“Don’t be afraid,” Mrs. Figg said. “I’ll let go and she’ll hop out and you just drop the towel on top of her and hold her down until I can get these gloves off.”
Before I could say a word, she released the cat. It snarled at her and leaped from the tub, skidding when it hit the tile floor.
“Go ahead, dear, get her with the towel.”
Mrs. Figg was unplugging the drain, completely oblivious to the snarling mess of wet fur frantically clawing at the door.
I took a deep breath and dropped the bath towel over the poor thing, then struggled to hold it down until finally Mrs. Figg knelt down beside me and picked up the cat, towel and all.
“There, Miss Little Bit of a Cat,” she crooned. “All clean. Doesn’t that feel better?”
She rubbed the towel all over the cat, while it screamed at her and tried its level best to sink its teeth into her hand.
“All right, then.” Mrs. Figg released the wet cat, which now looked like nothing more than a wet, white gremlin.
She opened the bathroom door and the cat shot out, ran down the hall, and disappeared into a bedroom.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it? With two people it’s easy. But I can’t manage on my own. The other kitties behave much more politely in the bathtub.”
She ran the towel over the wet floor and dropped it into a hamper.
“I could use a cup of tea,” she said. “Would you like some?”
“That sounds great.” I turned to follow her and felt my foot slip out from under me. I landed with a heavy thud on the wet tile. Pain shot up my leg like lightning.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Figg said. “Are you all right?”
I grimaced, trying to squeeze back tears.
“Here, take my hand.” Mrs. Figg held out a gnarled hand to me and I took it and tried to pull myself up, but as soon as I put my left foot on the ground, I collapsed back onto the floor.
“I think I sprained it,” I said.
“It looks swollen, all right.” Mrs. Figg sat down on the floor beside me and touched my ankle gently. “Do you think you can . . .”
Her words trailed off and I looked up to see her staring, wide-eyed, to where I sat. A small dark stain seeped down the leg of my pants.
“Oh no!” I cried. “Oh God, no!”
“You sit still, dear.” Mrs. Figg rose and padded down the hallway. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
“Please, God, please don’t let this be happening,” I begged, clutching my arms tight around my stomach. “Please let my baby be okay.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Brannon’s face was white and his hands shook as he brushed the hair from my forehead.
“I’m all right.” I smiled up at him. “I’ve got a sprained ankle, but the doctor said the baby is fine. I had some spotting, but I’m not going to miscarry or anything like that. They just want me to stay overnight, to be on the safe side.”
“What happened?” he asked. “How the hell did you fall?”
I shifted in the hospital bed. “I was helping Mrs. Figg give her cat a bath, and the bathroom floor got wet and I slipped.”
Brannon stared at me for a long minute, his face slowly changing from white to red.
“You were giving her cat a bath? What were you thinking?” he finally asked. “You don’t need to be doing stupid shit like that while you’re pregnant. God, Emma! You almost lost the baby.”
“I’m fine,” I said softly. “I was just clumsy, I guess. But I’m okay and the baby is okay. Everything is fine, honey.”
He paced around the small room, running his hand through his dark hair.
“Everything is not fine,” he said, his voice low and flat. “What the hell is wrong with that woman? If she can’t take care of her own damned animals she shouldn’t have them. Asking you to put yourself in danger so she can give her damned cat a bath. And you . . .”
He turned to face me. “You of all people should know better. You know how easy it is to lose a kid. What kind of mother puts her baby at risk like that?”
My cheeks burned as if he’d slapped me.
“It was an accident,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “It’s nobody’s fault, Brannon. Sometimes things like this happen.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if you had the sense God gave a goose.” His voice rose.
“Mrs. Bohner?” A nurse stood in the doorway, eyeing Brannon distastefully. “Is everything okay in here?”
Brannon stared at her for a long minute, then ran his hand through his hair and smiled at her.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I lost it for a minute. I’m just worried about my wife.”
“Well, I think the best thing for her right now is to get some rest,” the nurse said firmly.
Brannon nodded and smiled again. “You’re right,” he agreed. “She definitely needs her rest.”
He leaned down to kiss my forehead, then smiled at me. But his eyes were still hard and cold.
“I’ll come back after dinner and bring Jenny,” he said. “You get some sleep.”
“I love you,” I called after him, but he just kept walking away.
“He’s just upset about the baby,” I said to the nurse.
“Mm-hmm,” she said.
“Really,” I went on. “Brannon is a wonderful father and a good husband. He just got scared.”
The nurse smiled at me and patted my hand. “I’m sure he is,” she said. “Now, you should get some rest.”
“Which cat were you washing?” Jenny perched on the side of my bed, holding my hand tightly.
“Little Bit, the white one with the blue eyes.”
“She’s the prettiest,” Jenny said.
“She wasn’t very pretty today,” I said, laughing. “She looked more like a gremlin than a cat. And the noises coming out of that little body were just . . . freakish.”
Jenny laughed.
