When Sonny’s eyes ended up being the same color as Ivan’s, Hilda had taken it personally.
Only my mother-in-law could have felt slighted by the color of a child’s eyes.
When I moved Sonny’s arm to tuck the doll in with her, she stirred, looking at me through half-open lids.
“Hi, Mommy,” she said in her dreamy voice.
“Hi, Sonny-One-So-True,” I whispered.
“Is it time to wake up?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
She let her eyelids close and her mouth hang open as she drifted back into whatever dream she’d visit next. I couldn’t help but wish I knew what amazing picture shows played in her head every night.
Soft as could be, I pushed a tangle of hair away from her sweaty forehead and kissed her cheek, wishing I could gather her in my arms and hold her while she fell back to sleep.
But she was too big for that anymore.
CHAPTER
Three
Sonny, 1988
Mindy stood in the doorway of our bedroom, arms crossed over her stomach and her backpack slung over her right shoulder. She didn’t say anything. All she did was watch my reflection in the mirror.
“Don’t stare at me,” I said.
“Can we be on time today?” She leaned against the doorjamb. “We’ve been late every day this year.”
“Have not.” I unscrewed the top off my mascara, moving my face as close to the mirror as I could get. “Stop being such a spaz.”
“I’m sick of getting tardies, Sonny.”
Moving the mascara wand away from my lashes, I rolled my eyes. As if the secretary would ever think it was Mindy’s fault that we were late. As if Mindy could do anything wrong at all. Not sweet, innocent, punctual Mindy Matthews.
I glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t wear makeup. Not even eyeshadow. And the most she ever did to her hair was pull it back into a scrunchie.
Somehow—maddeningly—the understated look worked for her. If I ever stepped out of the house without foundation and blush and eyeliner and the works, people would have asked me all day if I was sick and/or dying.
It was so not fair.
“Go ask Mom to drive you,” I said. “Duh. It’s on her way to work anyway.”
“She’s got an appointment.”
“What appointment?”
“With the obstetrician. You know, the baby doctor.”
“Um, of course I know that,” I said.
What I didn’t say was that I only knew that because of The Cosby Show, and I was pretty sure that all obstetricians did was stay up late to deliver babies and then come home to solve all their family’s problems.
That and wear really, really grody sweaters.
Mom’s doctor was a woman, though, so I thought maybe she had a little more fashion sense.
Whatever.
Mindy cleared her throat, and I decided that I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of annoying me. But when she started tapping her fingernail on the face of her watch nonstop, it made my blood boil.
“That’s not going to make me get ready any faster!”
I hadn’t meant to yell. Not really. But she was making me crazy, and I couldn’t seem to hold back.
Mindy glared at me before turning and stomping her way down the stairs.
“Sorry for ruining your life,” I called after her.
Like, three seconds later—okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but still—she blared the car horn from the driveway so I’d know where she’d decided to wait. Then I heard the grumpy, coughing sound of my car starting up.
I dropped the pin I’d been using to separate my lashes as I released a sound of aggravation that came directly from my gut. I had to pay for gas out of my babysitting money and she knew it. The way that hunk of junk El Camino guzzled gas, she was costing me at least a dollar.
Double-checking my hair and giving it another spray or two of Aqua Net, I decided I looked as good as I could and closed my bedroom door behind me.
When I got most of the way down the stairs, I saw Mom hanging half out the door, waving at my sister.
“Mindy,” she called, her voice way too sweet. “Can you please come inside? Now.”
I swung my backpack up onto my shoulder and took it a little slower down the steps.
My mom was, without a doubt, the cool mom. The nice mom. The keep-the-peace-at-all-costs, former-hippie mom. Well, at least she was when the pregnancy hormones didn’t take over, making her a giant mood monster.
I’d learned to give her lots of space when she was mad, and I froze in place, hoping all her wrath would pour out on Mindy instead of me.
“Sonny, I know you’re there,” she said. “Stop lollygagging and get down here so we can talk this through.”
I sighed, cursing whatever parenting book mom had read for teaching her about “talking things through.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I said, rushing down the last few steps.
Mindy stepped in through the front door, shoulders slumped, school bag dangling from her hand.
“Girls, I’m sick to death of you two fighting every single morning,” Mom said, looking between Mindy and me, one hand pressed against her belly. “Knock it off, okay?”
“Well, if she wouldn’t nag me—” I started.
“I’m not the one who makes us late every day,” Mindy interrupted.
“Yeah? Well, wait a couple of months and I’ll be gone at college and you won’t ever have to be late again,” I shot back. “I’m not going to miss you.”
Mindy’s mouth dropped open, and she held her stomach like I’d sucker punched her in the gut.
I felt like trash as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
“What an awful thing to say,” Mom said. “You don’t really mean that.”
“Maybe I do.” I stuck out my hip and crossed my arms. “And maybe I’d be a lot nicer if I didn’t have to share a room with her.”
“Sonny . . .”
