by Annie Jones
Hannah nodded. “So you held a prayer vigil.”
“We lit candles. Sheltered them in our hands against the evening wind.” She cupped a hand around the remembered candle. “And prayed.”
She wanted to hurry her aunt along, not out of a need to rush the story but to hear the end, to try to understand what had compelled the woman to tell her this now and what it meant to getting her father the medical tests he needed.
“And then we heard it.”
“What?”
“Moonie’s voice.”
She sighed. “Where was he?”
“Didn’t know at first, but we followed the sound. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once.”
“Wow.”
“It was something to experience, I tell you that right now. We couldn’t get a handle on where he was until, quite by accident, someone stepped in a hole and tripped.”
“He was in the hole.”
“He was in a dry well that someone had only partly covered, and when he’d tried to climb out, he’d pulled more dirt and rock down on him until he was all but buried except one arm and his head.”
“Poor Daddy.”
“Your grandpa dug him out with his bare hands.”
“Did it take long?”
“Longer than you might think, because they didn’t dare risk the dirt falling back and smothering him.”
“I can’t imagine it.”
“I sat at his side the whole time, holding up a candle and telling him he’d be all right. Telling him not to be afraid. Telling him to have faith.”
“Do you think he understood you?”
“On some level, yes, I do. And furthermore, I know he’ll understand me now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, when I go to sit beside him while he gets that MRI.”
“He’s…he’s claustrophobic. That’s the point of the story?”
“The point of the story, Hannah Banana, is you girls may have gotten some things from your daddy. Sadie her stubbornness and that sarcastic streak. And you, your independent spirit and that longing to sometimes fly away and leave your troubles behind.”
Hannah folded her arms and tapped her double-knotted sneaker against the carpet backing. “You could have just told me those things outright.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t have made you understand why I have to go to be with your daddy to get him to take the tests he needs.”
“Because his history makes him afraid of closed-in spaces,” she reiterated.
“Listen, child.” A beaded earring clacked quietly as Phiz turned her head and pointed to her ear. “I’m saying that at some points in our lives we are all frightened children who need God’s hands in human form. We need someone we love to remain steadfast beside us no matter what. To hold up the light to show the way.”
Hannah shut her eyes and could almost hear her father calling out to the one person he had trusted all those years ago. “To remind us we are not alone.”
“And to pray,” Phiz whispered.
Hannah opened her eyes and sat up, suddenly aware she’d been leaning on her aunt’s ample shoulder. She took one age-spotted hand in hers and met the loving, time-wizened gaze. “How long will you be gone?”
“Will it really matter to you?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Phiz lumbered upward to her feet. “I’ll leave today. And, Hannah Banana?”
Hannah felt all of five years old again, looking up at her aunt who was about to leave again. “What?”
“When you’re ready, when you’re really ready for my help, you call out. I’ll come back so fast it will make your head spin.”
“Well, I’ll just take that up with Hannah, if you don’t mind.” Cydney’s voice echoed in the stairwell.
“I don’t mind one bit, because I know she will definitely be on my side.” Jacqui could not have been more than a footfall behind.
“That’s not so hot a trick.” Hannah staggered to her feet and gave the carpet one gigantic heave. “Everyday life makes my head spin, Aunt Phiz.”
13
Subject: Nacho Mama’s House column
To: [email protected]
When you’re tired and you can’t sleep—you’re probably at my house.
End of soccer season. Now there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one. Soccer season has no end. It just has brief pauses for the kids to regain their strength. Between indoor and outdoor leagues, and programs provided by the parks department, private clubs—not to mention the school team—a kid could literally play soccer any time but in his sleep.
And listening to the racket coming from my living room, some of them even try to play it then. In their sleep. Or should I say “alleged sleep.” It’s what they’re supposed to be doing, according to the front of the invites we sent out. Come to an End of Soccer Season Sleepover.
Sleepover? Sleepover?
Want to talk oxymoron? I’ll sit and hum quietly to myself while you insert your own moron joke about this new-to-motherhood mom who actually thought when a bunch of eight- and nine-year-old boys showed up at her house with sleeping bags that they intended to crawl in them and catch some Z’s. Yeah, at a sleepover.
No. Nuh-uh. No way. No sleep. No over. At this point it doesn’t feel like it will ever be over.
Other than that…
I’m just sitting here quietly counting my blessings—starting with chocolate and earplugs.
—From Nacho Mama’s House column
“‘Ten little monkeys jumping on the bed.’” Hannah held her finger up and moved it up and down to demonstrate the rhyme for Tessa.
The baby’s head bobbed slightly following along. She sucked her fist.
Teething.
“Let’s look on the bright side, baby girl, at least you picked a night when I hadn’t figured on getting any sleep anyway to cut your first tooth.”
Cries of “Stilton’s turn” and “Go for it, Stilton” rose from the front room sleepover encampment.
“I should go see about that.” Hannah started to push up from the rocker.
“Gross!”
“Ee-uw!”
She fell back down into the seat and set it swaying back and forth again. “Maybe I’ll hold off on that a while.”
