Every Day After

by Laura Golden

  They looked like Mama’s—golden brown with a shiny butter top. Daddy grabbed one and bit. The biscuit bit back. It was hard as a rock. They all were. You could’ve hammered nails with them.

  Mama let me practice a lot after that, and I’d gotten much better at biscuits over the last four years. Now I was careful not to overmix or add so much flour. They usually came out like Mama’s. Sometimes better.

  Mr. Cooper had just finished his third biscuit with Mrs. Martin’s pear preserves when Mrs. Sawyer came huffing around the side of the house. True to her word, both Sheriff Dawson and Dr. Heimler were tagging along behind her.

  Dr. Heimler came onto the porch and narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s this Mrs. Sawyer’s telling me about your mother, Lizzie? Because from what I’m hearing, she’s far worse than you let on. Why didn’t you come get me? I left a note on the door.”

  My stomach did a backflip inside me, and every inch of my body went tingly. To save my life I couldn’t think what I was supposed to say. I glanced at Erin. She had that look. The same one she’d had at school the day after the Myra Robinson incident. The same one she always had anytime she was on the verge of making somebody pay—her nostrils flared at the sides, one corner of her mouth turned upward in a sneer. Well, I wasn’t about to let her see how scared I was. They could cart me off and leave me for dead and I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing one bead of sweat or one single tear coming out of me.

  Dr. Heimler shifted his weight. “I’m guessing you don’t have a proper answer for me, then.” He walked past me and went up to Mama.

  “Now you see, Doctor,” said Mrs. Sawyer, wagging her finger at Mama. “I told you she was bad.”

  Erin still hadn’t said a word. I reckon there wasn’t any need. She’d already put all the ingredients for trouble into the pot and stirred it, now all she had to do was enjoy watching it boil over.

  Dr. Heimler patted Mama’s hand and talked softly to her, but he didn’t get in her face the way Mr. Cooper had. He didn’t do much else besides take her pulse and flash a little light in her eyes.

  “Well?” said Mrs. Sawyer. “What’s to be done?”

  “I need to think it over,” said Dr. Heimler. “I don’t want to make her worse.”

  “What about the girl? It’s unthinkable to leave her here with no father, a mother in that condition, and the bank about to take their house. She has to go somewhere. Sheriff Dawson, did you do as I asked and call over to Brightside? That’s the only reasonable option.”

  The sheriff stepped forward and removed his hat. “Yes’m. They said they had room. But what if we were to—”

  “Were to what? Leave her here to her own devices? I should think not!”

  Sheriff Dawson stepped back and stared down at the ground. He was bigger than two Mrs. Sawyers put together and wearing a sheriff’s badge, to boot, but the way he was acting you’d think he was neither sizable nor sheriff.

  Dr. Heimler spoke up. “Why don’t you keep an eye on Lizzie, Mrs. Sawyer? Just until I’ve examined Mrs. Hawkins’s condition more thoroughly.”

  Mrs. Sawyer reeled at that. She put her hand over her heart like she might die of shock at the mention of such a thing. “I should think not, Doctor. Lizzie terrorized Erin quite enough in school. And you should’ve heard the way she was speaking to me before we came for you. No, sir. I simply could not tolerate such an ill-behaved child in my house.” She turned to me and grabbed hold of my arm. “Get your things together, Elizabeth Hawkins. You can’t stay with me, but you’re not staying here, either. Not while I’m still breathing.”

  “But what about Mama?” I jerked away from her grip and started toward Mama.

  She grabbed me again, this time by the back of my shirt, and spun me around. “Oh, no you don’t. You get to packing whatever you’re planning to take. Dr. Heimler will take care of your mama.”

  Dr. Heimler didn’t say anything. He only nodded. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I wanted to ask, but I was too afraid of the answer. An answer I couldn’t change no matter how badly I wanted to.

  Mrs. Sawyer marched me back to my room. On my way I peeked one last time into Mama’s. I made sure to keep it spotless. Nothing was out of place. The bed was so precisely made it looked as though it’d never been slept in. Even the homemade feather mattress atop the store-bought cotton one had been fluffed and smoothed to perfection. Mama would’ve done it that way if she could, but she couldn’t, so I did it for her.

