Free The Possibilities: A Novel by Kaui Hart Hemmings Page A

merge and change lanes quickly. If I skid I know to pump lightly on the brakes and turn in the direction in which we slide. Suzanne will slam on the brakes, causing us to spin like Michelle Kwan. When merging she will check the middle mirror, then lean toward the side mirror, then look back over her shoulder, the window of time she could have used to merge usurped by a big rig or a Miata, either of which would make her gasp, overcorrect, and start the process all over again.
    She flips down the mirror and puts on more lipstick. She’s heavily madeup—her cheeks look like they’ve both been smacked, and her eyelashes are pointed like exclamation points. She has on her fur coat and stiletto boots that could be used to kill whatever animal her coat’s made out of.
    I’m instructed to drive to the rink by the Village. I do as I’m told, waiting for Suzanne to tell me what’s going on, but she’s quiet and on edge for the entire drive, which I assume is due to two back-to-back blows directed at her body mass index.
    I pull into the parking lot. “What is this again?” I ask.
    “After-School All-Stars,” she says. “Raises money for their after school enrichment. Keeps them off drugs. I don’t know. I’m sick of kids. We’re always doing things for them, and they’re fine. Perfectly content with a spoon and a pan. Like MacGyver. Give them a twig, give them a marble, they’re all set. That’s how Morgan was.”
    This isn’t how I recall Morgan being at all. She had a playroom packed with gorgeous wooden toys, Barbie cars, kitchen sets, doll houses, then later, a playhouse, a playground set, an art room, a trampoline. Give her a twig and a marble and she’d pitch a fit.
    I look for a parking spot. “And you want to see this game because . . .”
    “I want to support the cause,” she says.
    “Don’t you need a ticket?”
    I drive alongside kids walking toward the ice and remember taking Cully to a few hockey games, buying him a huge foam finger and endless cups of hot chocolate.
    “I wonder if Dickie’s here?” Suzanne asks.
    And now it becomes clear. “Please, Suzanne. He’s obviously here. And that’s why we’re here.” Why didn’t this dawn on me before? I find a parking spot far away from the action, but I can see the rink and well-dressed people pretending to enjoy the game. “What happened?”
    “Nothing,” she says. “I got that text from Mirabelle. She said he was here and that he looked different. She used an emoticon that winked.”
    “Well then.”
    I have a feeling that we’re not going to get out of the car for a while. She flips the visor down to look into the mirror again, turning her head to the side, then she snaps it shut.
    “Can we move up so we can see?” she asks. She moves in her seat as if propelling the car forward.
    I reverse out of the spot.
    “I doubt there’s parking up there.”
    “We don’t have to park. I just want to see if he’s even here. I don’t want to get out.”
    I drive to the front, knowing I can’t say anything. I had to come. I had to drive, and now I have to move. I owe her, not just for her help with Cully’s room, but also for this period in my life. I’ve been in the spotlight for too long. Bad things happen to other people too—it’s her time to shine.
    I stop and turn off the engine and headlights, and hear a voice on the sound system saying, “He got it! Holzman did it again!” The outdoor speakers begin to play something I recognize but can’t name. I watch a kid speed down the center of the rink with his stick in the air.
    “This is nice,” I say. “So the kids playing are the ones who benefit from the program?”
    “Yeah,” Suzanne says, scanning the people. She is clearly not interested. “It’s not a full-length game. Just an example of where the money’s going. After this they’ll get shuttled to One Ski Hill for dinner.”
    A group of teenagers come out of the indoor rink, trying to see what’s going on. “I