“She’s got to get used to sleeping in a room by herself sometime,” I said. “What’s she going to do when I’m gone?”
“We’ll figure it out when the time comes,” Mom said.
“It’s just not fair.” I wanted to pout but knew I was way too old for that. “She could move into the guest room. We, like, never have guests. It’s empty all the time.”
“We’re turning that into the baby’s room.”
“How come the baby gets its own room and I don’t?” I crossed my arms. “It’s not fair.”
“Don’t talk to me about what’s not fair,” she said.
“I just want my own space for once in my life.”
“You know she has nightmares . . .”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not right here,” Mindy said. “I’m not a little girl.”
“Then grow up and stop being so afraid of everything,” I snapped.
That was enough to start us into a jibber-jabber of bickering, both of us talking over each other. After just a couple minutes of that we both ended up crying, and I was sure I was wrecking my makeup.
“Stop!”
Mindy and I both shut our mouths. Mom never—I mean, like, never—yelled.
She clenched her fists and closed her eyes, her face getting redder by the minute. I half expected steam to shoot out of her ears like Yosemite Sam.
“Mom?” Mindy said. “Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to snap at my sister. Something to the effect of her trying to make me look bad by acting concerned about Mom.
But then my mother hissed—actually hissed—my name.
“What?” I said.
“This is going nowhere,” she said, grabbing her purse. “Give me the car keys.”
“What?” I asked again, dabbing under my eyes and glad to find that the waterproof mascara did its job.
“Mindy, give me the keys.” Mom put out her hand, palm side up.
Mindy, ever the compliant goody two-shoes
, gave them to her.
“I’ll see you girls this afternoon.” She dropped the keys into her purse. “We can hash this all out later if you both still care about it.”
“But how are we supposed to get to school?” I asked, knowing how whiny my voice sounded.
“Walk.”
“You can’t be serious. Why are you so horrible?”
“Excuse me?” Mom crossed her arms over the shelf of her stomach. “I wasn’t the one screaming and honking horns first thing in the morning.”
“Whatever, Mom.” I squinted at her. “You’re so unfair.”
“Really? You think so? Back to the fairness argument?” She shook her head. “Maybe the fair thing would be to ground you for the weekend?”
I rolled my lips between my teeth and bit down so I wouldn’t let anything else slip out. That weekend, of all weekends, I couldn’t afford to get myself grounded.
My parents sent Mindy and me to a Christian school that, in an effort to be separate from the world, didn’t allow homecoming dances or prom. But every once in a while, a girl from our school would get asked to go to the prom at the public school by a boy in her youth group or that she met while working at the mall.
Each of the last three springs my friends and I went to Deb to try on every single formal they had, dreaming of being lucky enough to be asked to a dance.
That year, my senior year, I was the luckiest girl. I was going to prom.
And the boy who’d asked me to go? Kevin Woods. The Kevin Woods, who wasn’t only the most popular guy in Bear Run. He was the most popular guy in the tri-county area.
All right, so he was the one who told me that. It didn’t make it any less true even if he was bragging.
Mom and I locked eyes like a standoff in one of the old Westerns Grumpy was always watching. I knew she was waiting for me to crack and say something bogus so she could ground me.
Lucky for me, she wasn’t even close to as stubborn as I was. She blinked first and I knew I’d won.
“You girls better start walking,” she said before giving us hugs and telling us that she loved us. “Someday you’ll realize how lucky you are to have each other.”
I really wanted to respond with a sassy “as if.” Lucky for me, I stopped myself before I could even open my mouth.
When she shooed us out, my car keys secure in her purse, I realized that I hadn’t won. Not really.
I looked back once while Mindy and I walked down the driveway just in time to see the guilty look on Mom’s face.
She hadn’t won either.
There were certain bummers about going to a Christian school.
First, it cost a lot of money, and unless your parents were rolling in it like Scrooge McDuck, you had to go without certain things like vacations to Florida and designer jeans.
Second, the depressingly small dating pool. Add to that the fact that I’d known most of the guys in my class since we were five and had borne witness to their nose pickings. It was hard to see a guy as having boyfriend potential with that image stuck in your mind.
Third, practically everyone remembered the time I peed my pants in the first grade. I was pretty sure that took me out of the running for coolest girl by a mile.
Fourth—and nowhere near last—was that there wasn’t a bus we could ride to and from school. Usually that didn’t present a problem. It was just a seven-minute drive if the El Camino was warmed up enough.
That morning, though, it was a major problem and the biggest of all bummers.
“This is going to take forever,” I said, shuffling my feet on the sidewalk.
“It’s just three miles,” Mindy reminded me. “It’s not that bad.”
“We’re never going to make it.” My stomach growled and I was suddenly aware of how hungry I was. “I forgot to eat breakfast.”
Mindy stopped, swinging the pack off her back and reaching in, pulling out a granola bar.
“Here,” she said.
She always did that. Whenever we fought, she had to make it up to me somehow. She’d do all my chores or slip money into my wallet. Something. Anything to make me happy with her again, even if usually I was the reason we were fighting in the first place.