  My room wasn’t so lucky. My bed remained unmade, a wrinkled pile of blanket and quilt, topped off with a crooked, crumpled pillow. Books and papers were scattered about the room while my bookcase stood empty. For some reason, I could keep the entire house spotless, except for my room.

  Mrs. Sawyer clucked her tongue at the sight. “I was right. You most certainly cannot stay here and live in a mess like this.”

  She’d failed to notice that the rest of the house was perfectly clean. I dug through the mess, gathering the belongings I wanted to take, and pretended not to hear her. I wanted to pack up my entire room—walls, bed, and all—and take it with me. The trouble was in fitting it all into my suitcase. I finally settled on two changes of clothes, a blanket, the slingshot Ben had given me, and my journal. I stacked them into my suitcase, and Mrs. Sawyer escorted me outside.

  “Can’t I say good-bye to Mama?”

  “Lord, no. We’ll never get you away from her if you start all that. I think it’s better for everyone if you just go on with the sheriff.”

  Better for everyone? Who was “everyone”? I was pretty sure it wasn’t Mama or me. I could feel my chin tensing. Don’t let them see you cry. Don’t let them. The words rolled through my head.

  Sheriff Dawson helped me into the backseat of his car. He was about to close the door when Erin came running up behind him.

  “Would you excuse us, please, Sheriff?” she asked.

  The sheriff nodded and went to settle in the driver’s seat.

  For the first time since she’d come back, Erin spoke to me. “I’m sorry this is happening to you, Lizzie,” she whispered. “But that’s life. Only some people get what they want, and right now I’m one of those people.”

  Erin slammed the car door in my face before I had the chance to reply. She and Mrs. Sawyer turned to go inside—inside my house, to look down on my mama. My arms and legs ached to run and punch and fight, but I could only watch as our house shrank smaller and smaller and finally disappeared from view.

  Eighteen

  ’Tis Perseverance That Prevails

  Poor Mama. I’d failed her. I’d let Erin win. Wasn’t any doubt about it now. My chin again began to tremble, and this time there wasn’t any stopping it. Salty tears streamed down my cheeks. Sheriff Dawson glanced back at me through the rearview mirror.

  “I hate doin’ this to ya, Lizzie,” he said. “If there was a soul alive to look after you, I wouldn’t. But as things is, I just ain’t got a choice.”

  I didn’t say anything back. I wasn’t about to tell him it was all right for him to be dropping me off with strangers and leaving my mama alone with a doctor who’d send her off to heaven-knows-where. It wasn’t all right. But since he was a nice man in all other respects, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings either. I’d known even before he said it that he didn’t really want to take me away. He just didn’t know how to stand up to certain people. “Certain people” being Mrs. Sawyer.

  I couldn’t bear watching Sheriff Dawson’s big eyes looking back at me, so I opened my suitcase and pulled out my journal. The car bounced through a hole and the cover fell open. This time I didn’t look away from that first entry. I read.

  March 30, 1932

  It was cold this morning—too cold for late March. Still, I jumped up just the same as always, and ran into the kitchen expecting to hear: Lizzie, I’m not going to tell you one more time to quit running through this house. But Mama didn’t say it. Instead, I found her slumped over the kitchen table, her head in her hands.
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  “What’s wrong, Mama?” I asked, patting her jerking back.

  Her soft sniffles erupted into sobs. She stood without looking at me, staggered onto the back porch, and collapsed into the rocker.

  A wrinkled note lay on the table, wet with Mama’s tears. I picked it up and read the familiar handwriting flowing across the page:

  Dearest Rose,

  Please understand. I can’t bear to live like this—watching us all sink further and further into a hole. I feel so helpless. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. And I can’t stop it by staying.

  I love you both. I’m terribly sorry, but I have to go.

  Give this to Lizzie for me.

  Love always,

  Will

  I looked around for the “this” Mama was supposed to give me. It had fallen into a golden pile beneath Mama’s chair. The locket.

