Sunflowers

by Melodie Starkey

  “Hey, Mr. Moore.”

  “Can you guys help me? We need to lift him without moving him too much.”

  “Oh, sure. I learned this in my lifesaving class, man. For like back injury people, right?” one of the boys said.

  “Exactly. Let’s try to get him on the blanket, then lift him into the car. He’s real heavy.” Gus turned to Sam. “You get in first. You keep telling him it’s okay while we put him in there, okay?” He set the boy into the vehicle, then turned to help the others maneuver the patient onto the quilt.

  “You need us to come with you?” the boys offered.

  “Aren’t you babysitting?” he reminded Jordan’s brother.

  The boy grimaced.

  “Look, could you two come? Craig, can you run on back to my house? I left a fire untended.”

  “Oh. Sure. Okay!”

  “You can use the XBox. Leave the computer alone.”

  “Cool! Good luck!”

  He started to drive away when two police cars pulled into his path. Craig ran over and explained the situation to them with lots of gesturing, and one of the officers came over. “How’s he look?” he asked quietly.

  “We really need to go.”

  “Which vet? I’ll escort you.”

  Chapter 7

  It was after nine by the time they got home. Craig was still there, although the fire had died out. A pizza box and five empty Coke cans were on the table in front of the TV. “How is he?”

  “Not life threatening. Pretty serious damage to his left hip and side. They’ve got him sedated to restrict his movement until they can do surgery.”

  “Poor guy. Hey, where’s the others?”

  “I called them a cab a few hours ago. They were probably looking for you at your house.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Craig grinned sheepishly. “Speakin’ of lookin’—that lady kept saying she had to wait for you to get back. They finally slipped her a mickey and put her in an ambulance. I got a copy of the police report for you.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “I’ll be going, then. Unless you’d like to adopt me…”

  Gus laughed and punched his shoulder gently. “See you later.”

  As he walked past, Craig ruffled Sam’s hair. “Gonna be just fine, little buddy.”

  Gus had almost fallen asleep when a sudden added weight on the bed jarred him awake. He reached out and petted Sam’s head, then helped him under the covers. They cuddled for awhile, then Sam whispered, “Frodo can’t die.”

  “The doctor said he’s going to be okay. He just needs his leg fixed. Just like you.”

  “Me?”

  “When you were a little baby, your leg got hurt, and you had to have an operation on it. That’s why you have those scars. But now you’re just fine, right?”

  “Oh.” He contemplated this, then asked, “Was I playin’ in the street?”

  “No. You were just a tiny baby. I’m not sure how you hurt it. You were with your mother. Maybe you fell.”

  Sam sat up. “I got a mother?”

  “Everyone has a mother. It’s the only way you can be born. Same goes for a father. Takes both.”

  “Where is she? How come she’s not here?”

  “Because we didn’t get along. We argued all the time and made each other very miserable.”

  “How come I live with you? How come I never seen her?”

  “I was in a better situation to take care of a baby, since I work at home and make enough money and all. Her job took lots of working late. I don’t know where she lives now. She never liked Chicago—never liked the cold. She always wanted to go to Florida.”

  “Like Mickey Mouse?”

  “Right.”

  “Do you think she misses me?”

  “Maybe. Maybe more like regrets.”

  “Do you think maybe I got a brother?”

  “No. I doubt that. Some people are just not meant to be parents.”

  “Is she evil?”

  Gus smiled. Evil sounded pretty close to right. “No. Just sort of spoiled. Not very patient. You have to be patient when you’re a parent. You never know when someone might wake you up in the middle of the night for a nice long chat.”

  “Daddy!” Sam giggled and fell onto his chest. “I’m glad you got me.”

  “I’m glad I got you, too. Go to sleep.”

  Chapter 8

  He hoped that was the end of it, but the next evening as he helped Sam out of the bathtub, the boy suddenly stopped to examine the scar on his thigh, then asked, “Do you got a pitcher of my mommy? Is she pretty?”

  “She’s very beautiful. I don’t know if I have pictures or not. I’ll look around.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Maureen.”

  “Frankie’s mom and dad are gettin’ a dedorce. Is that what you done?”

  “Divorce. That happens to lots of families, unfortunately.”

  “Emily said her family done that but then she got a new daddy. What if we get a new mommy?”

  “Mm. I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? Don’t you like mommies?”

  “I like them fine. But not to marry. You know how I like staying up all night and not getting dressed in the summer and drinking out of the milk bottle—things like that? Women don’t like those things. Makes ‘em really crabby.”

  “I don’t do them stuff.”

  “Oh, so this is all about you, huh? Well, moms don’t like farting in the bathtub for starters.”

  Sam giggled.

  “And no blowing bubbles in your milk until it spills on the table. No drawing tattoos on yourself. No collecting worms in your dresser drawer. No mud fights. No ice cream for breakfast…”

  “Okay! Okay! No moms!”

  After Sam was asleep, Gus started going through the filing cabinet in his study, making piles of ancient utility bill stubs and bank statements and correspondence with his agent. At last he found what he had suspected he still had: photo envelopes from the first summer he and Maureen were together, when he had taken her to Germany for three weeks. She was so damn beautiful! And she was so in love with him at first. He knew it was mutual; it was just so hard to imagine now, because the idea was clouded by his newer hate. Still, she had been so fun and affectionate, and so amazing sexually—that part at least had never changed.

