10,772 steps
I crisscrossed the flashlight beam on my phone in front of me as I hurried down my walkway. In the dark, all those Noreens had morphed from borderline eerie to definitively creepy. It felt like being a bridesmaid in a wedding and suddenly realizing that all the other bridesmaids were me, too. Like being stuck in the kind of movie I would never have been able to watch without turning down the volume and scrunching my eyes almost all the way closed.
My circle of light landed on Tess. She was squatting at the end of the walkway, sliding a pair of reading glasses off one of the statues.
“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time,” I said in a gravelly voice, the line coming back to me from some long-ago cop show.
“Whatever.” Tess rolled her eyes, slid the glasses back on the statue. “So how long are you planning to leave these out here anyway? The town of Marshbury must have some sort of ordinance against multiple identical statues outside a single residence. It’s probably in the same section as the ordinance prohibiting multi-colored lights at Christmas and inflatable yard decorations like the ones I put up for every holiday I can find them for. Wait till you see the massive one that’s going up for Halloween. A witch, a ghost, a vampire, and a pumpkin all gathered around a great big black B-O-O. It’s so obnoxious that all the rest of the neighbors will move out and then you and I can have Wildwater Way all to ourselves. Except for my hubs. We’ll have to let him stay. And my kids can visit occasionally. If they ever show up.”
She shoved a tuft of highlighted hair back under her hood. “Sorry, my caffeine just kicked in.”
I aimed the flashlight beam at one of the statues. “What was the name of that monster movie where that statue was decapitated? Not that I watched it.”
“I told you,” Rosie yelled as she jogged over from the path that led to the lavender farm. She was wearing the turquoise octopus hat again, the tentacles blowing in the wind. “I’ll take all the statues for the lavender farm store. They’ll definitely sell like hotcakes. Excuse me, Noreen cakes.”
“Cute,” I said. “Hey, do you think we can just walk without the talk this morning? I hardly got any sleep at all last night.” The pathetic truth was I’d dreamed that Rick had texted me back, but when I opened the text, it was completely blank. It seemed so real that I slept with my phone under the pillow. For the rest of the night, I kept taking it out to check for real texts from Rick that weren’t blank, as if he’d text me in the middle of the night. Or anytime, apparently.
“Fine,” Tess said. “But when you get an official notice from the board of selectman and you need someone to help you fight the multiple identical statue ordinance, don’t come running to me.”
Walk without talk was apparently beyond us, but at least Tess changed the subject. She started caffeine-ranting about one of the teachers at school who was driving her crazy. From there, without taking a breath, she segued into a discourse about the benefits of retro electric microbuses. All of which kept her occupied until we got to the beach.
I tuned her out, tried to think of the perfect affirmation to make this a productive day. A goal without a plan is just a slow start? It’s not over when you screw up, it’s only over when you quit trying not to screw up? Broken crayons still color?
As we walked through the opening in the seawall, I swiped up to my phone’s control center and tapped the flashlight button to turn it off. It had only taken me about a year to figure out how to do this reliably. In the scheme of things, it wasn’t much, but still. Forward motion, little steps? I’m getting better all the ti-i-i-ime?
I looked up. The sky was striped with alternating bands of soft pink and faded denim. It reminded me of a polo shirt Rick sometimes wore in the summer when we played miniature golf together.
I sighed.
Rosie and Tess looked at each other. Then they broke into “Alison.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I said. I started singing our version of “I Feel the Earth Move” at the top of my lungs so they’d know I meant business.
“I feel the sand shift under my sneakers,” I sang. “I hear the waves come crashing down, come crashing down.”
Tess and Rosie kept singing their song, and for an entire verse we had our own little battle of the bands going. And then they switched over to my song.
“I just lose control,” we sang, “of my innersole. I feel our very stroll. All over, all over, all over, all over.”
“Thank you for switching songs,” I said when we finished. It was a small win, but I’d needed it.
Tess pointed. “Your pocket is glowing.”
I looked down. My iPhone flashlight had apparently turned itself back on, and my thigh was shining a scintillating yellow. I shrugged. Because a glowing pocket was the least of my problems.
Rosie’s phone set off an alert that sounded like a siren.
“Is that a hurricane warning?” Tess said. “Damn, I still have yesterday’s wash hanging on my clothesline.”
“Great,” I said. “One more thing to worry about.”
Rosie shook her head, pulled her phone out of her pocket as we walked, opened an app, turned her phone sideways. Tess and I looked over her shoulder to watch a video of Rod Stewart and The Supremes skedaddling across Rosie’s yard.
“Get those scraggly little chicken butts back to your poultry palace right this minute,” Rosie said to her phone.
The chickens froze in place.
“Good mom voice,” Tess said.
“You have a chicken camera?” I said. “I don’t even own a video doorbell yet.”
“Now means now,” Rosie said to her phone. “Don’t make me count.”
The chickens stayed motionless like so many fowl statues.
“One . . .” Rosie said.
The Supremes turned around. Rod the Rooster turned, too. He brought up the rear like a sentry as they marched in a perfectly choreographed single file back to the wire-fenced area that enclosed their chicken coop, stopping to peck at the ground every few steps.
“Good job,” Rosie said. “Now stay right there like good little chickies, and I’ll bring you a treat when I get home.”
She clicked off her camera and put her phone away. “Until the next time they fly the coop. They can’t help themselves. They’re total escape artists and they get bored easily. Jeepers peepers, I wish I had time to get bored.”
We’d slowed down for the chicken escapade, and now we picked up our pace again, swinging our arms, stretching out our legs.
“Maybe they’re looking for greener pastures,” I said. I had to admit I could totally relate to that. “Wait, I have an idea. I bet I could come up with something that would challenge them and also give them a workout. Just because they’re chickens doesn’t mean they don’t need some exercise now and then. Plus, maybe then they’ll be too tired to want to escape.”
“Sure,” Rosie said. “Although I have to warn you, the girls only pay in eggs and Rod’s a total freeloader.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “At least I’ll honestly be able to say I have my first clients.”