If I hadn’t felt guilty for being so mean before, I always did when she did things like that.
“Thanks.” I took it from her, and we started walking again. “I’m sorry I was a jerk.”
“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” She kicked a stone with the toe of her white canvas tennies. “I’m not afraid of everything, you know.”
“Yeah,” I said, tearing off the wrapper and breaking the granola bar in two, handing one half to her. “I know.”
Mom and Dad worried about Mindy. A lot.
I mean, I got it. Sort of. She had a ton of nightmares, and when we were little she did some weird things that I didn’t think I’d ever really understand. Mom said it was because of what happened to her before we adopted her. But when I asked what happened to her, Mom just said she wasn’t sure.
As if that helped me understand anything.
“I can move into the guest room if you want,” Mindy said. “I mean, until you leave or the baby comes.”
I chewed a mouthful of granola bar before answering, trying to figure out what the right thing to say was.
The sidewalk ended and we moved to the gravel along the edge of the road. We weren’t even halfway there.
I was about to tell her that I’d help her move her things. That I’d even drive her to the hardware store as soon as I got my keys back to help her pick out paint to cover up the hideous burnt orange that was currently on the guest room walls.
But then I heard a meep, meep and turned to see a banana-yellow Gremlin pull up beside us. I had never been so relieved to see that strange little car.
Reinforcements had arrived.
“What in the world are you girls doing?” Amelia asked. “Did the El break down?”
“If only,” I said.
“Get in.” Amelia reached across the seat to unlock the passenger side door.
“Thanks,” Mindy said.
The first time I met Amelia Parlette was on the very first day of kindergarten when the teacher put us at the same table. We’d been best friends ever since. We’d even arranged to be roommates for our first year at college.
How lucky could I be?
“Shotgun,” I called when I opened the door.
When Mindy sighed, looking at the cramped back seat, I reminded her that she was smaller than me.
On Fridays the school served hot lunch, and it was always the same. Boiled hot dog on a bun with a handful of chips and some dried-up carrot sticks for one buck. Add a quarter and they handed you a little carton of white milk.
Mom always gave Mindy and me $1.25 on Fridays for lunch, and I found it a better investment to get a candy bar and can of Cherry Coke from the vending machines, saving the quarter in my pocket.
When Mindy rolled her eyes at me for it, I told her that it couldn’t be any less healthy than a hot dog, reminding her of what they put into those things. Ew.
Amelia and I always sat at the same lunch table—the third one from the doors—with basically the same group of friends every day.
One of the advantages of going to a small school was that the odds of being near the top of the popularity ladder were pretty good. It wasn’t like we were the popular kids. The Velthouse sisters were leaps and bounds out of our league. But we weren’t the least popular, so that was something.
I was already in my seat when Mike Huisman and his little group of friends sat across from me. They proceeded to dare each other to eat their hot dogs in three bites or less.
“You guys are disgusting,” Amelia said, crinkling her nose.
Mike just laughed and said, “Thanks,” with his mouth full of bread and meat product.
“Hey, Sonny,” one of the Jennies said from the other end of our table. “I heard you’re going to prom with Kevin Woods.”
I nodded while
I took a drink of my pop, doing my best not to have a smug look on my face.
“How do you even know him?” asked a girl named Becky.
“Just around,” I answered.
I was not going to admit that my uncle set us up after selling Kevin a used Mustang at his dealership. That was way too embarrassing.
“Do you have a dress?” the other Jenny asked, scooting closer with her plate and carton of milk.
“It’s so pretty,” I answered. “I’ll bring pictures once my mom gets them developed.”
“You’re so lucky,” Becky said.
I looked across the table where Mike sat rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
“Oh my gosh, Sonny,” he said with a fake Valley girl voice. “I can’t believe you’re going to prom with Kevin Woods. He’s so cute. I would, like, die if he even looked at me.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, glaring at him.
“Nothing. What’s wrong with you?” He picked up his empty plate and stood from his seat. “By the way, I’ll see you there.”
“What?” I asked.
“I got a date to the prom too.”
“With who?”
“It’s actually whom,” he corrected. “And it’s none of your beeswax.”
“He’s so immature,” Amelia said once he’d walked away. “Can you believe you ever went out with him?”
In my defense, it was freshman year. I hadn’t known anything back then.
CHAPTER
Four
Bruce, 2013
Fiona’s Kitchen is the kind of greasy spoon where the menu is written on a chalkboard and hasn’t changed in twenty years. The coffee’s strong, the bacon crispy, and the hash browns come with cheese on top whether you ask for it or not.
Everybody who comes for breakfast—the only meal she serves—better bring cash. That’s the acceptable form of payment. Period.
I must say, though, the cinnamon rolls Fiona makes from scratch every day are more than worth a trip to the ATM.
I park down the street and hoof it a couple of blocks to the restaurant, book under my arm, humming the Rascals’ “It’s a Beautiful Morning” all the way.
The Nature of Small Birds Page 3