voice was hoarse.
“Don’t free her.” Tommy stomped his foot and pointed his sword at me.
But her misery melted my heart, and all I wanted to do was comfort her, so I gave in and picked her up. To my surprise, I wasn’t overcome with agony and despair but just the opposite. The weight of her in my lap and the soft scent of her baby shampoo eased a little piece of my sadness.
After that day, I couldn’t bear to put her down. She went everywhere perched on my hip or curled into the nook of my arm. By the time fall arrived and I started my senior year, Tommy and Maddie Rae had become like little beams of sunshine that managed to brighten my life at the most unexpected moments, like when a stray molecule of Maddie Rae’s leftover scent would wriggle free from my shirt and invade my nose for one blissful moment in the middle of Pre-Calculus or the way Tommy’s laughter—tee hee hee—echoed in my mind late at night as I drifted off to sleep.
The memories capsize me and I feel their loss, just as I felt it when Mrs. Pearson told me that she was divorcing her husband and moving to Florida with the children. The news destroyed me, and I cried for weeks after they left. Mom didn’t make me babysit anymore after that.
I pick up the phone and dial Mom’s number. As always, she answers on the third ring. That’s her rule: three rings, so people don’t think she’s been sitting next to the phone with nothing better to do, though that’s usually the case.
When she answers, I cut right to the chase so she knows that I haven’t forgiven her for ruining my life. “I got your message, and I will be at Mrs. Pearson’s memorial service on Saturday.”
“Good. I’m glad.” I’m just about to hang up when she continues. “Can I ride with you? We’ve been getting a lot of snow here, and I can’t get my car out.”
“Why don’t you borrow a snow blower from one of your neighbors?”
“Oh, I don’t want them to think I’m a mooch.”
“No one will think you’re a mooch.”
“Maybe Paul can help me shovel the driveway after the service? He is coming, isn’t he?”
The thought of spending all weekend together in the car is unbearable. “I don’t know yet. He might have to work.”
“He works on the weekends a lot.” She says it lightly, but her voice is full of judgment. I want to remind her that Daddy was no stranger to working on the weekends, but she would just argue that being a police officer and protecting your community is a lot different from tiling bathroom floors.
“Why don’t you pay one of the neighbor boys to come dig you out?” I ask, ignoring the comment.
“I wouldn’t want the neighbors to think I can’t manage this place by myself.”
I resist the urge to tell her that no one gives a damn if her back isn’t as strong as it used be or if her joints ache with arthritis. She’s obsessed with what the world thinks of her, and no amount of reassurance will change that. “I’ll pick you up at one.”
I hang up the phone and pilfer the fridge for something to make for dinner, but her words bat in my brain like a pesky mosquito. Since when is it a crime to work on Saturday? It’s not like it’s the holy day, although Paul’s not opposed to working on Sunday either. But I’d never tell her that, unless I wanted to hear about it for the rest of my life. As far as she’s concerned, we spend our Sundays at St. Mark’s. Little does she know, I gave up on God twenty-three years ago when I was forced to abandon Emily and was convinced that James had abandoned me.
I reach for a package of chicken breasts and wash them in the sink. Speaking of James, I wonder if he works on the weekends. If he’s running his family’s ranch like he’d planned, then he probably does. I imagine him riding a horse and lassoing livestock. The thought of him on a horse triggers a long-forgotten pull in my chest. I dunk the chicken in egg batter and roll it in flour and breadcrumbs as my mind wanders
“Don’t free her.” Tommy stomped his foot and pointed his sword at me.
But her misery melted my heart, and all I wanted to do was comfort her, so I gave in and picked her up. To my surprise, I wasn’t overcome with agony and despair but just the opposite. The weight of her in my lap and the soft scent of her baby shampoo eased a little piece of my sadness.
After that day, I couldn’t bear to put her down. She went everywhere perched on my hip or curled into the nook of my arm. By the time fall arrived and I started my senior year, Tommy and Maddie Rae had become like little beams of sunshine that managed to brighten my life at the most unexpected moments, like when a stray molecule of Maddie Rae’s leftover scent would wriggle free from my shirt and invade my nose for one blissful moment in the middle of Pre-Calculus or the way Tommy’s laughter—tee hee hee—echoed in my mind late at night as I drifted off to sleep.
The memories capsize me and I feel their loss, just as I felt it when Mrs. Pearson told me that she was divorcing her husband and moving to Florida with the children. The news destroyed me, and I cried for weeks after they left. Mom didn’t make me babysit anymore after that.
I pick up the phone and dial Mom’s number. As always, she answers on the third ring. That’s her rule: three rings, so people don’t think she’s been sitting next to the phone with nothing better to do, though that’s usually the case.
When she answers, I cut right to the chase so she knows that I haven’t forgiven her for ruining my life. “I got your message, and I will be at Mrs. Pearson’s memorial service on Saturday.”
“Good. I’m glad.” I’m just about to hang up when she continues. “Can I ride with you? We’ve been getting a lot of snow here, and I can’t get my car out.”
“Why don’t you borrow a snow blower from one of your neighbors?”
“Oh, I don’t want them to think I’m a mooch.”
“No one will think you’re a mooch.”
“Maybe Paul can help me shovel the driveway after the service? He is coming, isn’t he?”
The thought of spending all weekend together in the car is unbearable. “I don’t know yet. He might have to work.”
“He works on the weekends a lot.” She says it lightly, but her voice is full of judgment. I want to remind her that Daddy was no stranger to working on the weekends, but she would just argue that being a police officer and protecting your community is a lot different from tiling bathroom floors.
“Why don’t you pay one of the neighbor boys to come dig you out?” I ask, ignoring the comment.
“I wouldn’t want the neighbors to think I can’t manage this place by myself.”
I resist the urge to tell her that no one gives a damn if her back isn’t as strong as it used be or if her joints ache with arthritis. She’s obsessed with what the world thinks of her, and no amount of reassurance will change that. “I’ll pick you up at one.”
I hang up the phone and pilfer the fridge for something to make for dinner, but her words bat in my brain like a pesky mosquito. Since when is it a crime to work on Saturday? It’s not like it’s the holy day, although Paul’s not opposed to working on Sunday either. But I’d never tell her that, unless I wanted to hear about it for the rest of my life. As far as she’s concerned, we spend our Sundays at St. Mark’s. Little does she know, I gave up on God twenty-three years ago when I was forced to abandon Emily and was convinced that James had abandoned me.
I reach for a package of chicken breasts and wash them in the sink. Speaking of James, I wonder if he works on the weekends. If he’s running his family’s ranch like he’d planned, then he probably does. I imagine him riding a horse and lassoing livestock. The thought of him on a horse triggers a long-forgotten pull in my chest. I dunk the chicken in egg batter and roll it in flour and breadcrumbs as my mind wanders
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