“I ran into Shirley Rigby this morning, too,” I said. “She wanted to tell me how glad she was that you talked to Jasper at the calling last week.”
“You went to the calling for that bastard?” Brannon stood at the foot of the bed, staring at me hard. He’d hardly spoken since they arrived, and I could feel his anger from where he stood.
“I didn’t go for him,” I said. “I went for Shirley. It’s what you do when someone dies.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I guess I didn’t want you to get angry,” I said, “like you are now.”
He took a deep breath and sat down in the chair by the bed.
“Okay, I’m not mad,” he finally said. “I’m just . . . surprised. You don’t even know the woman, Emma. And her son has been a real prick to Jenny.”
“I know.” I nodded. “But it’s not Shirley’s fault that her husband was a bully. And even if Jasper has been a jerk, he’s still a kid who just lost his father.”
“He was okay that day,” Jenny said. “I mean, he called Lashaundra a nigger, but other than that he was okay.”
Brannon shook his head. “I don’t want you to get friendly with either one of them. The dad was a bully and the son is just like him. And the wife . . . well, she just stood by and watched while they behaved like animals.”
“It’s not her fault,” I repeated. “She seems like a nice person.”
He shook his head again.
“Nice people don’t raise kids who are racist bullies. Besides, you need to be thinking about yourself right now. Your job is to take care of yourself and the baby, not run around trying to take care of everyone else in this damned town.”
I turned to touch Jenny’s cheek. “Thank you so much for the daisies, honey. They are just beautiful.”
I didn’t want to argue with Brannon, especially not in front of Jenny.
31
Jenny
“It’s snowing!”
Big white flakes were falling fast. The backyard was covered in a blanket of white.
“Yes it is.”
&
nbsp; Emma hobbled into my room carrying a mug of coffee. She was still wearing her pajamas.
“Are you feeling better today?” I asked.
She’d only been home from the hospital for two days.
“I’m good,” she said, grinning at me. “You have a snow day today. School is closed, so we have a whole day to do whatever we want.”
“Does Daddy have to work?”
“He’s already gone,” she said. “I let you sleep in, since we have a day off.”
“It’s so pretty.” I pushed aside my new yellow curtains to take in the view. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much snow.”
“This is nothing compared to Idaho. They get feet of snow at a time out there. When the roads get too bad, people just get around on their snowmobiles.”
“So, what are we going to do today?”
She tilted her head and smiled.
“We can do whatever we want,” she said, “as long as we do it here. I don’t want to drive anywhere. We don’t have a snowmobile.” She laughed.
“Can we make pancakes for breakfast?”
“Sure we can. You brush your teeth and I’ll get started on breakfast.”
After we ate, I watched television for a while. Emma sat in my mother’s rocking chair looking at magazines about babies.
“Can I ask Lashaundra to come over?”
I was getting bored with cartoons.
“You can ask her,” Emma said. “But I’m betting Angel won’t want to drive in this weather any more than I do.”
Lashaundra picked up on the first ring.
“Hey,” I said. “Do you want to come to my house?”
“Let me ask,” she said.
A moment later she was back on the line.
“Mama doesn’t want to drive,” she said. “Can you come here?”
“No,” I said. “Emma doesn’t want to drive, either.”
“I guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
I fidgeted for a while, half watching the television but mostly wondering what to do with myself.
Then, I had an idea.
“Hey, Emma?”
“Hmmm?” She didn’t look up from the magazine in her lap.
“Can I go up in the attic?”
She raised her eyes and arched one eyebrow.
“Why do you want to go up there?”
“I think it would be a good place to read.”
She laughed.
“Your room is a good place to read,” she said. “Or right there on the couch is a good place to read.”
“I know,” I said. “But I like the light up there. I could take some blankets and pillows. It would be like having a clubhouse, only inside the house.”
She smiled. “Honey, if you want to build a fort in the attic and read, that’s fine with me. But do me a favor and sweep the floor before you start taking up blankets and pillows. It’s pretty dusty up there.”
I ran to the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan, then walked into the hall and stared at the door in the ceiling. I wasn’t tall enough to reach the handle.
“Will you open the door for me?” I called to Emma.
“Hang on,” she said.
After a minute, she limped into the hallway and pulled open the door. Then she yanked the cord that brought down the ladder.
“Be careful,” she said as I climbed the ladder, broom in hand.
“I will.”
She handed me the dustpan and hobbled back to the living room. I stood in the funny little room. It looked smaller now that all of Daddy’s boxes were stacked there. Still, there was a nice spot just under the window where I could make a reading nest.
I swept the floor under the window, carried the dustpan carefully down to the kitchen, and dumped it in the trash. Then I grabbed two blankets from the closet in the hallway and carried them up the ladder. Finally, I took the pillow from my bed and picked up the copy of Little Women I was reading, and I carried them up the ladder, too.
I piled the blankets and pillow under the window and curled up to read. I was just to the part where Mr. Laurence had given Beth the piano. But the room was so warm and the blankets so cozy, that I felt my eyelids drooping closed.
