Stand Tall by Joan Bauer Page B

a new level of communication, but it wasn’t meant to be.

    “I would like us to begin a new level of communication.”
    Tree’s mother said this on the speakerphone in her kitchen to Tree’s father, who was at work.
    Tree was in his mother’s living room, listening.
    Mom scrolled down her computer screen. She’d typed out exactly what she wanted to say.
    “I think we’re strong enough to do this now, Mark. I know it will be important for the children.”
    Silence. She geared up for the next line:
    “I know that we are forever linked to each other because of the kids. We need to be able to talk together and make decisions together without all the old stuff getting in the way.”
    Tree’s father didn’t say anything because his stockperson had just dropped a box of golf balls and the balls were rolling everywhere.
    “Are you still there?” she asked.
    “Yes.” Dad stopped a golf ball with his foot.
    “Did you hear me?”
    “I heard you.”
    “It would be nice if you at least acknowledged you heard me.”
    “I heard you.” Dad stopped three balls with a hockey stick. He didn’t like talking about important things on the phone.
    Mom lived on the phone.
“Well?”
    This, thought Tree, is the old stuff.
    Mom and Dad decided to talk about it next week at dinner. At Dad’s house, so she could say hello to Grandpa.
    They said good-bye in that edgy way.
    Tree wondered if they would ever talk to each other easily again.
    He walked into the kitchen.
    Tree wasn’t sure he should confess. But he did.
    “I kind of overheard, Mom.”
    “Your dad and I don’t want to let our problems stand in the way of doing the best for you and your brothers.”
    Tree nodded. That was nice.
    “I’m not going to let years of misunderstanding stand in the way of being a forgiving adult.”
    She wasn’t done.
    “Your dad and I shared important moments. I’m not going to let them get buried.” She said that pretty fast.
    “It’s good you can talk,” Tree offered.
    She turned off her computer, sighed. “It’s going to be hard for me to go to the old house.”
    “I know, Mom.”
    “I haven’t seen Grandpa and Bradley for . . .”
    “They miss you. We all do.”
    Her eyes teared up. “I’m crying so much these days. I’m sorry. I see a baby and I cry. I see a kitten and I can hardly stand it. I see a commercial with a happy family eating vegetables and I fall apart.”
    “Maybe we should stop eating vegetables,” Tree offered hopefully, handing her a box of tissues.
    She blew her nose. “Should I bake something for next week? Anything you’d like?”
    Tree laughed. “You should probably bring the whole dinner, Mom.”
    Twisting the tissue. “Your dad said he’d take care of dinner. I don’t want to insult him.”

    “Your mother’s coming for dinner.”
    Tree’s father said this at six o’clock.
    Tree was shocked. “I thought she was coming on Thursday.”
    “We changed it.” Dad checked his watch. “She’ll be here in thirty minutes.”
    Tree looked around—no food on the stove, in the oven. “What are we eating?”
    “I don’t know.” Tree’s father wrung his hands.
    “Sophie’s coming over, Dad. Remember? We’re going to watch that TV show on lizards since her TV’s broken. You said it was okay.”
    “It’s okay.” Already Dad regretted this whole evening.
    “But
Mom’s
coming.”
    “That’s okay, too.”
    He picked up the phone to order pizza.
    For men, there’s always a simple solution to dinner.

    “Well . . .”
    Mom sat at the dining room table, looked at the empty walls, the shadows of where the hutch had been.
    Remembered how they’d fought about who got the hutch.
    Studied the clothesline and pulley system on the ceiling. Felt a tightness in her chest.
    “It was an experiment, Mom.”
    “I’m sure it was.”
    She smiled at Tree, looked kindly to Grandpa, patted Bradley’s old, loyal head. Bradley hadn’t left her side since she’d walked through the