Eleven and Holding by Mary Penney Page A

year who blathered constantly about their comings and goings.
    Mom crossed her arms and leaned up against the sink. About seven different expressions crossed her face. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she opened and closed her mouth a couple times. She was clearly trying to decide if I had recently gone insane. She pretty much knew that the only thing that would get me up before eight on a summer morning would be a house fire. And like Twee said, recycling is not high on my list of things I’m famous for.
    â€œWell, I think that’s great! You know how I feel about recycling.” She reached over and rubbed the small of my back. “If you’re going to be so nice as to do the dishes and clean up the environment, at least let me pack you a lunch.” She pulled open the fridge and studied its interior. “Turkey and Cheddar, okay? We’re out of Swiss.”
    â€œWhatever,” I mumbled, shutting off the water.
    â€œDid you and Aunt Liv have a good time?” she asked.
    â€œGuess so. We dropped Miss Doodle off at the vet, and then we went to Galaxy Burger.” I paused, and then added, “And we talked about Dad.”
    Mom got very busy inspecting the lettuce. She did this to me all the time now. The minute the subject of Dad came up, she’d go mute. Lately, I kept throwing out his name just to prove my point to myself.
    â€œMom, how come you won’t let Dad come home anymore?”
    She whirled around, her cheeks bright. “‘How come I won’t let Dad come home anymore?’”
    Major mother stalling technique #3: repeat child’s question.
    â€œHow come you won’t let Dad come home anymore?” I said louder, much louder.
    She closed the fridge door very carefully, as if she didn’t want to wake its contents. “Did Aunt Liv tell you that?”
    â€œNo!” I said. “It’s what I think! Dad used to come home every month, and now he doesn’t anymore. I know he still loves me and he still loves Jack, so it must have to do with you. Why do you always have to be so mad at him?”
    Mom put her hands on my shoulders and gentlysteered me to the breakfast nook. It was an old booth we’d taken out of Nana’s that Dad had set up in the kitchen. It was where we had most all our family meetings. “Okay, Macy, let’s talk,” she said, trying to be calm, but I could hear the hurt and anger riding the edge of her voice.
    She drew a deep breath. “When you’re a little older—”
    â€œWhen I’m a little older?” I interrupted, my voice sharp. “I still won’t understand why you don’t love him anymore!”
    â€œThis has nothing to do with anyone’s love for another.”
    â€œWell, what does it have to do with, then?” I felt breathless, like I was hiking where the air was too thin.
    She gave me a long look. And then looked down and studied her hands a moment.
    I hated that I was hurting her, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Are you going to di vorce him?”
    She reached for my hands across the table, but I yanked them away and tucked them under my legs.
    â€œWell, are you?” I pressed.
    â€œYour dad,” she explained in a slow, quiet voice, like she was talking to someone who had an IQ of minus ten, “is working on a special project that is extremelyimportant, and whether you choose to believe it or not, he is not able to come home right now.”
    â€œI am sick to death of hearing you say that!” I said, slapping a hand on the table, making the salt and pepper shakers jump. “Dad would not miss spending my birthday with me unless there was something else going on. The only thing that has ever kept him away before was the war !”
    Mom took my hand and covered it with soft hands. Her face, usually smooth, looked rumpled, like a T-shirt left sitting in the dryer too long.
    â€œMacy—” she started.
    I