I shook my head and rose. This was my first snow day ever. I didn’t want to waste it sleeping. I yawned and stretched and looked out the window at the snow that was still falling fast. It wasn’t even lunchtime, and I was bored.
I sat down on one of Daddy’s boxes, wondering what I should do next. I ran my hand along the packing tape holding the box closed, and then I started picking at it. Before long, I had torn all the tape off. I hesitated for a minute. Daddy had told me not to go digging around in the boxes. He had them organized, he said, and didn’t want me to mess with them. But now the untaped box seemed to call out to me.
I pulled the top open and stood, just looking, at first. The box was full of folders and envelopes, neatly stacked. And then I saw the spine of a photo album, blue and gray, wedged between the stacks of folders and the side of the box. Surely Daddy wouldn’t mind if I just looked at the pictures in the album.
I pulled the album from the box and sat back down in my nest of blankets and pillows. I took a deep breath, opened the album, and stared open-mouthed at a picture of my mother. I don’t even know how I knew it was her. I had never seen a picture of her before. But I was certain the woman in the photo was my mother.
She sat in the wooden rocking chair that was in the living room downstairs now, her hands folded over her hugely pregnant belly, smiling at the camera. I touched the picture with one finger. My mother . . . she was beautiful. Straight blond hair fell just past her shoulders. Her eyes were a brilliant deep blue. Her smile revealed even, white teeth. Other than her belly, she was tiny. She didn’t look much bigger than me.
I turned pages of the album, staring at images of my mother standing in a small kitchen holding a spatula, sitting on a porch swing with an open book in her lap, posed before an easel with a blank canvas. There were pictures of her with Daddy, his arm draped around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest.
And then there were a bunch of pictures of her holding a tiny, dark-haired baby, smiling proudly. That baby must have been me. More pictures showed her cradling me in the rocking chair, spooning baby food into my mouth, holding my hands as I took steps across the floor, brushing my hair, kissing me good night—all the things a mother does.
I felt my throat tighten, and then I was crying. My mother had loved me. My mother was beautiful. My mother was dead.
Why hadn’t I ever seen this photo album before? Why had Daddy never shown me the pictures? All my life I had wondered what my mother was like, what she looked like, what she did, who she was. But Daddy had never wanted to talk about her.
I remembered asking him once if he had any pictures of her. He’d shaken his head and looked really sad.
“No,” he’d said. “I wish I did, but we didn’t have a camera. That was before cell phones. I always meant to get a camera, but we never had the money. And then she died.”
And I had believed him.
“Jenny?”
Emma stood at the bottom of the ladder.
“Are you okay up there?”
“Yes,” I called back.
“Well, it’s time for lunch. Do you want some tomato soup?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve got some chocolate chip cookies, too,” she said.
I closed the photo album and rose, still holding it. I knew I should put it back in the box, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave it there, now that I knew about it.
I closed the box and smoothed down the packing tape I had pulled up. Then I carried the album down the ladder and into my room. I put it in a dresser drawer under some sweaters.
“Hey,” Emma said when I walked into the kitchen. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“I’m okay. My nose is kind of runny. I think it’s because of the dust.”
We
sat at the table to eat soup and crackers, and then cookies still warm from the oven.
“So, what do you want to do this afternoon?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Maybe read some more.”
“Why don’t you put on your coat and mittens and play outside for a while?”
“It’s too cold.”
“The fresh air would be good for you.”
I sat for a minute thinking about it.
“Can I go see Mrs. Figg?” I asked. “Maybe she’ll let me play music on the piano.”
She smiled at me.
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” she said. “I’m sure Mrs. Figg would enjoy some company.”
I put on my parka and mittens.
“Why don’t you take her some cookies?”
Emma put some cookies on a paper plate and covered them with plastic wrap. I took the plate and walked next door, then pounded on Mrs. Figg’s door. I could hear the dogs baying inside, but Mrs. Figg didn’t answer. I pounded again, then turned and trudged back home through the snow.
“Back so soon?” Emma looked up from the couch where she was laying with her foot propped up on pillows.
“She’s not home.” I took off my jacket and hung it in the closet.
“Are you sure?” she asked, sitting up. “I can’t imagine her going out in this weather.”
“I knocked twice,” I said. “The dogs were barking like crazy, but she didn’t answer the door.”
“Do me a favor,” she said. “Go look out the back window and see if her car is in the driveway.”
I ran to the kitchen and looked out the window. Mrs. Figg’s old car sat behind her house, just like it always did.
“It’s there,” I yelled.
“I hope she’s okay.” Emma stood behind me, leaning against the doorframe.
“Maybe she’s visiting that man who wants to marry her.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“I’ll go back later,” I said.
“Thanks, honey.”
She limped back to the living room and dropped onto the couch heavily.
“I don’t know about you,” she said. “But I think I’m ready for a nap.”
“I’m going to read some more,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, flopping onto her back. “Will you wake me in an hour? I don’t want to sleep the whole afternoon away.”
The Seventh Mother Page 17