by Carla Damron
When she hauled the bulging garbage bag out to the trash can, she even took an extra moment to separate the cardboard and beer cans for recycling, something John never bothered to . . .
Thoughts in light. Thoughts in light. She’d set an example for John. Tomorrow night, if he remembered to take the trash to the curb, he’d see she’d used the neglected recycling bin. It might prompt him to do the same.
She returned to the kitchen and glanced at the clock. She had thirty minutes before John and Byron would be home. She could cook dinner. Not some microwaved Swanson entrée, but a real home-cooked meal. She had ground beef and Prego sauce and spaghetti noodles. She had lettuce and tomatoes, and a cuke that might be salvageable if she cut off the withered end. Snagging the pots from under the stove, she put water on to boil and dumped the meat in a pan for browning. John and Byron would come home to the unexpected aroma of supper cooking.
As she waited for the meat to brown, she tackled the dishes. After adding the Prego sauce, she attacked the counters with a sponge and 409. When the water boiled, she added the noodles and a teaspoon of oil. She had ten more minutes before her guys would be home and wouldn’t they be surprised.
She glanced into the den. Byron had left a Lego catastrophe in front of the TV, and John’s beer stein sat in a puddle on the table. How hard would it be to take the glass into the kitch-
Negative thinking, she chastised herself. She lifted the glass and wiped up the mess, then dropped to her knees to rake up the toys: Legos, Matchbox cars, and puzzle pieces that had scattered under the sofa. She fluffed pillows and stacked newspapers and moved shoes into the bedroom. She ran a dust cloth over the coffee table and stacked the DVDs scattered on the book shelf. She grabbed the vacuum cleaner and went to work on the carpet, sucking up cracker crumbs and smiling at how good everything looked. Dr. Allaway was right, she could see that now.
“What the hell, Tonya?” John’s voice boomed from the door way.
She dropped the hose to the vacuum, nearly fell over the coffee table. He turned off the machine with an exaggerated flick of his hand. “You’ve got red sauce boiling over. There are burned spaghetti noodles stuck to a pan.” He dropped their squirming son to the floor then stared at her, his gray eyes cold as granite. “We’re minutes away from needing the damn fire dept. Can’t you do anything right?”
SUPPER WAS A QUIET AFFAIR. Or, as quiet as it could be, with Byron chattering away about “Big ball” and eating “Oh Ohs” (Oreos?) at daycare. The spaghetti wasn’t a total disaster. Not all the noodles had burned, and the sauce tasted okay. She’d opted to forego the salad. She’d just mess that up too, giving John more ammunition.
After dinner she loaded the dishwasher and let the pans soak in the sink. Dr. Allaway would no doubt want her to get them all clean, replace them in the cabinet, and leave the kitchen a spotless magazine cover-worthy space.
To hell with Dr. Allaway.
Byron scooted into the room from the den pushing his favorite tractor toy and making engine sounds as he ran it along the floor. When he reached her, the tractor bumped up her ankle and leg.
“Hey little man.” She lifted him, held him against her, and pressed her lips into his blond hair that held red traces of spaghetti sauce. “Ready for a bath?”
He puckered his lips and made bubble noises, which she took as a yes. Good. Bath time was so much easier with a willing participant.
Once the water reached the right temperature, she added bubbles and wrestled Byron’s t-shirt and chinos off. He giggled as she lowered him in the water.
“Me splash!” he said, splatting his hands against the bubbles. Water splattered Tonya’s face and chest.
“Byron!” she said, a little sharper than she meant.
His arms froze, his pink face tilting up to search hers, startled.
“It’s okay, baby.” Mommy’s just tired. Mommy’s just frustrated. None of it is your fault. She nudged his knee with his favorite yellow boat which he submerged under the bubbles. Keeping his hands busy made the task of getting him clean so much easier. She lathered up a cloth and ran it across his neck and down the knobs of his tiny spine. The bruises from the accident made a string of pale green islands across his skin, so much better than the dark purple they had been. He used his arm as though nothing had happened, as though there had been no car crash, no broken collar bone. Thank God he had healed. Maybe she would, too. One day.
