The Thirteen by Susie Moloney Page A

that a doctor —any doctor—call her in the morning before she went by to see her mother.
    She was still pissed off, and slightly worried, when she pulled off the U2 T-shirt and tossed it on the bed. She caught a look at herself in her mom’s dresser mirror. For a moment she panicked. What would she wear?
    just a barbecue
    She pulled her good blouse from her bag and shook it out. Then she rummaged through her mother’s closet and came up with a green jacket to go with the blouse. She put both on and was pleased that the jacket fit her. Then she grabbed her brush and gave her hair a few strokes. It was thick, a striking chestnut, and she was glad that Rowan had inherited it, colour and texture both. Today, however, it was not cooperating. Paula sighed and pulled it smoothly back, fastening it with a large hairclip. She studied herself again. She looked kind of good.
    The TV sounded from the living room again and Paula recognized the music from The Joanna Shaw Show —not exactly kid-friendly viewing. Shaw favoured the style of commando journalism in which everything is a moral emergency. The issues were usually black-and-white—child abuse bad, long-suffering woman good—and relied on screams of outrage from her audience and Twitter rants delivered in real time that scrolled across the bottom of the screen. It was … unwholesome.
    On her mother’s dresser was a bottle of perfume. With a wry smile and a roll of her eyes she sprayed it into the air and walked through the mist. Just enough. She’d read that in a magazine.
    Rowan was sitting in Paula’s dad’s recliner, which her mother had re-covered in a pattern that matched the sofa. She dangled a foot over the armrest and bounced it, remote in hand, as she stared blankly at the set.
    Paula took the remote and shut off the TV. Her daughter, lost in either thought or the program, jerked in surprise. Checking her mother out, she gave her a thumbs-up. “You look like Julia Roberts.”
    Paula blushed happily.
    ha ha
    “Get Tex’s leash, okay, honey?”
    Rowan slid off the chair and held up the leash. She’d been sitting on it.
    “Are you really going to wear your school blazer?”
    The girl stuck a self-conscious hand into a pocket, looking defensive. “I like my blazer, okay?”
    Paula took the leash and hooked it onto Old Tex’s collar. Was the collar new? She tugged it away from Tex’s neck to see better, and a sudden memory hit her, prompted by the scent of
    this smells like mints
    tuck it in your pocket, Paula, it’s pretty
    There were little white cotton pouches stuffed with what felt like straw or herbs
    peppermint?
    and a red ribbon decorated within an inch of its life.
    “What’s this?” she said.
    “It’s Tex’s new collar. Grandma told me to put it on him.”
    “Hmmm,” Paula said. “Your grandma has always liked making things. Do you like it? What about the smell?”
    “It’s okay. I like the smell of dog better,” Rowan said.
    “Really?”
    “Yeah. Especially the smell of Old Tex.”
    On their way out the door, Paula said, “Do I really look like Julia Roberts?”
    This was usually Marla’s favourite time of day. The sun was dropping below the horizon and she was finished the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning. She was anticipating baths, books and pyjamas, knowing that in an hour or so the kids would be sound asleep and her time would be all her own.
    But tonight there was Coach Crawford.
    It had taken her nearly an hour to calm Tim down after practice. He’d huff-huff-huffed , unable to speak, only to be overtaken by more sobs. She got him to bend over and breathe, her hand on the back of his head, then held a cool cloth to his forehead and cheeks. Breathe, honey , and she’d waited for him to do it. When he still wasn’t able to calm down, she had him lie on the sofa with his head in her lap while she rubbed his back.
    But he was still upset. It had taken her ages to get him into pyjamas and then into bed, while her poor