It was because of that guilt that I had absolutely no problem running into town to pick Ana up “something nice”—my mama’s words—for her birthday while Mama finished getting ready. It was the least I could do after being the world’s biggest jackass.
It was a nice enough evening that Mama and I walked over to the Maxwells’, using the beaten path that connected our properties. I didn’t see Ana when we arrived, and I wondered if she even wanted to have a birthday dinner.
I doubted I would if it was my mother that was dying. But I also understood Marly’s reasoning for wanting to give Ana something to be happy about.
“Ben, honey,” Marly sighed in relief when I walked into the kitchen. “Would you be a dear, and help Joe get Caroline settled? He’s having a time trying to do it himself, and she don’t want the kids to see her struggle.”
“No problem,” I agreed. “Where are they?”
Mama jumped in to assist with what remained of the dinner preparations, while Marly directed me toward the back of the house. There, in a small room off the living room, I found Joe with Ana’s mother tucked against his side as they shuffled across the wooden floor. I quickly moved to her other side, and took some of her weight—what little there was left.
Together, Joe and I managed to move her to the kitchen and into a seat at the table. Though the process took little effort on our part, it left Caroline pale and breathless. I feared her time was coming much faster than anyone was prepared for, least of all Ana and Jeffrey.
At Caroline’s insistence, attention was placed solely on Ana once she arrived. Ana’s favorite meal—Marly’s infamous Italian sausage lasagna—and a large helping of birthday cake nearly put me into a carbohydrate-induced coma by the time gifts were brought out.
Mama’s pointy elbow to my ribs reminded me to go collect Ana’s gift from where I’d left it outside. It wasn’t wrapped—since a fishing pole couldn’t exactly be wrapped—and her eyes lit up when she saw me approach with it in my hands.
Her gaze darted to my mama, who shook her head sheepishly from her seat, before settling on me. It was easy to guess which one of us had picked it out. Not like Mama equated a fishing pole with “something nice.” Only I got the significance of the fishing pole, and I figured Ana would like it.
Gauging from her reaction, I was right.
My suspicions were confirmed several minutes later. After helping Joe walk Caroline back to her room to rest, I returned to the kitchen to find Ana and the fishing pole gone. Mama and Marly chatted while they washed and dried the dishes, and Jeffrey had already retreated to his room.
I let myself out, grabbed the spare pole I had brought for myself and the container of worms I’d managed to dig up earlier, and headed toward the creek. I found her exactly where I expected to find her. With her back to me, and her long blonde waves stirring in the light breeze, she cast the line into the water with a soft plop.
“Whatcha using for bait?” I called out to her.
She didn’t flinch, almost as if she’d expected me to join her. Maybe she’d seen my fishing pole, and assumed I’d be along eventually? Maybe she’d heard me walking up on her? Whatever the reason, I enjoyed the fact that she didn’t seem to mind my company.
The rocks at her feet would certainly make good weapons, but she chose not to launch them at my head. Instead she glanced over her shoulder, and unfurled her hand to show me the balled up bread roll she must have snagged from the table.
I pulled an impressed face. “Going for the big, hungry ones, huh?”
She shrugged. “It was all I had.”
I climbed down the gently sloped bank to join her, and produced the container of worms.
Her eyes darted to mine before shifting toward the creek. “You came prepared.”
“Nah. But I hoped.”
In the silence that followed, I hooked a worm. After placing a few feet between us, I cast my line. With nothing but the sound of water lapping at the bank around us, and the sun fading on the horizon, the dusk was peaceful. I almost hated to ruin it with conversation.
“I did a lot of fishing after my dad died,” I eventually offered.
“You did a lot of fishing before your dad died,” she countered.
“True,” I admitted. “But you weren’t here to see how much more fishing I did after.”
She nodded silently, focusing her attention on the line when something nibbled on her bait. When the fish didn’t take it, we both started talking at the same time.
“Why didn’t you ever come back?”