She got him clean, let him have five extra minutes to play with ducks and boats, then wrapped a towel around him. Byron leaned in, his sweet eyes all droopy, his hair smelling lemony from the baby shampoo. He didn’t fight the pull-up diaper or the pajamas and, when she read The Little Engine That Could, he had her repeat it once before drifting off to sleep. Maybe he wouldn’t have car crash nightmares tonight.
Downstairs, the TV blared basketball. John most likely had his second beer open. If there was another puddle on the table, he could clean up himself.
Back in the bathroom, she collected toys and made an unexpected decision to take a bath herself. She’d had a long, trying day and after John’s blow up, she needed to relax. As she refilled the tub she added Byron’s bubble bath, stripped off her clothes, and dimmed the lights. She lowered herself into the water, the foam closing over her like pale hands in prayer.
She recalled John’s face when he’d found her vacuuming. The fire in his eyes. The iron set of his jaw. The ice in his words. Did he regret what he’d said? Did he know how it felt, to have him yell at her in front of their child? How four years of marriage seemed so fragile now, like a butterfly wing?
She ducked her head under so that the water could buffer her from the world. How had this become her life? A house they couldn’t afford. Credit cards she’d let get out of hand. And a husband who touched her out of obligation—a quick goodbye peck in the morning, a good night kiss as dry as a brown leaf. It seemed when they’d first been married, they kept in constant contact—hands held, shoulders nudging, a knowing smile or wink across the table. When had that died? Did John still love her, even a little?
The gentle knock on the bathroom door surprised her. She swished her arms so that bubbles covered her as John came in. “Hey,” he said, closing the toilet and taking a seat, the Coors bottle sweating in his hand.
“Hey.” The foam had thinned, the water grown cold. She turned on the hot tap.
“Byron asleep?” he asked.
Like she’d be here in the tub with a toddler on the loose? “Down for the count,” she said.
“Good.” He picked at the label on the bottle.
She added soap and shimmied her arms for more bubbles, wanting to crawl beneath them and hide.
“Sorry about earlier,” he said. “I shouldn’t . . . .” he finished the sentence with a shrug.
Shouldn’t have acted like he hated her? “I shouldn’t have left the kitchen with the pots on the stove,” she said mechanically, because apologizing was what she did.
“We all make mistakes.” He took a long swallow of beer.
She wondered at the comment. What mistake had he made that he ever admitted to?
“You thought any more about the law suit? The paralegal called today wanting to know.” His gaze shifted, skimming her contours in the suds.
“I haven’t decided yet.” She slid down, the water brushing her chin.
“We could sure use the money. Pay off the credit cards. A down payment on the car. Maybe even buy you some new clothes if you want.”
“New clothes?” Did he think this would convince her? That she was so shallow, a new scarf or jacket would make it okay? Mitch Hastings had died. It wasn’t her fault but still, the man was dead.
“Or whatever you want. The check will come to you, you know.”
Her eyebrows rose at this. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the paralegal thinks they’ll settle. You were the driver. The money goes to you.”
To her? Not to them. Not to him. Something she hadn’t considered.
<
br /> Silver flecks drifted from the beer label to the floor. “When do you think you’ll decide?”
She fixed her gaze on the faucet. “I’ll decide when I decide.”
“Right.” He stood, the lid of the tank scraping against the wall. “Do whatever you want, Tonya. Just don’t take too long.”
He closed the door as he left. She shut her eyes and floated, a log in a river, a seal in the ocean.
LENA STEPPED THROUGH THE dewy brown grass, clippers in hand. The bush at the edge of Mitch’s garden had erupted in blossoms, the lone sign of color in this fall-dreary yard. She scanned the thick green clusters of leaves and selected four perfect flowers: fluttery pink petals around pale golden crowns. As she cut the stems, drops of cold water plopped onto her unsteady fingers. She should have worn gardening gloves. Mitch would have stopped her at the door, gray gloves in hand, but Mitch was gone.
The morning chill crept through her sweater. She hurried back inside and arranged the flowers in a crystal vase, glad that they brightened the kitchen table. This was Becca’s first day back to school, and Lena wanted this small celebration: normalcy restored.
