Ruby's Slippers by Leanna Ellis Page B

doing. But that’s how we learn. And empathize with others. If we never made mistakes, we wouldn’t need God, right? Besides, good can come from mistakes. All things work together for good. That’s what my daddy always says.”
    My throat constricts. I know firsthand the destruction that can result from being left behind. Maybe leaving, forging ahead, unaware of what you leave in your wake, is the way to go. Being left behind sucks. Is that why Abby seems determined to always leave first?
    “I ended up with a son to raise on my own, and that was hard. But I don’t regret having him. Not for one minute. Thing is, with a husband, he would have carried half the blame.”
    “Blame?”
    “For all the things I did wrong as a parent.”
    “Why do you think you did anything wrong?”
    “All parents make mistakes, whether they admit it or not. I sure did. So many …” Her brow furrows. She shakes her head, mumbles something under her breath. “I’m sure my son could chronicle a thousand things I did wrong.”
    “I don’t blame my mother for anything.”
    “Blame your father, do you?”
    “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it much.”
    “One or the other usually gets the blame.”
    I run my finger along the armrest between the seats. “Your son must not blame you for much or he wouldn’t have given you a car.”
    “Conscious or subconscious, it’s there.” She waves her hand, rolling her thin, bony wrist. “Not much I can do about it now. But I do wish …”
    “Wish what?”
    “I do wish I could be of help to Leo. Must be the plightof most parents. So many times we want to help but can’t for various and sundry reasons. Wonder if that’s how my daddy felt all those times I was too stubborn to turn to him for help.”
    Is that what I’ve been, too stubborn to try to find my father? Stubborn in wanting him to come home of his own accord? Was that Momma’s problem? Stubbornness and pride? Running my hands down Otto’s back, I remember what it was like to lie in the hospital bed, not knowing if he lived or not. I couldn’t do anything to help him, and it was the most awful feeling in the world. I ache for Sophia and the anguish she feels for her son. One thing that trapped feeling taught me—life is too short to be stubborn or proud. It’s why I’m on this journey north.
    “How would you help him?” I ask.
    She tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Her swollen, freckled knuckles whiten with the pressure. “I would tell him—” She shakes her head, flips on the blinker, and switches lanes to move around a dilapidated truck carrying yard equipment. Three exhausted, sun-bronzed faces stare blankly at us from the bed of the truck as we pass. “No, I wouldn’t. You can’t tell some people anything. Sometimes folks just gotta learn things for themselves. If he asks, of course, I’ll speak the truth.”
    Cars pass us with drivers chatting on their cell phones. So many people, yet so few connections made with those around them. I think of my relationship with Abby, how I want us to get along but how we always seem to bring out the worst in each other, like we’re stuck in a junior-high time warp. What keeps us apart? Different interests? Or is it something deeper? Pride? Hurt? Selfishness?
    “Look there!” Sophia points to a billboard.
    I recognize the iconic figures of Dorothy, the Kansas farm girl, and her three friends skipping along a yellow-brick roadway. The caption reads, “Let the joyous news be spread!” Dates for a children’s theatrical production are listed below.
    I could certainly use a little joyous news right now.

Chapter Eleven
    The blue sky seems endless, with only a few clouds on the horizon to the west of us. The Jeep stalls on the highway when we’re sitting in traffic. “Sitting” being the operative word. “What do we do?” I sit upright, glancing behind me at the long line of cars, some of which are beginning to lay on their horns in an angry