  For the first time in more than a year, I looked inside it. The pictures of Grandmother and Grandfather had been replaced with pictures of Daddy and me. I put the locket around my neck, then I folded the note and put it in my dresser.

  As I copied the note into this journal, I couldn’t help but wonder where Daddy’s gone, and when he’ll come home. I guess there’s no way to know. Why doesn’t he tell us? Is he afraid Mama will take me and try to follow him? Is he afraid she’ll try to make him come home? I hope he writes soon. I can’t stand not knowing.

  On days after that, whenever I felt unsure Daddy would come home, I’d pull that note from my dresser and read it over. He hadn’t said he was never coming back. Just that he couldn’t stop the bad by staying. I kept telling myself he’d be back. Lying to myself. Gripping on to hope with all that I had. But, like a block of ice left in the scorching summer sun, melting slowly at first and then faster and faster, my hope began to shrink smaller and smaller. The smaller it shrank, the faster it disappeared. Now hope evaporated. My lungs froze, refusing to inhale ever again.

  I slammed the journal shut and shoved it back into my suitcase, trying to forget the memories of that day and the foolishness of my hope.

  The words Mama had murmured that late afternoon on the porch played over and over in my mind: Down for hair, just like your father. Eventually those words faded to only four: Just like your father. Just like your father.

  Mama knew. She’d always known. I was like Daddy. But I wanted to be, didn’t I?

  Mama’s face appeared. Not the face she now possessed, but the face she’d once had—a face full of life and smiles. A face full of care and grace. The gripping in my lungs loosened and I inhaled. There was a chance Mama could still be that person. If Daddy had never gone, neither would she. Daddy had failed her. He’d left when she needed him to fight harder than he’d ever dreamed he’d have to.

  Well, I wouldn’t fail her. I wouldn’t leave her. I’d fight. For her.

  Then I knew, more surely than I’d ever known anything before, I didn’t want to be like Daddy. I wanted to be better.

  I had to get away from the sheriff. Escape. I wasn’t about to end up in some orphanage. Nope. Not me. Besides, what bright side could any ol’ orphanage possibly have?

  I wiped the tears away from my face. The car jolted through another big pothole, and then, like a miraculous gift from God, I got an idea. A darned good idea. Mama! I grabbed my stomach and went to moaning and groaning.

  “Lizzie, you all right back there?” Sheriff Dawson slowed the car a bit.

  “Ugh,” I groaned. I lay over in the seat. “I don’t feel so good.”

  The car slowed a bit more, and the sheriff edged toward the side of the road. “What’s wrong? You need me to pull over?”

  I didn’t reply. I wiggled and squirmed.

  “Lizzie, I need you to tell me right now if you’re gonna be sick.” Sheriff Dawson gagged and took a deep breath. “I ain’t so good at cleaning stuff like that up.”

  I puffed my cheeks with air like I was holding something down.

  “I’m pullin’ over right now. You’re gonna have to get out and do that.”

  I looked up at him and nodded. His face had gone pale and he was taking more deep breaths than he should have been. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and fanned his face with his hat.

  As soon as we stopped, he ran around and opened my door. I grabbed my suitcase before I jumped out, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy gagging and heaving and finding the nearest bush. And, my Lord, the noises that came from him once he found that bush.

  I don’t know when he finally realized I was missing. I was too far gone to care, running like mad through the woods away from his car. Running toward home.

  Nineteen

  A True Friend Is Known in the Day of Adversity

  I ran till I thought I really was gonna be sick. I stopped long enough to give my legs a break from the beating my suitcase was giving them. I’d formed a plan while I was running, and I had to believe it would work. I pulled out my slingshot and studied it. Ben had never failed me, though I’d let him down more times than I could count. I prayed he’d let me make up for those failures.

  Back in Bittersweet, I headed straight for Ben’s. I jogged faster and faster. Then I started to run. I didn’t have much time. I might already be too late.