She eyed the kitchen clock. Becca was up; she’d heard the shower and the whir of a hair dryer. The scrambled eggs waited in the pan; the turkey bacon was still warm in the microwave. A tall glass of orange juice marked Becca’s place at the table. The vitamins, Lena remembered, and moved quickly to spill a fat pink tablet onto Becca’s napkin. Dr. Owens had stressed the importance of calcium, iron, and folic acid to rebuilding Becca’s bones and strengthening her. Vitamins would help her physical recovery, but the rest would take more than a pill.
“Something sure smells good!” Abby helped herself to Lena’s chair at the table. She wore a navy terry robe that she must have found in Sims’s dresser. The belt barely closed the opening at her waist and a dull white pajama top bulged out of its V. She groped the crystal vase, twirling it to study the flowers.
“I decided Becca needed a send-off breakfast. Of course, there’s plenty.” Lena found another plate.
“Hope we can get her to eat.”
This was what Lena dreaded. The breakfast table battle that had gone on for months now took a new dimension. Becca almost died. She still might. The weight of this swung like a pendulum over them, over the clean white plates and thin vase of flowers.
Abby pushed back from the table and got herself a cup. Lena expected her to comment on the coffee, which wasn’t the way Abby always made it, but she didn’t. Abby refilled Lena’s mug, but Lena was too edgy for more caffeine. She looked up at the clock again.
“It’s so wonderful to have an American breakfast,” Abby said. “A little milder than what I’m used to, but delicious.”
“What do you eat in South America?”
“Depends on where I am. In Tingo Maria, I was lucky to get some warmed up potatoes and quinoa—which they make into an odd wheat drink. But always plenty of coffee. My blood’s probably dark brown by now.” She shook her head. “They are a generous people. But so damn poor. It’s no wonder they’re easy targets for the drug trade.”
Lena flashed on an image of Abby fighting gangsters from the back of a llama. She hated to think of her sister in such a dangerous place.
“But some of the food is very good.” Abby guided eggs onto her fork with her toast. “I draw the line at cuy, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Roasted guinea pig.” A bit of yellow fell from Abby’s mouth to her robe.
“That’s . . . disgusting,” Lena said, as much about the robe as the food discussion.
“Oh, they delivered my rental car this morning,” Abby said, forking a slice of bacon. “Which means I won’t have to borrow yours anymore. I know I’ve been a damn nuisance.”
“No you haven’t.” Lena remembered getting the call about Becca. Here, in this kitchen with her sister, she had gripped the phone, frozen, unable to even take down information. Abby had taken the receiver, talked to the nurse, grabbed their coats, and herded Lena to the car.
“I have a meeting in a little while. An attorney who specializes in international adoptions who may be able to sort through the political bullshit.”
“What can he do from here?”
“I’m not sure. I’m willing to try anything if it will help me get Esteban.”
Lena had seen the photo of the little boy: dark-skinned with hair cut straight across his forehead. Eyes like obsidian stones and a crooked grin. How her sister melted as she spoke of him. Lena’s new nephew, Esteban.
When Becca came into the kitchen, she had on black jeans, a contoured black sweater, and a teal scarf Lena didn’t remember seeing before. Usually Becca wore loose clothes to hide her body. And was that eye shadow?
Lena hurried to scoop eggs onto a plate and add the bacon, then whole grain toast. Becca eyed the food like it was the enemy.
“Your mom made you breakfast. You can at least pretend to be grateful,” Abby said, helping herself to another piece of bacon. “This is made from turkey, Becca. Very lean.”
Becca toyed with the food, segregating the eggs, slicing the toast into triangles and the bacon into micro-bites, the clinking of cutlery on her plate the only sound in the room. Lena kept her head down, watching to see what made it into Becca’s mouth. Becca reached for the vase and twirled it.
“What’s with the flowers?” Becca asked.
“I thought they were pretty.” Lena found herself defensive, like she didn’t have a right to bring life to their dull breakfast.
“A bit early for camellias, isn’t it?” Abby asked.
“They’re sasanquas,” Becca said. How did she know? Lena hadn’t.