“What happened to your dad?”
We shared amused glances, and I took the lead, because I suspected my answer was easier than hers. That and I wanted to get it out of the way so I didn’t have to talk about my father more than I had to.
“Liver failure,” I answered simply. She nodded, and I added, “Your turn.”
“Mama and Pop had a disagreement,” she responded with a shrug. “When did your dad die?”
“It’ll be four years this summer.”
I watched her face as the puzzle pieces fell into place. “We didn’t come back that year.” Though she hadn’t necessarily asked a question, I shook my head in response, and she added, “I’m sorry.”
“Wasn’t your fault.” I shrugged it off. “What was the disagreement about?”
“No idea.” She reeled in her line to find her bread bait gone. With a scoff, she knelt down to pluck a worm from the container.
I watched intently as she wrestled it onto her hook, expecting her to squeal, or squirm, or react to the slimy creature in some girly way. Nothing. Not even a flinch before she rose to a stand and cast her line. With her eyes on the water, she missed the impressed grin on my face.
Not that I was surprised she knew how to hook a worm. I was the one that had taught her how to do it, after all. I was, however, surprised that she hadn’t adapted the way of thinking most other girls around here had—that touching worms was gross, and only for boys.
“Is that why you got me this pole?” she asked softly after a moment. “Because of my mama?”
I nodded, but avoided eye contact. For the first time, I worried that she might take the gesture the wrong way. That she might respond to it with resentment or anger. Each second of silence that dragged out between us tightened my shoulders another notch.
She relieved my concern with a sigh that sounded a little like gratitude. “I like it,” she finally admitted softly.
I stole a glance while she reeled her line in. Worm was gone, taken by a sneaky little nibbler. As was probably the case with mine, since I seemed to have momentarily forgotten how to fish.
“Doesn’t seem to be anything biting tonight,” I offered when she bent down to snatch another worm.
“Yeah, but that’s what makes me want to keep trying.” Worm hooked, she stood and pinned me with a look impossible to decipher. The shadows hiding most of her face certainly didn’t help, but I clearly saw a determined gleam in her eyes that I suspected wasn’t entirely spurred by her desire to catch a fish.
Something drove this girl. Despite all the cards stacked against her, she still had hope.
Hope in something, because damned if I knew what sparked that look in her eyes. I didn’t have a guess.
Peaceful moments of silence passed, both of us casting and reeling our lines at regular intervals. Both of us in our own heads with our own thoughts, and not a single bite from a fish. Not that it mattered. Tonight, fishing wasn’t about the fish.
“I remembered.” Her quiet voice broke the silence, so softly I wasn’t entirely sure I’d heard her. Then a little louder, she added, “Just so you know, I did remember.”
“Remember what?”
“The treehouse. My birthday.”
“Ah . . .” I grinned. “That.”
“Yeah . . . that.”
I heard the repressed smile in her voice, and it dawned on me that, in the month she had been here, I hadn’t actually seen her smile. Not a real one. No
t even close. Now, I desperately wanted to.
“Good to know,” I said. “You had me a little worried that I wasn’t a good kisser.”
“I never said you were,” she fired back.
A quick glance confirmed the faintest dent at the corner of her mouth. Not enough of a smile to make me completely happy, but good enough for now.
“I was only thirteen,” I defended quickly. “I’ve gotten a lot better since then.”
She silently reeled her line in, focusing on her actions with a little more intensity than was required for the simple task. Eventually, she muttered, “If you say so.”
“I don’t say so. The girls do.” Now it was my turn to reel in my line while ignoring her eyes as she sized me up. I needed to shut up. I needed to change the subject fast. What had I been thinking, bringing it up?
No. She had brought it up. Not me. But I needed to steer us back in the direction of something safe. School. Baseball. Birthday. Dinner. Anything but kissing.
“Ben!”
Mama called for me from the path, effectively saving me from having to pull off the most obvious and awkward change in subject ever. I nearly sighed in relief.
