by Shirley Jump
Katie laughed. “That’s terrible. What did he do when he saw the sign?”
“He loved it. When my mom was at the store one day, Dylan painted black stripes on his door. Really going for the whole in-jail feel, he said. That stunt got him another week of being grounded.”
“Did your parents make him clean off the paint?”
“My mother, like yours, was pretty uninvolved and my dad was always working, so the paint stayed. My father said if Dylan wanted to pretend his room was a prison, he could. Dylan left home a few years later, in his late teens.” Sam’s face softened. “Haven’t seen my brother in a long, long time. Or my parents. I see them maybe once or twice a year.”
“I understand that.” She was already having trouble imagining the years ahead, with Colton living several hours away. They’d always been close, even after Colton had moved out when he was nineteen. He’d always been there, just a text or phone call away. Even though she didn’t need him now like she had when she was little and her mother forgot to pick her up at school, there was a certain comfort in knowing he always had her back.
“Are we there yet?” Libby’s voice came in a long, drawn-out whine from the backseat. “Henry is kicking me and I want ice cream and I have to pee.”
Sam chuckled. “Just got here, Libby Bear. Remember how we used to go here every Tuesday? We’d get ice cream for dinner, and then everyone’s bellies would be sore.” He turned right, then parked the car and shut it off. “Now, wait—”
But Libby had already unbuckled her seat belt and was making a beeline for the shop. Sam called out to her, but she didn’t slow, heading straight inside the busy ice cream store. Sam grabbed her bear and sighed. “I swear, there are times I’m talking to myself.”
Katie could see his frustration. Despite the moment of détente at the beach today, Libby was still distancing herself from her father. “I’ll get her.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in right behind you.” He leaned over to unbuckle Henry while Katie headed inside. She weaved her way through the crush of people waiting to order ice cream. No little brunette girl anywhere.
Panic raced through her. “Libby?”
The salesgirl at the counter glanced up at Katie. “Looking for a little one, about eight years old?”
Katie scanned the small shop again. “Did she come in here?”
The girl handed an elderly woman a vanilla cone, then nodded in the other direction. “Bathroom, down the hall, on the right.”
“Thank you.” Relief washed over Katie and she headed toward the restrooms. The bathroom was small, just two stalls, and painted a bright pink with white trim. The sink was shaped like a chocolate dipped waffle cone, and there was an ice cream cone stool in one corner. Even the soap dispenser was shaped like a sundae, and probably dispensed vanilla scented soap. One of the stall doors was closed, but Katie could see a familiar pair of pink flip-flops.
“Hey, Libby? You should have waited for us,” Katie said. “We didn’t know where you went.”
From the other side of the closed stall door came a sniffle and a muffled, “I don’t care.”
Was Libby crying? Why? “Uh, are you almost done?” Katie asked. “I bet your dad and brother are waiting in line for us.”
Another sniffle, another mumbled, “I don’t care.”
Katie stood in the bathroom, hesitating. Should she leave Libby alone? Did a girl that age need help washing her hands or anything? Was she sniffling because she was upset or mad or throwing a tantrum? And what was Katie supposed to do about any of those? Maybe she should get Sam. Except this was the ladies’ room, and not the best place for a dad to talk to his daughter. “Uh, Libby, I’m just going to wait with your dad, unless you need something...”
No answer. Just more sniffling, and then the soft sound of crying. That was definitely not a tantrum. Katie’s heart broke. Oh, how she understood those tears, that feeling of not being understood and just wanting to escape.
Katie went to the pink metal door and laid a hand on the cool surface. “Libby? You okay?”
“Just leave me alone.”
Katie considered doing just that. She wasn’t a mom, she didn’t know anything about raising kids, and this crying thing seemed like something Sam should handle. The soft sounds of Libby’s sobs and heaving breaths tugged at Katie.
She thought of that first summer she’d gone to camp—long before the summer she was a camp counselor. She’d been seven and terrified from the minute her mother’s car pulled away, because it was also the first time she’d been somewhere without Colton in the next room.
Scared and lonely, Katie had run and hid in the bathroom. She’d huddled in the corner stall until after lights out. One of the counselors, a college student named Michelle, had found Katie in the bathroom. Michelle had sat on the floor outside the stall door and talked to her for a long, long time, until Katie’s tears dried up and she’d unlatched the door. Michelle wasn’t old enough to know how to be a mother, but she’d done the one thing Katie could do for Libby—she’d talked and listened and simply been there.
Katie slid down against the corner of the stall and sat on the tiles. She drew her knees up to her chest and pressed her back against the cold hard metal panel. “I’ll just wait here for you, Libby. Okay?”
“You don’t have to. I’m a big girl.”
“I know that. But I’m gonna wait, anyway.” Katie brushed at some dirt on her knees and tried to think of something to talk about that would distract Libby and calm her down. “Did you know that one cow makes enough milk to make two gallons of ice cream every day? That’s a lot of milk.”
Libby didn’t say anything, just sniffled some more. Cried a little more.
Katie had already exhausted her list of interesting ice cream facts. “So what’s your favorite flavor of ice cream, Libby? I bet it’s...strawberry. Am I right?”