  Air heaved in and out of my lungs, and my shoes slapped hard against the dry ground. Mailboxes, houses, trees, they all streaked past in blurs, a mottle of colors and shapes. Then Ben’s house appeared. The chickens scattered as I entered the yard. My head bobbed as I slowed my stride, causing the house to appear as if it were jumping for joy to see me. I felt the same.

  I bounded up the front steps two by two, let my suitcase drop to the porch with a bang, and jerked open the screen door. It creaked loudly in protest. I was gasping, trying to catch my breath, but fear didn’t seem to care. It wrapped cold, strangling fingers around my neck and whispered ever so calmly that I was kidding myself. There was a good chance that Ben and his mother had already gone. And after our fight two days back, there was also a mighty good chance that Ben wouldn’t want to see me even if they hadn’t.

  I looked at the darkened windows and listened for any sound of remaining life coming from inside. Nothing. I closed my eyes and gripped my slingshot, taking in deep breaths of the familiar scents around me—the warm wood of the house, the clean Christmasy scent of the pines, the sweetness of Mrs. Butler’s gardenias. I raised my hand and knocked my usual tap-t-t-tap. The wooden door was rough and splintery against my knuckles. Painful silence drifted through the air. I squeezed my slingshot and tried once more, for myself. Not in Daddy’s tap-t-t-tap but in a new knock, a knock only I could knock.

  For a moment I thought I heard the faint popping of Ben’s slingshot. Then the sound faded … and the door opened.

  Ben stood in front of me. He studied me for a second with a question in his eyes, but he didn’t ask it. There was no smile, no hint that he was happy to see me. I brushed the sweat off my face with my forearm and wiped it on my shirt. For once, I was unsure of what to say. I might as well have been a newborn, not able to talk, not able to say how I felt. It felt like I was seeing him for the first time. But if I was, I could start over. I could be the friend he needed instead of being the friend he was stuck with. I could care about him like I always should’ve, but never did.

  Then, just like that, words came rushing back, and I knew what to say. Words I should’ve said a long time ago. “Are you all right?”

  “You want the truth?” he asked.

  I nodded, even though I knew the truth. I’d always known; I’d just been too concerned with myself to care.

  Ben stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him. “I know I ain’t perfect, and I don’t pretend to be. But sometimes it seems like no matter how hard I try, things just don’t go right.” He studied his slingshot and sighed; then he looked back at me holding mine. “You look like you know what I’m talkin’ about.” He jerked his head toward my suitcase. “What’s that for?”

  “Sheriff Dawson came to
take me over to the orphanage, but I got away.”

  Ben’s mouth dropped open. “You did what? Ain’t he lookin’ for you?”

  “I’m sure he is, but I had to come here first … to see about you … and to ask you something. I wasn’t there when you needed me, Ben, and I’m sorry. But I want to be here for you now, if you’ll let me.”

  Ben put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me. “You are my best friend, Lizzie, even if you aren’t much of one sometimes.”

  I wanted to snort and stomp and say something smart, but I didn’t. Because he was right. “You don’t want to leave, do you?”

  “No way in heck do I want to leave, but like I tried to tell you the other day, there ain’t a whole lot I can do about it. I wish I had another chance to figure out some way we could stay. But I reckon I’m not like you, always figurin’ how to get my own way. When Pa got sick, I tried to help him, but I couldn’t, and when he died I figured it was best to just buck up and take what life dealt me.”

  “Well, what if I told you I’ve been figuring again? And what if my plan will help us help each other? Isn’t that what being friends is all about?”

  Ben scrunched his eyebrows, then let out a long sigh. “I ain’t so sure I want to hear it, but I reckon it won’t kill me to listen to you one more time.”

  “Wise decision,” I said. Then I told Ben about my job, the mess I was in, and my plan—a plan that’d give us all a second chance.

  Ben’s eyes widened as I spilled it all out in one long breath. He smiled, then grabbed my hand and pulled me inside to find Mrs. Butler. We found her standing at the kitchen table boxing up some canned goods. Two closed suitcases sat against the wall. I figured they were already filled. Mrs. Butler looked up with a start, but Ben didn’t wait for her to ask; he blurted out everything even faster than I had.