“Down here!” I shouted.
She popped up on the bank behind us, and surveyed the situation in one motherly sweep of her gaze. Apparently, the five feet separating me from Ana wasn’t enough for her satisfaction, because she pinned me with the look. The “sitting in church and trying not to laugh at something stupid my brother just whispered to me” kind of look I used to get a lot of. I hadn’t gotten that look in a while, but I clearly recognized it now.
“Ben, we’re leaving. Ana, honey . . .” She redirected her attention to Ana, and suddenly her voice dripped of sweetness. “Marly wants you to head home now.”
Despite the disappointed frown on her face, Ana didn’t argue. Pick up was quick and painless, considering what little we had with us. Good-byes were noticeably awkward, and I wondered if Ana noticed the silent disapproval radiating from my mama. She was coiled tight beside me, straining to voice her opinion as we waited for Ana to reach the other side of the barn. Once Ana was out of sight, we turned for home.
I knew what was coming, and I didn’t have to wait long to hear it.
“Ben . . .”
“Don’t start, Mama,” I groaned.
“What’s going on between you and Ana?” That was my mama—straight to the point.
“Nothing is going on,” I chuckled.
“Ben.” She grabbed my elbow to halt my march home. Looking me straight in the eye, she said, “You got her a fishing pole.”
I hesitated, not seeing the connection. Not like I’d gotten her a diamond-studded fishing pole, or one with line made of gold. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“You knew it would mean something to her.”
Actually, I had only hoped it would. I had no idea how much she’d like it until I saw her face, but I didn’t think that explanation would dig me out of whatever hole I’d inadvertently put myself into with my mother. I still wasn’t entirely sure what she was so upset about.
“Just be careful, Ben.” She released my arm, but I stood glued to the ground under her knowing stare. “For her sake, please be careful.”
Two days after my birthday, I was woken up by someone shaking my arm. Drifting out of sleep and into a dazed state of awareness, I noted the faint hint of daylight seeping through my window.
Dawn. Early. Too early to have missed my chores. What could Ma possibly be waking me for? Or Jeffrey. What could possibly have him up this early?
“Ana . . .” Ma’s soft voice pulled me closer to the surface. I blinked away the lingering clutches of sleep, and focused on her face. My heart sank at the sight of her bloodshot, swollen eyes. “It’s time, Ana. Come say good-bye to your mama.”
I thought I had been prepared. I’d known for three months that this moment was coming. We’d had many, many discussions about it before the move. We’d had paperwork drawn up and signed, questions asked and answered, and arrangements made. I’d said many good-byes to my mother over the weeks, never knowing when it might be the last time I saw her. None of that had prepared me for the real thing.
She looked like she was sleeping. Aside from the erratic lifting of her chest with each difficult breath she took, she looked fine. I didn’t see someone who was dying until her eyes slit open, and I saw the fatigue and reservation in them. She may have been breathing, but my mama was already gone. She had stopped fighting.
With a barely detectible nod of her head, she ushered me forward. I perched on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her, or touch her, in any way that might hurt her. Beside me, Jeffrey sat, unmoving in a hard, wooden chair.
“Be happy.” The raspy voice of my mama pulled my gaze away from my brother. I nodded along as she continued slowly. “Find love. Have the life you should have had all along, the life I should have . . .”
I placed my hand on hers when she choked up. “It’s okay, Mama. My life—”
“You deserve more. Be careful . . . who you give your heart to . . .”
Her eyes drifted shut under the weight of fatigue, and I held my breath as I watched her chest rise and fall. Behind me, Pop shifted closer to the bed. Waiting.
We all waited. Finally, Mama’s eyes opened, but I wasn’t convinced she saw me.
“Not a soldier, Ana,” she whispered. “Not like me.”
“Our father?” My eyes darted to Jeffrey as he leaned forward, elbows on knees and an unspoken question on his face.
