her mom’s side of the family.

Does it really make that much difference what color your hair is?

It matters to me. I want this to be perfect.

Then you probably shouldn’t have dyed it in the first place.

You’re the one who thought I should do it.

So? You didn’t have to do it.

Fine, whatever, I say, to give her a taste of her own medicine. Maybe I’ll wear a holey T-shirt and some acid-washed jeans.

Do whatever you want. It’s your life.

What’s your problem?

Maybe that I’m trying to work and you keep pestering me.

This is my store. I can pester whoever I want.

Fine, I’ll go upstairs.

You do that.

Maddy slips her iPad into her bag, which she slings over one shoulder. She stomps up the stairs to the apartment she and Grace have shared for about nine years. They’ve considered moving, but it’s hard to find a decent place in their price range in this city.

I continue to browse the racks for a few minutes. When I can’t find anything good enough, I go into the backroom. There are always a couple of boxes there for stuff I haven’t sorted yet. As I sift through the clothes, I find a black dress at the bottom that’s in my size. I pull it out so I can examine it for any holes or weird smells. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it.

Just to make sure, I try it on in the dressing room. I take the rubber bands out of my hair so it can flow freely to about the middle of my back. I do a little turn in the mirror. It looks pretty good. Not as perfect as I’d like. If I had the money, I’d go downtown to one of the upscale stores and buy something that costs a couple thousand. Maybe when I’m Mrs. Macintosh I’ll be able to afford that. For now I have to make do.

I change out of the dress, satisfied it’ll work for my big night. It does need ironed, though, to get out some wrinkles from being stuck at the bottom of a box for weeks. I put a sign on the door to tell anyone who happens by—which isn’t often—that I’ll be back in five minutes. Then I lock the door and go upstairs.

I expect to find Maddy in the living room, but she’s not there. Maddy? I call out. I don’t get an answer back. It’s always possible she used the fire escape as she often does.

There’s an easier explanation: Maddy’s in the bedroom. I can hear her crying through the door. Maddy? Are you all right?

Leave me alone, she says.

I ignore this and open the door. She’s curled up on the bed; she clutches a pink bunny she named Mrs. Hoppy during that brief time she was my little sister. Her face is turned away from me, but I can still hear her cry.

I sit down on the bed and put one hand on her thigh. I’m sorry about downstairs, I say.

It’s not that, she mumbles.

Then what is it? I ask. Maddy doesn’t say anything. Come on, you can tell your big sister.

I don’t wanna. Despite being an adult for the last four years, Maddy still sometimes slips back into a toddler when she gets upset. Mac calls it a defense mechanism that she should eventually outgrow.

I try to use the calm, level voice Mac uses with his patients, which included Maddy when she was little. Madison, please, don’t shut me out. Whatever’s wrong, we can talk about it.

No. I don’t wanna, she says again, her voice muffled by Mrs. Hoppy.

Madison, look at me. You’re a big girl now, remember?

She looks up from the bunny. Her eyes are puffy and her mascara runs. I remember, she says. I just don’t wanna talk.

What’s this about? You were fine earlier. Now that I think about it, she was fine until Grace came downstairs. I remember how evasive Grace acted, how quickly she left and how chaste her kiss with Maddy was. Are you and Grace having problems?

Maddy squeezes the bunny until I expect its stuffing to come out. It’s not fair. You’re going to get married.

I’m sorry, I say. I thought you would be happy for me.

I am. It’s just not fair. I mean, Grace and I have been together almost nine years and she still doesn’t want to marry me. I thought once they made it legal she’d want to, but she doesn’t. She says we don’t need to get some piece of paper.

That’s true, I say. All that really matters is you love each other.

Yeah, right. That’s why you’re so excited about Dr. Mac asking you.

I can’t argue with her. Love is good, but there’s something special about being able to call Mac my husband. Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned. I guess you’re right.

I kind of hoped when she heard you were getting married she might ask me.

You could always ask her. It’s not the Dark Ages anymore.

I have and she keeps saying no. Maddy shakes her head. Maybe we’re not supposed to be together.

Don’t say that. You and Grace are a great couple. You’re made for each other.

Then why doesn’t she want to marry me? Maddy wails.

I don’t know. I put a hand on her back, to let her cry herself out.

When she’s finished, Maddy runs a hand through my hair. I think I still have some black dye in the bathroom. It should be dry before your date.

Great, I say. I follow her into the bathroom to get ready for my big night.

Chapter 2

I close up the store at four o’clock. Only three customers came in, which isn’t unusual. The sooner I can get my singing career on track, the better; this store certainly won’t give me much financial security. Not that I’ll need that if I’m the wife of an important child psychologist. Still, it’d be nice to have a little financial independence.

It’s windy on the walk from the train station. In a way that’s good since my hair is still a little tacky from the quick dye job Maddy gave me. The bad part is the wind whips around the garment bag for my dress like a sail. It takes all the strength in my ropy muscles to hold on to the thing. I check my watch as I walk and see it’s almost five o’clock. Just three hours until I’m supposed to be at the restaurant.

I find Tess in the kitchen, as usual. I tap her on the shoulder as she seasons some pork chops. She spins around and lets out a little gasp. Oh my, she says. I didn’t think you were going to be home so early.

I closed up early, I say. I probably should have called. Mac asked me out to dinner tonight.

That’s all right. I’ll just pop your pork chops back into the fridge. They should keep for another day.

Thanks, I say. I clear my throat. He, um, said he wants to talk. About something really important. I think he’s going to ask me the question.

She stares at me for a moment, her eyes wide. That’s wonderful, she says. She leans forward to hug me. She runs a hand through my hair and comes back with a little dye on her hand. This must be new.

Yeah. I kind of thought I should look normal tonight.

