and she needed to be rested up for it.
Tuesday, December 5 th
-14-
Catherine wiped her hands on her belly since it was
the most obvious place. The way her heart was racing right now would have been
more suited to standing backstage before taking to a podium to give a speech.
This wasn’t public speaking. This was “Hello, come in. Did you have a nice
trip?” All of it said to the people who had raised her and for better or worse
created what was standing here today, shaking in her boots.
She took an extra second, hiding behind the solid wood
front door, breathing much the same way she’d been taught in that birthing
class she’d taken with Fynn. She didn’t think she would need the breathing for
childbirth, as she was considering asking to be knocked out with a blow to the
head and woken up when it was over, but right now it was proving handy, a
calming force.
There was nothing more she could do; as ready as she
would ever be. She gave herself a once-over, noting that she could have
gussied herself up a bit, but nicer maternity clothes wouldn’t hide her gluttonous
size any better. Of course, Elizabeth Hemmings had gained just the right amount
of weight; even way back when it wasn’t frowned upon to totally let yourself
go. That figured. Catherine had already warned Fynn that he might have to hold
her back if her mother tried to say anything about that.
A final deep breath—in—out. Then she forced herself to
turn the handle.
“Howdy, stranger!”
Catherine was too confused to speak. The voice, the
face, everything was wrong about what she saw before her. Not just wrong in
place and time, but off . She stuck her head out the door and looked both
ways on the front porch as if expecting cameras.
“Great welcome. Is that how you always answer the
door?” Tara asked. “With a moment of silence?”
She looked so different; not just I-haven’t-seen-you-in-months
different but seriously tempered was the word that came to mind. The
hair wasn’t vibrant red like last time. It wasn’t black with a hue of purple or
burgundy like it had been before that. It was normal deep chocolate brown,possibly
even natural, although Catherine didn’t know what Tara’s natural color was
seeing as how she had been dyeing it all the time she’d known her, not to hide
grays but to punch it to in-your-face shades. And the clothes, too, were so
much more conventional, if you could judge a woman by her muted outerwear. Like
a real live grownup, possibly one en route to a funeral.
“How did—what the—and you’re—I thought it was—” But Catherine
couldn’t capture her true feelings in words. Not any of those words at least. She
scanned the horizon, almost certain that her parents would be arriving any
second—the first chink in the plan of a picture-perfect life.
“Don’t seem so thrilled and overjoyed to see me.”
“It’s not that, it’s just, why didn’t you call? I—”
“Because you won’t answer your calls. Or call me
back,” Tara pointed out.
Catherine winced.
“Are you going to refuse to invite me in now?”
She blocked the doorway easily with her size, standing
firm.
“Wow, you really don’t like drop-ins, huh? Like
mother, like daughter I guess,” Tara shrugged.
She knew it for the jab it was. She didn’t like to be
compared to Elizabeth Hemmings, who was stiff and structured and unbending
about proper etiquette and appropriate behavior. Catherine was
go-with-the-flow, or at least she wanted to be. Welcoming at the very least.
And here she was acting just like her mother.
“Besides, this isn’t a drop-in anyway. I sent you a warning.”
“What?”
“The telegram.”
“That was a warning?”
“Nothing says urgent message like a telegram,” Tara
singsonged.
“So does a 911 text,” Catherine grumbled. “Or a
message on my voicemail that says you’re coming…. But why do I even bother?”
she asked the air above her. “Wait, you didn’t even say anything
Tuesday, December 5 th
-14-
Catherine wiped her hands on her belly since it was
the most obvious place. The way her heart was racing right now would have been
more suited to standing backstage before taking to a podium to give a speech.
This wasn’t public speaking. This was “Hello, come in. Did you have a nice
trip?” All of it said to the people who had raised her and for better or worse
created what was standing here today, shaking in her boots.
She took an extra second, hiding behind the solid wood
front door, breathing much the same way she’d been taught in that birthing
class she’d taken with Fynn. She didn’t think she would need the breathing for
childbirth, as she was considering asking to be knocked out with a blow to the
head and woken up when it was over, but right now it was proving handy, a
calming force.
There was nothing more she could do; as ready as she
would ever be. She gave herself a once-over, noting that she could have
gussied herself up a bit, but nicer maternity clothes wouldn’t hide her gluttonous
size any better. Of course, Elizabeth Hemmings had gained just the right amount
of weight; even way back when it wasn’t frowned upon to totally let yourself
go. That figured. Catherine had already warned Fynn that he might have to hold
her back if her mother tried to say anything about that.
A final deep breath—in—out. Then she forced herself to
turn the handle.
“Howdy, stranger!”
Catherine was too confused to speak. The voice, the
face, everything was wrong about what she saw before her. Not just wrong in
place and time, but off . She stuck her head out the door and looked both
ways on the front porch as if expecting cameras.
“Great welcome. Is that how you always answer the
door?” Tara asked. “With a moment of silence?”
She looked so different; not just I-haven’t-seen-you-in-months
different but seriously tempered was the word that came to mind. The
hair wasn’t vibrant red like last time. It wasn’t black with a hue of purple or
burgundy like it had been before that. It was normal deep chocolate brown,possibly
even natural, although Catherine didn’t know what Tara’s natural color was
seeing as how she had been dyeing it all the time she’d known her, not to hide
grays but to punch it to in-your-face shades. And the clothes, too, were so
much more conventional, if you could judge a woman by her muted outerwear. Like
a real live grownup, possibly one en route to a funeral.
“How did—what the—and you’re—I thought it was—” But Catherine
couldn’t capture her true feelings in words. Not any of those words at least. She
scanned the horizon, almost certain that her parents would be arriving any
second—the first chink in the plan of a picture-perfect life.
“Don’t seem so thrilled and overjoyed to see me.”
“It’s not that, it’s just, why didn’t you call? I—”
“Because you won’t answer your calls. Or call me
back,” Tara pointed out.
Catherine winced.
“Are you going to refuse to invite me in now?”
She blocked the doorway easily with her size, standing
firm.
“Wow, you really don’t like drop-ins, huh? Like
mother, like daughter I guess,” Tara shrugged.
She knew it for the jab it was. She didn’t like to be
compared to Elizabeth Hemmings, who was stiff and structured and unbending
about proper etiquette and appropriate behavior. Catherine was
go-with-the-flow, or at least she wanted to be. Welcoming at the very least.
And here she was acting just like her mother.
“Besides, this isn’t a drop-in anyway. I sent you a warning.”
“What?”
“The telegram.”
“That was a warning?”
“Nothing says urgent message like a telegram,” Tara
singsonged.
“So does a 911 text,” Catherine grumbled. “Or a
message on my voicemail that says you’re coming…. But why do I even bother?”
she asked the air above her. “Wait, you didn’t even say anything
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