“Nothing but pain . . .”
After that, Mama fell silent. I stood beside Jeffrey while Ma took my place and tended to Mama. The hours that passed felt like days. The final hour felt like a hundred years until Mama took her last breath. The minutes afterward passed in silence, each of us watching and waiting for her chest to rise again. Finally, Ma’s head bowed and I took that as the answer to the question I was too afraid to ask.
Mama was gone.
Jeffery’s sweaty hand slipped free of mine, and he retreated until his back hit the wall. He stood alarmingly still, staring at the motionless body of our mother, as a single tear streamed down his face. I took a step toward him, snapping him out of his trance. With a shake of his head, he turned and stomped out of the room.
“Jeffrey?” Ma started to go after him, until my hand on her arm stopped her.
“He’ll be fine,” I assured her. I knew my brother. He would prefer to be left alone right now. He would be fine, eventually. As would I.
But I, too, needed to escape. Didn’t matter where. Anywhere was better than this room.
My escape turned out to be the barn. I didn’t realize where I had ended up until my knees hit the floor in front of the box full of pictures. I didn’t realize what I was doing until my fingers grasped the weathered photograph of my mother and the mystery man.
My father. He had to be. A soldier, like she’d sort of warned me about. Not the travelling musician as she’d once told me as a child. A soldier.
But what had happened to him? Where was he now? Was he even alive?
Or was I truly an orphan?
With the picture in my hand, I marched out of the barn, tossing up dry dirt behind me on my way to the house. I found Ma and Pop in the kitchen, papers strewn on the counter in front of them, and the phone pressed to Pop’s ear.
He took one look at my face and muttered, “Henry, I’ll have to call you back.”
The moment Pop hung up, I shoved the picture under my grandparents’ noses. “Who is this?” The two shared a quick glance, and I knew my intuition was right. “He’s my father, isn’t he?”
“Ana . . .” Pop approached me with an outstretched hand, and I backed away from him.
“Is this our father?” I repeated. “Mine and Jeffrey’s. Is this him?”
“You don’t—”
“I have a right to know,” I interrupted Pop. “Tell me.”
“Yes,” Ma answered. “He
’s your father, but Ana—”
“Where is he? Is he alive?”
“We don’t know.” My head swiveled toward Pop as he stepped closer. “We haven’t heard from him since shortly after Jeffrey was born.”
“What about Mama?”
Ma shook her head, and Pop answered, “We don’t know when she last heard from him.”
“She never wanted to talk about him,” Ma added quietly.
My gaze bounced between my grandparents suspiciously. Something felt off. They were keeping something from me, I was sure of it. I just didn’t have a guess what that could be.
All I knew was that this was the closest I had come to finding anything out about my father. Everything up until now had been a lie. Getting a taste of the truth made me crave more.
My grandparents knew more than they were sharing. All I had to do was find out what they knew.
I waited until I heard the door to Ma and Pop’s bedroom shut. The clock beside my bed read 10:23. I was exhausted—mentally, physically, and emotionally. My bed had been calling to me for the past two hours, but I had bigger, more important things to do than sleep.
I’d already learned which floorboards groaned under my weight, and skillfully avoided them on my way downstairs. Pop’s small office was accessible through a squeaky door that opened up from the back wall of the living room.
Once inside, I shut the door behind me to block the light from his small tabletop lamp. I started with the top of the desk and worked my way down, opening every drawer and leafing through every piece of paper I found.
I sorted through files and files of tax information, rights to the property and farmhouse, and mountains of receipts, but nothing that stood out to me. My mother’s will didn’t mention anyone by the name of Robert anywhere, and I did look through all ten pages of the strangely worded document.
The clock on the wall read 12:14 when I opened the final drawer. Stifling a yawn, I removed a folder that contained an assortment of obituary notices, paper clippings, and correspondence. Though I didn’t have much hope at this point, I leafed through everything with blurry, tired eyes.
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