House of Wonder by Sarah Healy Page A

honey,” he said softly, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath, which smelled faintly of drink. And while she was watching the small figure spin and spin in perfect, consistent circles, she heard her father say, “Silla, honey . . .” He hesitated, but her eyes remained on the ballerina, remained focused on her dancing. Until, that is, she heard him say, “Your mama’s gone.” Her eyes snapped to his and he nodded once. “She’s gone.”

CHAPTER TEN
    The Big Hill
    R ose and I stood on top of the Big Hill in the park, just above the pond in which Warren and I used to catch tadpoles and turtles, putting them in big plastic pitchers until Warren, his face creased with worry, insisted that we set them free. The pond was only five or six feet deep, so it always froze quickly, and on Christmas Eve the fathers would take the kids ice-skating while the mothers made dinner. Mr. Vanni would bring a thermos full of Irish coffee and the men would stand shoulder to shoulder, letting the whiskey warm their bellies, while we scrambled around on the slick ice, until our wool mittens were soggy and the knees of our jeans damp. Then our mothers’ voices would call us inside, where we’d slip into hot baths, giddy and delirious with the wonder of what might await us in the morning.
    After leaving my mother’s house, Bobby had said that he and Gabby would meet us in the park in ten minutes, though it felt like it had already been fifteen.
I’ll just go and grab Gabs,
he had said.
    â€œUncle Warren and I used to go ice-skating on that pond,” I said to Rose, trying to keep her mind off the waiting and off the wind, which had begun to pick up.
    â€œWhat’s ice-skating?” asked Rose.
    Anytime Rose was unfamiliar with something as common as ice-skating, I felt a stab of inadequacy. “Oh, Rosie. It’s the most fun thing. You wait until the pond turns all to ice. Then you put on special shoes and go sliding around on it.”
    Rose smiled, almost with nostalgia for a pastime she had never experienced; then she turned back toward the Vannis’ house just as Bobby and Gabby were exiting the back door. “Hey!” said Rose, pointing. “There they are!” She bounced onto her toes. “Hey, Gabby!” she called, though they were still too far away to hear. I hadn’t realized how much she had enjoyed playing with Bobby’s daughter at the block party.
    Bobby bent down and said something in his daughter’s ear, a permission likely, because Gabby came bounding toward Rose and me, her long, dark hair waving like a flag behind her. Rose rushed to meet her, leaving Bobby and me walking slowly behind our daughters and toward each other.
    â€œSorry,” he said, closing one eye against the low, late-afternoon sun. “My mom’s going out tonight and she needed to give me explicit instructions about reheating dinner.” He seemed to find Linda’s mothering amusing, if a bit overbearing.
    â€œI bet,” I said with a smile. “She always did like feeding you guys.” Mrs. Vanni was a fusser. She fussed over Bobby and his sister. She fussed over her husband. And now she fussed overGabby, probably baking cookies for her class and setting up elaborate tea parties for her stuffed animals. My mother loved Rose. I knew that. But her heart was tethered elsewhere.
Hey, Mom,
I had said on the phone soon after Rose had started preschool,
Rose’s school is having this Grandparents’ Day thing next Tuesday. . . .
I remember the silence on the line.
Well, what about Warren?
she finally said.
Tuesday’s his day off and I was going to go with him to get his haircut.
    Bobby glanced back at his mother’s house. “It has its moments,” he said, a nod to the fact that living with his mother at the age of thirty-six was not exactly what he’d had in mind. “But honestly, she’s