She pressed the pad of her thumb to her daughter’s lower lip to steal a peek at her teething progress.
Tessa ground her pink gums together and made a cranky growling sound.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Hannah rubbed her knuckle over the milky white tooth bud just below the swollen surface.
Tessa nestled down deeper into her mother’s arms and let out a shuddering breath.
Hannah kissed her daughter’s temper-fit-dampened red curls and went on with the singsonged tale of monkeys misbehaving. “‘Mama called the doctor and the doctor said—’”
“Hannah, tell those boys to quiet down. I had a long day at work.”
She glared out the door of her daughter’s room, imagining she had some kind of laser vision that would turn the corner and travel along the dark hallway through the keyhole and find her husband lying in the cozy, rumpled bed.
“I love your daddy more than I could ever express, but honestly, Tessa, darling, sometimes he can be such a…a…a man.”
Tessa’s expression soured. She growled again.
“Uh-huh. You tell it like it is, girl.”
“Hannah? Please! Are you going to handle this?”
Deal with it? Tempting. Very tempting to holler back her opinion of him yelling at her to yell at the boys to stop yelling so he could have quiet.
That or she could just resign herself to the inevitable and deal directly with the boys. Either way, voices would get raised with not much chance of reaching the desired result.
She clenched her jaw. She pressed the side of Tessa’s head close, then covered the baby’s delicate exposed ear with one hand.
Tessa drooled down the front of both her and Hannah’s nightgowns.
Deep breath. Time to assert herself. “Let’s show a little consideration, please.”
There. Somebody in this house ought to respond to that.
“Yes, ma’am,” a blend of childish voices chimed back.
Not so much as a peep from Payt.
One shove of her foot set Hannah’s rocking chair in motion again. “He had a long day. Did you hear that, Tessa?”
The baby snuggled close, and Hannah drew in the comforting scent of powder and warm baby’s breath.
“Our day isn’t over yet, is it? Not to mention that we know exactly how long his day was…and why.”
She shut her eyes….
“You’re cool with that, aren’t you, Hannah?” She could picture her husband standing by the front door to his office at precisely twenty-eight minutes past four.
She knew the time practically right down to the last tick of the second hand, because she’d worried that dragging Sam, Tessa and a tub of cleaning supplies into his office, even a few minutes before they locked the doors might embarrass him in front of his patients.
“Um, I suppose—”
“See? She’s cool with it.” Dr. Briggs punched Payt in the arm. Hard.
Payt made a noise—not quite a laugh, not really a cough.
Dr. Briggs barked out a belly laugh. He was taller than Hannah had remembered him. Maybe he’d been sitting those times? But that didn’t explain how she’d missed the jovial expression and soft white wavy hair. He looked like some moon-faced gentle giant straight out of a children’s picture book.
It made it all the more difficult to hang on to her reservations about the man. Until he opened his mouth.
“Tell you what, Bartlett, you got yourself a real jewel there. If my second wife had understood the demands of a doctor’s life the way Hannah does, maybe she’d still be my wife.” He gave Dottie, the office manager, a wink as he pushed past her toward the door.
“If his wife had understood any more about that man’s demands, she’d be his widow.” Dottie raised both hands and made a choking motion in midair, then rolled her eyes.
Payt bent at the knees to put his face low enough to look up into Hannah’s eyes. “You really okay with this?” he asked.
She heard: Do you really want to still be my wife?
“I…I understand, Payt.” Dr. Briggs had made it clear she had no choice.
Listen to yourself! You’re taking someone else’s words and putting them in Payt’s mouth. Don’t turn every innocent comment into a club to beat yourself up with. You always assume the worst.
“That’s not really an answer.” Her husband stroked her cheek. His eyes searched hers, and for a moment she thought maybe he wanted her to tell him not to go.
That only made it harder for her. If she knew what he wanted her to say, she’d say it.
“Just tell me how you feel about this, okay?”
“I feel…silly. It’s silly. Go.” Don’t go.
“Yeah?”
“Have fun.” But not too much fun.
“But I feel so guilty leaving you here to do the cleaning.”
“Why? I said I’d do it until you get the—” she glanced around to make sure no one else could hear “—the scapegoat issue settled. And seeing as how it’s Heather’s birthday—well, how could I object to you going to dinner to show your support?”
Really. How? She wished he would stand right there and tell her word for word how to object, what to say to not sound petty and small, to maintain her dignity and keep her husband at her side.
He slipped his name tag off his shirt pocket and tossed it onto Heather’s desk with the clutter of birthday cards and icing-smeared napkins. “We would have done it at lunch, but these sales reps had something planned for her, and we couldn’t just close up and take off.”
“I know.” She pulled a smile up from someplace in her being. “The demands of a doctor’s life.”
“Thanks for being so—”
Wishy-washy, she wanted to say. Instead she finished for him, “Understanding.”
“I won’t be too late.” He kissed her temple.
