Free Facelift by Leanna Ellis Page A

your tennis shoes?”
    “Why?”
    “Because I want to go for a run.” It’s not my usual. In fact, it’s unusual. But I feel an urgent need to get out of the house. And a run or fast walk might get me back in shape before I see Cliff again. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
    “A run?” Izzie stares at me as if I’ve just spoken Aramaic.
    “Do you mind?”
    “No, sure. But they’re too big for you.”
    “I’ll be okay this time. I’m not running far.”
    She drops her chin and stares at me. “You’re running? Really running?”
    I lift mine a notch. “Yeah.” But under the weight of her stare I give. “Okay, walking.”
    Her mouth curves in a satisfied smile. “Do you want to borrow some shorts?”
    “I’d probably be arrested for indecent exposure.” I pull socks out of her drawer and shoes out of the closet, which, ironically, I put away earlier in the day before Cousin It helped herself to a leathery snack.
    “You know, Mom, it’s kind of late to be going for a walk.”
    “I’ll be fine.” It actually feels good to have my daughter worrying about my safety rather than the other way around.
    “It’s dark.”
    “So?”
    “You always tell me not to go out at night alone.”
    The words slither around my brain, strike me as odd. Now she’s biting back at me with my own words. “I’ll take Cousin It. Okay?”
    “Whatever.”
    The irony that Cousin It is the reason I need to get out is not lost on me as I grab the leash. She bounds around me, a seventy-or-more-pound bouncing ball. Her barks echo off the entryway ceiling.
    “Shh.” I try to shush her before she wakes Marla. Before I lose my chance to escape for even a few minutes. It finally sits near my feet, her tail brushing the tile and thumping against the wall.
    I push open the front door and step into the darkness. The warm night envelopes me with scents of gardenias and damp grass. Sniffing freedom, Cousin It bolts. The leash jerks my arm, and I follow, my feet thump, thump, thumping along the sidewalk as I trip and stumble along in the oversized shoes. Prancing and dancing around me, It manages to tie me up like a hostage. Oh sure, this is safe. Anyone who wants to assault me can find me already hog-tied. I wiggle and turn, unwrapping myself from the leash. It barks. The sound rebounds off the rooftops. In the distance, other dogs answer her.
    With the warmth of the fall day still heavy in the air, I begin running. It yanks me forward. Two houses later, my legs burning, my lungs exploding, I stumble to a halt, grab my pinched side. My workouts stopped about the time Cliff left. I never could find the energy or time to lift weights or take a jog around the block. My membership to a workout facility, of course, had to be dropped as my financial situation changed. Now, I suck in oxygen like it’s on sale.
    But Coach It hasn’t finished with my workout. She tugs on the leash and I stumble forward. We walk and walk and walk. She darts right then left, sniffing at each mailbox as if she might be tracking the postman or expecting a letter. When my pulse slows close to normal, I attempt jogging again. Two houses more, I stop, gulp air, then walk again. I repeat this around the block three times until both of our tongues hang out, though thankfully mine doesn’t drip slobber, and we find ourselves back at our starting point.
    I stare at the outline of our house presented by the moon. It has a low-lying roof, square windows, red bricks. Southern Living would never stop here to take a photo. The house is over thirty years old. It’s small, but it’s all mine. Everything Cliff and I bought together over the years was with his money, whatever he earned or borrowed from his parents. Now I am earning a living on my own. I was thrilled to find a house with a yard large enough for a pool for Izzie.
    I contemplate going to see my friend, Terry, whom I haven’t seen in months. Or has it been longer? She lives in the same exclusive