  Then he thought of her trial: the attorney twisting everything around so she was the victim, first of him for so coldly throwing her out when she got pregnant (somehow they implied the pregnancy was why even though he hadn’t known), then the victim of the abusive boyfriend who had actually broken the baby’s leg and frightened her into not getting it fixed. And ultimately she was, in this version, the hero, keeping the boyfriend from hurting the baby further by promising to get rid of him as soon as he seemed better from the leg injury. All very convincing, and the jury was beginning to look sympathetic, until a few other witnesses agreed that well, no, the boyfriend was out of town when the baby got hurt. And he had actually wanted to take the baby to the hospital as soon as he saw the problem; had only backed down when she promised to give the child to his father for safe keeping. As a matter of fact, he had taken time off of work to tend to the injured baby, afraid his pained crying might make her hurt him more.

  She was sentenced to anger management classes and 18 months probation. Probably long gone by now. She had never attempted to contact him again, even through her family members. Once, not long after the trial, the boyfriend had stopped by to make sure Sam was okay and to apologize for not doing more. Gus could tell he wasn’t a bad person—just another of Maureen’s casualties.

  He sighed and shuffled through the pictures again. They had had so much fun in the beginning. He should never have asked her to move in; never expected her to adapt to his strange hours and lax cleaning practices. Ironically, since she had dumped Sam on him, he had suddenly become a rather fastidious housekeeper, and only occasionally spent entire nights in front of the computer—everything she had asked of him an
d he had so resented.

  He picked out a half dozen pictures where she was fully clothed to give to Sam, and tucked the rest away again.

  Chapter 9

  As they sat down to breakfast he debated it: should he show Sam the pictures now and send him off to school to make it seem like no big deal, or wait until this afternoon when they could talk it over some more? He decided to get it over with.

  “Hey Squirt, I found these for you.” He handed over the pictures.

  Sam studied them solemnly, then laid them down. “She’s real pretty.”

  “Yes.”

  “She don’t look like a mom.”

  “Oh? What does a mom look like?”

  Sam shrugged, and started forking in his eggs again.

  “Do you want these?” Gus asked, pointing to the pictures.

  He shrugged again. “Okay.”

  As Gus was clearing the table, Sam got up and started out with the pictures. He paused in the doorway. “Real moms look softer. So you can hug ‘em.”

  Gus crossed and lifted the boy into his arms. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to hug me and Frodo still.”

  “Can we go see him?”

  “I’ll check with the doctor while you’re at school. Run get your coat now.”

  Chapter 10

  The doorbell rang, breaking his concentration. He glanced at the computer time display, surprised that it was nearly noon. Sam would be home shortly. He saved his work, then headed to the front door, curious to see a white Impala in the driveway. Opening the door, he was even more surprised to see the woman who had hit Frodo on the porch.

  “I’m sorry…” she said softly.

  “Come in. You look terrible.” Her forehead and left eye were swollen and purple, with stitches across the bridge of her nose and into her eyebrow.

  “Yeah. I was leaning—hit the steering wheel. I… How is he—your dog?”

  “Still at the vet. But she says he’ll be fine. We’re going to visit him this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Good. I’m glad he’s okay. I’m so sorry…”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I can’t stop thinking it could have been one of those little boys instead. I could’ve hit one of those little boys.”

  She looked ready to collapse. Gus took her arm and steered her toward the couch. “But you didn’t. We all just need to be grateful for that, okay? Sit. Can I take your coat?”

  “Huh? Oh. I didn’t mean to stay…”

  “I think you need to sit for a bit. Enjoy the fire. Let me get you some tea, all right?”

  She nodded, wiping quickly at her eyes, revealing that her right hand was in a cast.

  When he returned with a tray of tea things and gingerbread, she was standing in front of the fire, examining the framed photos on the mantel. “He’s a lovely child. What’s his name?”

  “Sam. I’m Gus.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m Sarah. Sarah Wexler.” She extended her hand to shake, then looked at her cast and withdrew it.

  He grinned then. “Sit down. Try my gingerbread.”

  She smiled timidly and lowered herself into a chair, then gestured the teapot. “Oat straw?”

  He laughed. “Just Earl Grey. But next time, I promise.”

  “Your home is so cozy. Feels like it should be in the woods or on the beach, not the Chicago suburbs.”

  “Thanks. I’ve thought about moving, but Sam needs easily accessible friends. Can’t beat the suburbs for that.”

  “Were you raised here?”

  “Not in the suburbs, no. In the city. South side. My dad was a plumber. How ‘bout you?”

  “I’m Canadian, actually. But I came to the States for college and just stayed. I teach at the university.”

  “Which one?”

  “UIC. Downtown. Psychology.”

  “Really? I went to Northwestern myself. Computer geek. Math major.”

  “No way! You don’t even wear thick glasses.”

  “Very fussy about my monitor. It’s the most expensive part of my computer. That’s my livelihood—independent computer programming. Lets me stay home with Sam and still get paid well.”