“Maybe you already are,” she murmured as she watched him breeze out the door to some restaurant where energetic waiters wrote their names on the tablecloth and peppered the snappy recitation of the specials with their own hyperhappy recommendations. “I could live on the double-stuffed crab cakes with mango salsa!”
Ugh.
Payt went off to double-stuff himself, while she had to stay and clean the staff restroom.
Classic Cinderella syndrome. She’d had it all her life.
But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not a Christian marriage. Not her marriage. She wasn’t supposed to feel neglected, as if she would always come in second place.
Not that it was a new sensation. Second-place sister. She’d felt it all her life whenever someone gushed over the accomplishments of Sadie or April. Hannah, the runner-up. The one they only went to when their first choice had other plans.
She’d felt that way in school, in matters dealing with their daddy and almost every minute of the years she spent working and living in Wileyville while Payt put in his time at the clinic there.
In those places she expected it. But not in her own marriage.
She set the rocker moving again. Eyes open in the dimly lit baby’s room, she let her gaze flit from one familiar object to another, thinking of what it all represented.
All the years of planning and hoping.
All the time invested in creating a home, a relationship, a future.
Everything they had gone through to become a family, and where had she ended up?
Alone.
Excluded. Only for an evening, but still…Her own husband had abandoned her to go celebrate another woman’s birthday, while Hannah stayed to clean up the partygoers’ trash.
In her marriage she expected…
“Honesty,” she whispered. She’d always thought that no matter what else, she and Payt had that. Honesty.
Had she learned differently today?
She hadn’t meant to snoop. No. No one could call it snooping.
She hadn’t gone there on some kind of wifely fact-finding mission, after all. Payt had roped her into cleaning his office.
“It isn’t my fault he hung himself with that rope,” Hannah murmured.
Tessa waved her dripping wet fist in the air, bonking Hannah on the chin.
“Yes. Yes. Right. Too melodramatic.” Hannah laughed, sort of. The she sighed and shook her head. “Get used to it, darling. Your mom has a knack for taking the smallest ambiguous seed of doubt and turning it into a great big jungle garden of anxiety.”
Tessa poked her fingers into her mouth again.
“Your mama never seems too busy to get away for a guilt trip.” Hannah nuzzled her daughter’s warm cheek. “And your daddy…according to the notation on your daddy’s desk calendar, your daddy is going to Miami. In ten days. And he has yet to say a word to me about it.”
Saying it out loud took her breath away. Miami.
“Miami?” Maybe he meant Little Miami River Park? She tried to imagine Payt having a meeting at one of the spots in the park not too far from their home in Loveland. No. It didn’t fit. The word she had seen had nothing to do with the river of the same name. Miami.
Tessa kicked and fussed and kicked some more. She moved her head to a cool dry spot on Hannah’s chest and sighed.
Hannah exhaled with her child. “There’s probably a perfectly sound reason for it. Something we’ll both laugh about when he tells me about it.”
If he told her.
He’d have to tell her.
“I mean, the man can be oblivious, but even he would understand that if he just took off for Florida, I’d notice his absence.”
Tessa yawned.
Hannah yawned, too. “Okay, putting this in perspective, this will all seem much less of a big deal after a good night’s sleep.”
A hushed roar rolled in from th
e boys in the front room, followed by a shower of “shhs” and sundry other shushing sounds.
“I bet your daddy will explain everything to me in the morning.”
Wouldn’t he?
She got to her feet and, patting Tessa on the back, walked to the crib. “‘One little monkey jumping on the bed. He fell off and bumped his head. Mama called the doctor, and the doctor said…’”
14
Subject: Nacho Mama’s House column
To: [email protected]
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Rubbish? Sound a bit harsh?
Come to the toddler and baby rooms of my little church, look long and hard at the aftermath of the DI-why-oh-why-did-I-let-them-talk-me-into-this? Duo’s efforts to fix what they destroyed, and you tell me. I think rubbish might be too kind.
When they heard about my father’s impending tests (Hi, Daddy! Hope someone is reading this to you while you get that open MRI done) and my aunt wanting to go to him, they felt really bad about the way they acted. Bad enough that they promised on the spot to work together tirelessly until they had put everything right. And if you have a sister that you have worked with for two months on a project, only to see it end in paint-shed, well, you know just how sincerely terrible they felt to make that pledge.
And they tried, bless their hearts, they did try. But I think we all learned the hard way that not all of the things you see done on TV home décor shows work in real life. Sewing children’s cast-off sweaters together does not make all that attractive a throw rug—though it did live up to the name. I certainly wanted to throw the thing right out the window. So we’ll get by sans the makeshift replacement for the ugly rug.
As for rescuing the rest of the project?
No matter how much Jacqui and Cydney dabbed and rag-rolled and patched the wallpaper, we finally had to face the facts. Their well-intentioned redo would simply have to be redone.
So here I am spending my Saturday at the church, stripping wallpaper and trying to sink Noah’s Ark (aka the mural of a gray, shoe-shaped boat populated by green and blue and pink animals with enormous toothy smiles). The man at the paint store recommended I first use something to “kill” the clash of color instead of doing multiple coats.