“That was... Mommy’s favorite.” Libby’s voice had gone soft and sad, with a little sob on the end of “Mommy.”
Oh, damn. Why had Katie brought that up? Now Libby really was crying, and it was all Katie’s fault. Libby was miserable and locked inside the bathroom stall, instead of out in the shop with her father and brother. Clearly, Katie sucked at this mothering thing. Heck, she wasn’t even very good at the being-a-friend-to-a-kid thing.
Katie’s cell buzzed with a text from Sam. Where are you two?
Libby’s a little upset. Talking to her in the bathroom. Out in a few minutes.
She hoped. Katie spun on the tile floor and rapped at the base of the stall door. She could see two little feet in pink flip-flops, swinging back and forth against the cream ceramic floor. “Libby? Why don’t you come out? Your dad and brother are waiting for us to get some ice cream.”
“No.” It was a muffled word, still caught in a sob.
Heartbroken. Lonely. Scared.
“I bet it’s hard being here without your mom,” Katie said softly. Silence on the other side of the door was underwritten by the Muzak sound system. “Did she like ice cream a lot?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you said her favorite was strawberry?” Katie wasn’t so sure asking Libby about her dead mother was the best way to get her to come out from behind that bathroom door, but when she was seven and scared at camp and Michelle was on the other side of the stall door, Katie had talked about the things that scared her and the things that made her sad, and after a while, that feeling of being overwhelmed began to abate, and the room that had felt so stark and cold began to feel...warm. Maybe the same would work with Libby.
She hoped.
“My mom’s favorite was chocolate,” Katie went on, filling the space between them with words. “But I only remember going out for ice cream once with her.”
“Only one time? How come?”
“My mom...wasn’t home a lot,” K
atie said, couching the truth. “So my big brother took me for ice cream. Every Wednesday, we went after school. I always got a two-scoop cone. Chocolate on the bottom, vanilla on top, but he was more of a purist and got just one scoop of chocolate. So, what’s your favorite, Libby?”
There was a long pause. The Muzak switched to an instrumental version of the Bee Gees’ “Staying Alive.” Another text from Sam, with another reassurance sent back from Katie. In the texts, she sounded a lot more confident that she had this under control than she felt.
“I like vanilla,” Libby said after a long while. “And sprinkles. Do you like sprinkles?”
“I do. They’re the best part of an ice cream cone.”
“My mommy liked sprinkles, too. But she called them...um, jim...jim something.”
“Jimmies,” Katie supplied.
“Yeah, jimmies.” The pink flip-flops toed a circle on the floor. “She said that’s what they were called where she grew up.”
Katie could hear the sadness in the little girl’s voice, the wistful melancholy at the memories of her late mother. It made Katie want to reach her arms through the door and hug Libby, and tell her it would be all right. But she couldn’t do that, and especially couldn’t promise that. “What do you say we both get an ice cream with sprinkles on it? I bet that would make your mom smile.”
“But...my mom can’t see me,” Libby said, her voice low and sad again.
“I think maybe she can,” Katie said. “When I was about your age, Libby, my grandma got sick. I loved my grandma, and was really upset that I was going to lose her. I remember she was sitting in her favorite chair by the window. It was a great big chair, with pink floral fabric, but it was just the right size for her and me to sit together. She had me climb up beside her, and when I did, she pointed out the window, at the bright blue sky, and said to me, ‘Do you see that space, the one just past that little cloud? That’s where I’m going to be, watching over you.’”
Libby sniffled again, then asked, “Can you see her there?”
“I wish I could, but the clouds are just so far away that I can’t. But I know she’s there, and sometimes, I just send a little wave toward the sky, to tell her I miss her.” Katie had done that dozens of times when she was younger, missing the grandmother who had been more of a mother than her own mother. Grandma Martha had been the one to bake cookies, decorate for Christmas and hang the pictures Katie colored on the fridge. Then she had died and Colton had stepped in to be the parent they were both lacking. “I’ve always liked knowing that she was up there, watching over me.”
A long, long pause, then finally, there was a shuffling on the other side of the door, followed by the click of the lock sliding out of its home. Libby poked her head around the corner of the door frame. “Do you think my mommy could see me if I wave toward her?”
Libby’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her lower lip trembled. Katie’s heart broke a little. “Yes, honey, I’m sure she can.”
“After...” Libby drew in a breath, steeled herself a little. “After we get an ice cream with jimmies, can we go outside, so my mommy can see my ice cream, and I can say hi?”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea. We can do that, for sure.”
A tentative smile wobbled on Libby’s face, before she dropped her gaze to the floor and gave a little nod. “Okay.”
There was a knock at the bathroom door, then Sam poked his head in. “You girls okay in here?”
“We are now,” Katie said. She gave Libby another smile, and this time Libby’s smile held. Katie got to her feet, waited while they both washed their hands, then Libby put her palm into Katie’s. The two of them crossed the room and fell into place beside Sam. “I think we’re ready for some ice cream right now.”
“With jimmies,” Libby added softly.
“With jimmies,” Katie promised, and gave Libby’s hand a tender squeeze.