  “That’s great!” She sampled the cake and nodded. “This is delicious. You do all the cooking?”

  “Yeah. Sam’s not too good at measuring, and Frodo leaves hair in everything.”

  She blushed. “I wasn’t prying. Trying to pry.”

  “We haven’t seen her since he was an infant. Doubt we ever will.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m going to start charging you a dollar every time you say that. Are you married?”

  She shook her head. “My green card’s good. Don’t need to get desperate yet.”

  He chuckled at this, twisting some lemon into his tea, then sipping it.

  The front door banged open, and Sam charged in, shouting, “It’s me!”

  “Would have been my first guess,” Gus commented, then called, “In here.”

  Sam dashed into the room, shedding his outerwear on the way, then stopped frozen when he saw her.

  “Sam, this is Sarah. She came to…”

  “You runned over Frodo! You’re that lady what runned over Frodo! You coulda kilt him! He’s my best friend and you runned over him!” the boy snarled.

  She stood quickly, fumbling for her coat as tears poured down her cheeks. Mumbling, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” several times, she scurried out of the house.

  Gus knelt in front of Sam, trying to calm him down. When the door closed, he told the child, “Stay here!” and ran after her. He caught up with her in the driveway, stopping her car door as she was about to pull it closed. He reached in, gently brushing the tears from one cheek. “Don’t drive away from here upset like this.”

  She sobbed once, covering her mouth with her hand, then leaned over to look in the glove box. “Damn rental cars. Don’t they ever stock Kleenex?”

  He pulled out his hankie. “Clean, I promise. I only carry them because I never know when I might need to make a tourniquet or a blind fold.”

  She smiled damply. “Thank you. I wish I’d met you… Go inside. You don’t have any shoes on.”

  But he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop looking at her: at her long, soft, light brown hair, her delicate frame, her friendly, open smile, even her lovely hazel eyes hiding in the bruises. His pulse was suddenly fluttering. Nonsense. This was nonsense. This was feeling too vulnerable after digging up the ghost of Maureen last night, and feeling so lonely after six years of no adult companionship. That was all.

  “Gus?” She was frowning questioningly at him.

  “Please come back again.”

  “Come back?”

  “Please? Can you?”

  She touched his hand tenderly, then murmured, “Go inside now.”

  When he stood back, she shut the car door and slipped on her sunglasses, then drove off slowly with a small wave.

  He watched until she turned the corner, then rushed into the house, his bare feet burning from the cold. He told himself the tears on his cheeks were from the weather as he roughly pushed them away. Sam wasn’t where he had left him. “Buddy?” He glanced into the kitchen, then headed down the hall, finding him in the master bedroom, curled in a ball on the bed, weeping. He eased back the covers and lay down too, pulling the child into his arms, then bundling the covers around both of them and adding his own crying to the chorus.

  Eventually they both became silent, Sam sliding his thumb in his mouth and Gus absently toying with the boy’s hair. Wow, where had that come from? Since getting his son six years earlier he had been so involved in raising him that he hadn’t allowed himself a moment to feel any emptiness in his own life. And now he had developed a sink hole in place of his heart.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at that lady,” Sam suddenly mumbled.

  Gus hugged him tightly and kissed him before saying, “It’s okay. I know how worried you are. But it really wasn’t her fault. Just an accident, okay?”

  �
��I shouldna let him run in the street. He don’t know better.”

  “Yeah. Maybe future snowball fights should be in yards next to each other instead of across the street, okay?”

  “I don’t wanna have no more snowball fights.”

  “Frodo loves snowball fights. He might have to sit them out for this year, but I know he’ll want to get back in the action next year.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Hey, you want to go see him?”

  “Yes!” Sam jumped up.

  “We need to eat first.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “McDonalds?”

  “Cheeseburger!” Sam clapped his hands.

  Gus sat up and pulled him into his arms again. “I love you so much!”

  Chapter 11

  Dr. Welsch gave Sam a talk about not getting Frodo too excited, but also told him she had heard what a great job he did at keeping the dog calm after the accident. “I’m very proud of you. Maybe when you’re older you can come be my assistant, okay?”

  Sam nodded. “I’ll be six in October.”

  She smiled and petted his heavy mop of brown hair. “Let’s shoot for about fifteen, all right?”

  “I might be president by then.”

  “I see. Well, if you’re not too busy.” She glanced at Gus, who was grinning. “Let’s go see the big guy.” She led them back to the large kennel, where Frodo was lying on his comforter from home, looking despondent.

  “Oh, Fro,” Sam whispered. The giant head came up, alert.

  “Don’t make him try to stand.”

  “Stay, boy. I’m comin.’ You stay.” Sam slipped into the cage and ran forward to lie down next to the dog, burying his face in the hairy neck. Frodo whined slightly, then proceeded to give Sam a thorough cleaning.

  “When can he come home?” Gus asked.

  “Let me keep him another week. I want to see how he adapts to walking with a cast. Make sure his circulation is good. Let’s shoot for next Friday.”

  The boy and dog both groaned at this news.

  “You can come see him as much as you want to. Does he have any favorite chew toys?”