There’s nothing wrong with how you look, dear, Tess lies. I know she’s not a fan of my punk schoolgirl look. As someone raised in a strict Episcopalian home, she finds it a little too unconventional. But she cares about me too much to say anything.

I was hoping you could help me with my hair and stuff. I hold up the garment bag. I got a dress already.

Of course I’ll help you, dear. You just go upstairs and I’ll be up in a minute.

Thanks, Grandma. I still call her that despite that she isn’t my grandma. Maddy and I got used to referring to her and Jake as our grandparents when we were their little charges and the labels stuck. I think Tess likes it, since she had been robbed of the chance to be a real grandmother when her daughter Jenny died of cancer nearly a decade ago.

I hang the dress on the back of the door in my room. This used to be Jenny’s room. I still sleep on her bed and use her vanity. The posters on the wall—a mix of Georgia O’Keefe reprints and concert posters for old-time female singers like Billie Holiday—are mine, as are the clothes in the closet and drawers. I look through the drawers to find some underpants, a bra, and some black stockings.

Tess comes up a few minutes later. I’ve gotten a lot better at doing my hair and makeup in the last five years, but Tess is still the master. Since I want tonight to be perfect, I let her handle it. She clucks her tongue as she runs a comb through my snarled hair. You really have to be more careful, dear, she says.

Sorry.

It’s all right. You’re young.

I’m not that young. I’m twenty-three. I mean, on the inside.

I know, dear. I only meant sometimes young people are a little careless.

I digest that comment for a minute. Then I ask, Do you think I should marry Robert?

He’s a very nice man.

"That’s not what I asked. Do you think I should marry him?"

That’s not up to me, dear.

Which means no, doesn’t it?

I’m sorry, dear. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. You’re still so young. I’m not sure you should be tying yourself down so soon.

Why not? You got married at my age.

That’s true, but it was different back then.

Not that different. I mean it was only like thirty years ago. After women’s lib and all that stuff. I glare at her in the mirror. I thought you of all people would approve.

Getting married is a lot of responsibility—

So you think I’m not responsible? I have a job. I finished school. I got a degree. A useless degree in Music History, but it’s still a college degree.

I know, dear. I’m very proud of you.

But you don’t think I can be a wife? Is it because I can’t cook?

It’s not that. Tess sighs. She needs a minute before she says, The way I was brought up, marriage is a sacred commitment. It’s supposed to last a lifetime. I’m not sure you’re ready for that yet, dear.

When I look in the mirror it’s easy to see why Tess would think that. A girl who goes around in bright red pigtails and wears a naughty schoolgirl outfit, who routinely gets mistaken for a fourteen-year-old, doesn’t look like someone ready to settle down for the next forty or fifty years. I get it. You think I’m immature, right?

I didn’t say that.

But you’re thinking it. I can tell.

I’m sorry, dear. I just don’t want you to do something rash.

We’ve been dating for over three years now. It’s not like I picked him up in Atlantic City two weeks ago.

I know. She starts to comb my hair again. I suppose I still think of you as my little granddaughter. I forget what a capable young woman you are.

I reach behind me for her free hand. I’ll always be your little granddaughter. But I’m a grown-up now. Robert and I love each other just as much as you and Grandpa.

I’m sure you do, dear. She gives my hand a squeeze and then sets back to work.

***

It boosts Tess’s argument that I need her to drive me back into the city. I know how to drive, but Stacey Chance doesn’t have a driver’s license. As a woman I haven’t needed it since I can usually take the train into the city. On those times I can’t, Jake or Tess gives me a lift.

In this case I was all set to take the train, but Tess insisted she drive me. She doesn’t like me to walk around by myself at night. I’m quick to agree with her since a young woman, nicely-dressed and alone, makes a great target for the scum who run around at night. At the very least it’ll keep my hair and dress from being messed up by the wind.

Along the way I check myself in the mirror. Tess put my hair up to help me look a little older. I have on the contacts I rarely wear because I hate the mess of them. All that makes me look at least seventeen. People will probably think I’m on my way to my senior prom.

Lorenzo’s is an Italian restaurant that’s more than a hundred years old. The neighborhood around it used to be Italian too, but in the last couple decades it has become more Puerto Rican than anything. Despite that, it’s still one of the highest-rated restaurants in the city, the kind of place I could never afford to take my ex-wife to, not on a cop’s salary. I doubt Tess has ever seen the inside of the place either.

So she won’t mess up my makeup, she kisses my bangs. You have a good time, sweetheart, she says. And congratulations.

Thanks, Grandma. I give her a kiss on the cheek and then step out of the car. There are already a number of people waiting, none of them Mac. I see on the clock that it’s fifteen minutes to eight. I’m early; he’ll probably show up in a few minutes. In case he might have run into an emergency, I take my phone from my purse. I don’t see any messages from him. He must be on his way.

I go up to the maitre d’, who raises a skeptical eyebrow. Eight o’clock reservation for Macintosh, I say.

He checks his book. Ah yes, Dr. Macintosh has already been seated. This way.

He leads me into the main dining room. It’s done in the old style with candles in jars on checkered tablecloths. The vines by the ceiling that surround the dining room have been there since the place opened, something I learned when I checked Zagat’s on my phone earlier.

Mac already sits at the table that’s near the middle. He’s dressed in a dark suit and tie, his hair neatly combed. No five o’clock shadow, which means he must have stopped at home before he came here.

He gets up as I approach. He gives me a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek. You look wonderful, he says. The maitre d’ gives us another skeptical look. A few other people look at us too. That’s not unusual when we go out; people think Mac is robbing the cradle, though I was born a good fifteen years before him.

Thanks, I say. He pulls back my seat for me. It took