Chapter Nine
Sam wanted to ask Katie what had happened back in the bathroom, but didn’t want to upset the delicate balance that had been restored to Libby. She no longer seemed angry or upset, but more...peaceful. She stood beside Katie, holding her hand, and as they shuffled forward in line, Libby leaned against Sam’s arm. Henry had fallen asleep, his thirty pounds of body weight a solid chunk against Sam’s chest. It was as close to a perfect moment as Sam had felt in a long time.
He glanced over at Katie. She was reading the long list of ice cream flavors chalked on the slate board behind the counter. For the tenth time, he marveled at how this woman—a complete stranger—had brought a little calm into the chaos that had been his life for the last year and a half.
Libby said something about cows and milk, but Sam didn’t hear the words, because whatever Libby said made Katie smile. The curve of her lips, the way her reaction lit her eyes, captivated Sam. It was a warm smile, the kind that spread through him like a warm fire.
In the year and a half since Wendy had died, Sam had barely noticed other women. He hadn’t dated, hell, hadn’t had time to do the laundry, never mind date, but also hadn’t had the desire to ask another woman out. He’d loved Wendy, loved her from the first day he’d met her when they’d been paired up in chemistry class and she’d added too much baking soda to their faux volcano and created a Vesuvius-worthy reaction. After she died, he’d never imagined he’d meet another woman who would intrigue him as much as his late wife had. Until now.
Guilty feelings still clung to the edges of his thoughts, but they were a little quieter. Maybe it was time to move on, to open his heart again.
Katie turned, and caught him staring. A faint blush filled her cheeks. “What? Do I have sand on my face or something?”
“No, not at all.” He wanted to say something more about how beautiful she was, but figured doing that while waiting in line for an ice cream with his kids wasn’t the best timing. “Uh, what flavor are you getting?”
“I’m going with the tried-and-true,” Katie said. “A two-scoop cone, chocolate on the bottom and—”
“Vanilla on the top,” Libby added. “I wanna try that, too.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Sam said. “How about we make it three?” Five minutes later, the three of them had identical cones, all topped with sprinkles, and a small dish of vanilla for Henry. Sam weaved his way through the crowd and led them to the outside picnic tables. Just before they sat down, Libby looked at Katie, then the two of them raised their cones to the sky. They held that position for a second, Libby’s eyes glistening.
Henry woke up, and scrambled down to get his ice cream dish from Sam. The two kids opted to sit at a small table a few feet away, while Sam and Katie chose a nearby bench. “What was that about?” Sam asked.
“Libby was missing her mom, so I told her that her mom was watching her from up above, and she’d want to see that Libby was getting their favorite ice cream today.”
The thoughtfulness and the heartfelt meaning in that moment made Sam choke up a little. He glanced over at his little girl, and saw her smiling, laughing, engaged with Henry. She had her bear propped up on the seat beside her as she ate her ice cream, and from time to time she would glance up at the sky. A wistful smile ghosted on Libby’s face, then she turned back to her brother, her mood lighter, the tension in her tiny frame eased.
“That’s...really sweet,” Sam said. “Thank you.”
Katie shrugged. “It was nothing.”
“No, really, it was great. Libby’s been struggling so much. Heck, both kids have. I wish I had the right words to help them, and it seems all I do is make it worse.” He was too busy making sure everyone ate dinner and got to school and went to bed on time, and knew he was missing these small moments. The kind of moments that mattered in the long journey of healing broken hearts. “Maybe I should get them into counseling or something.”
“I’m no expe
rt,” Katie said, “but I think all they need is more of what they had today.”
His gaze lingered on his kids, his heart full, his throat thick. Henry struggled to scoop up the next bite, his little face scrunched with frustration. Libby leaned over, wriggled the spoon into the ice cream, then held it out to her little brother. Sam knew there would be squabbles in the days ahead—heck, maybe even in the next five minutes—but he let this moment linger.
“I’m trying, Katie, but it’s been tough. Especially with Libby.” He sighed. “Libby wanted to leave almost the second she got to the beach. You were the one who convinced her to stay and play that game. You were the one who talked to her in the bathroom. You were the one who thought of how she could share her ice cream with her mother. I think I lost whatever relationship I had with her.”
“Maybe. Or maybe—” Katie paused “—you need to treat parenting like buildings.”
He chuckled and took a bite of his ice cream. “You’re comparing raising kids to real estate?”
“Well, when you look at a building, you get this gut instinct, I’m sure, of what it could be in the future. You know which clients to call, how to advertise the property, how to make the qualities stand out and how to minimize the flaws.”
“And how does that compare to raising kids?”
“Well, you try to put a positive spin on the stuff the kids don’t want to do, like eat broccoli, and try to anticipate their needs and wants.” She took a few bites of her ice cream, before it melted over the edge of the cone. “It’s how I worked with clients at the accounting firm. Stands to reason that if it worked with high-maintenance adults, it should work with kids.”
He laughed. “Very true.”
Henry and Libby squabbled a little over space on the curved bench seat at the table, the argument settled by Libby putting George on her lap. “Maybe I worry too much,” Sam said. “These kids have been through so much. The last thing I want to do is make a single second of their lives more difficult.”