“Dad never picked them because they won’t last in the vase.” Becca lifted a fork that held a half-tablespoon of egg which she studied like an odd science experiment. Why wouldn’t she eat it?
“Please, Becca. Dr. Owens said you needed protein.” Lena’s words eked out through clenched teeth; Becca lifted her eyebrows at the tone. After an endless moment, she slid the fork into her mouth and Lena exhaled, counting the calories. That was what Becca had done over the past two years, Dr. Owens had told her. Counted every calorie and fat gram that she put in her mouth. After Becca took a few more small bites, Lena braved the next issue. She pointed to the capsule beside Becca’s plate. “That’s the vitamin that Dr. Owens prescribed.”
“It’s too big.” Becca rolled it with the blade of her knife. Her scrutiny shifted from the vitamin to Lena’s face, eyes narrowed like a gunfighter. They were at the OK corral, Lena realized. She wouldn’t win this stalemate. She couldn’t win any of them, and now her daughter’s life might depend on it. What would Mitch say? She couldn’t bear to fail either of them.
“Becca, can you help me with something?” Abby pulled a cell phone from her pocket. “I traded my satellite phone in for this thing yesterday. It’s called a ‘smart phone.’ Damn thing’s already outsmarted me. It’s got all these application things and I don’t know what the hell to do with it. I swear, if I could have gotten one with a rotary dial I would have.”
Becca turned over the sleek gray cellular. “It’s the latest iPhone.”
“Maybe you can show me how to use it later?”
Becca nudged the toggle on the bottom and a bright blue screen appeared. A few more strokes across the surface and pictures emerged.
“You’re already farther along than I got,” Abby said. “Now take that vitamin before your mom’s head implodes.”
And miracle of miracles, Becca did.
After Becca finished half the food on her plate (not quite two hundred thirty calories), she returned upstairs to finish getting ready for school. Lena wanted to follow, to see if Becca went into the bathroom. Could she hear the sound of retching through the door? But Becca hadn’t eaten that much, and if she caught Lena spying. . . .
“I’ll check on her.” Abby stood. “I can get her to school if you want. It’s on my way.”
Lena nodd
ed, relieved. She wondered if Becca was nervous about returning to her classes; it had been almost two weeks since Mitch’s accident, but Kayla had kept her up-to-date on school assignments and last night, Lena had seen Becca huddled over her history text. Getting back in her usual routine would have to help.
Elliott stumbled into the kitchen, his eyes sleep-crusted. Even as a toddler, he fought waking up. Sims would rouse with a bounce and storm into the day, but Elliott was the groggy, grouchy boy. She’d coax him with: “How about a glass of milk, honey?” or “Sit with your daddy while I get your cereal.” And he’d crawl into Mitch’s lap, leaning against his chest, eyes at half-mast while Mitch held the sippy-cup for him. How Mitch had cherished those moments.
A wave of raw pain washed through her. The chair where Mitch sat, empty. His place at the table, no longer set. No tender, gravel-voiced “Morning, sweetheart” to start her day.
“Mom?” Elliott peered at her over his mug. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. There’s still some scrambled eggs and bacon.” She filled a plate with the remaining food and set it at his place at the table, grateful he was still in Columbia. She needed to have “the conversation” with him about Royce, but not yet. He plopped a book on the table and opened it to a dog-eared page. Lena sat across from him and bent to see what he was reading. The Fundamentals of Commercial Real Estate. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Dad’s office. It’s a little old. Doesn’t take into account the current disastrous state of our economy, but a decent primer.”
“Why are you reading it?” she asked.
“Just wanted to understand Dad’s business better. After the meeting with Phillip, I figured I should have some clue what he was talking about.”
So did Lena. Because of what happened with Becca, she had let what Phillip had said recede from her consciousness, but she couldn’t keep hiding from it. The business was in serious jeopardy. Mitch had spent down their reserve fund during her cancer treatments, and now—now she had to find a way to support them. She hadn’t held a job since college, and that had been a work-study placement in the school library. She had a B.A. in Art History—oh yes, she was so marketable. Potential employers would be beating down her door. What was she going to do?