by Neta Jackson
Tabby shrugged. “Yeah, well, I have a hunch she might like to go back to work part-time or something. Told me once she used to be a paralegal—whatever that is.”
A paralegal? Nicole Singer? That was interesting. Who would’ve thought?
The time flew by faster than Michelle anticipated, and she pulled up in front of her parents’ house just as they were getting home from church. “There’s my girl!” boomed her father, holding his arms wide. Michelle grinned . . . then realized he meant Tabby, as her daughter ran into his bear hug.
“Come here, baby, give me some sugar,” her mother said, and Tabby complied, bouncing from one grandparent to the next.
“Hey, I want some of that sugar,” Michelle complained, then had to giggle as her father swung her around as if she were thirteen too. “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”
“Best Father’s Day I can think of.” Martin Robinson beamed. “Got my three best girls all to myself.”
His wife slapped him playfully on the arm. “Oh, you know you wouldn’t complain if the boys lived close enough to drop by.” Michelle’s brothers had both gone to school “back east” and ended up settling on the coast. “Got enough food to feed an army, so hope you’re hungry.”
Michelle’s mother had cooked up a feast, thinking Jared and the boys would be coming too. “Oh, Mom, I didn’t mean for you to go to all this trouble. I wanted to take you and Dad out to a restaurant for Father’s Day.”
“What? And waste all this food? Nonsense.” And soon the table was loaded with a roasted turkey breast, mac ’n cheese, green beans with sliced almonds, potato salad, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, and cherry pie. After lunch they sat out on the front porch and played Monopoly—Michelle’s least favorite game, but worth it to see Tabby and her dad gleefully cut each other off at the knees with each round. Had to laugh, though, when her mother quietly won the game.
When it was time to head home a few hours later, Michelle had a lump in her throat as she hugged Tabby good-bye. This would be the longest she’d ever been away from her baby girl. “’Bye, sweetie. Have fun. You call me every day, you hear? I want to hear all about it when you get home. We’ll pick you up Saturday, okay?”
“Don’t you worry about Tabby, sweetheart,” her dad said. “We’ll be truckin’ her back and forth every day, so you know we got it covered.”
“You call us the second you get home,” her mother said, tucking a cooler of leftovers into the minivan. “Don’t like you driving all that way by yourself. Hmph. You tell that husband of yours he’s on my bad boy list until he gets himself down here in the flesh.” She slammed the side door of the minivan muttering, “Drivin’ himself over the edge with that crazy schedule of his, that’s what.” A moment later Coral Robinson poked her head into the open driver’s side window. “You too, baby. You see the doctor yet? Stress gonna kill you, an’ no mother wants to bury one of her kids.”
“Mom!” Michelle rolled her eyes with a short laugh. “I’m fine. We’re all fine. Quit worrying.”
But as she pulled away from the curb and glanced in the rearview mirror at the three of them standing on the curb waving good-bye, a tear snuck out of her eye and rolled down her cheek. The mom-and-daughter time she’d spent with Tabby the past few days had been special . . . but didn’t happen often enough. Tabby was starting to grow up. Going to camp, babysitting, going off to high school next year . . . more good-byes.
By the time she got home tonight, the weekend would be over . . . and she’d spent zero time with her boys, much less her husband. Even though the afternoon with her folks had been pleasant, it still felt as if she hadn’t once gotten off the roller coaster she was on and it was picking up speed.
* * *
Michelle had hours to think on her way home from Fort Wayne, though her assortment of CDs in the car needed serious updating. WOW Gospel 1998 and Radical for Christ from 1995 . . . really? Talk about old.
She felt chagrined that it took her hairdresser to remind her that she and Jared had an anniversary coming up—their twentieth. That was one of the biggies! They really should do something special, but what? Their anniversary fell this week on Wednesday . . . huh. Jared would probably feel like he had to go to prayer meeting since he missed last week. But they could do something on the weekend.
Oh, wait. They had to go pick up Tabby this coming Saturday. Another trip down and back. Another weekend down the drain.
Unless . . .
Michelle could hardly wait to get home and tell Jared her idea. Surely he’d be totally over the back thing by next weekend, and his 2-2-1 work schedule ended by breakfast time Friday morning. Maybe she could weasel a day off from Bridges. Even half a day would be great. She’d talk to Charlotte in the morning.
Only . . . what if her period came next weekend? She’d always been irregular, which was a bummer, because she never could plan adequately. And seemed like once she hit forty, the time between periods had gotten even more erratic. Wasn’t even sure when her last period was. That was something she should talk to the doctor about when she got her physical. Was she going through menopause early? Sheesh. She wasn’t ready to be that old.
Traffic through the city was minimal this late on Sunday evening, and she pulled onto Beecham Street right at nine o’clock. “I’m home!” she called out, carrying the cooler of leftovers into the house. “Come see what Bibi sent you guys!”
The TV in the family room went silent and footsteps thundered up the stairs. “Hey, Mom.” Destin gave her a smack on the cheek, and then snatched the lid off the cooler. “All riiiight! Pie! An’ is that turkey?”
Tavis was right behind him peeking into the cooler. “Hi, Mom. Bibi sent food? Great. I’m hungry. We didn’t have any supper. Just some potato chips an’ stuff.”
“No supper? Where’s your dad?” Oh dear, was he still having a lot of back pain?
Destin was already unloading the cooler. “At church I think. Pastor Q called, asked Dad if he could come to a meeting of the deacons tonight. Something about the budget and a congregational meeting . . . Hey, Tavis, get some bread. We can make turkey sandwiches.”
Michelle stood in the kitchen open-mouthed. Jared stayed home today because he’d needed to recover from his back spasm . . . and now he was at church? At nine o’clock at night?
She was going to kill him. Or Pastor Q. Whoever she got to first.
Chapter 32
She was waiting for Jared in the kitchen when he let himself in at ten thirty.
“Michelle?” he called out. But she didn’t answer. She was too upset. She’d gotten ready for bed but no way was she going to get in the bed. Not until she’d given him a piece of her mind.
Jared poked his head around the wide archway leading from the living room into the dining and kitchen area, which were separated only by the kitchen counter with its bar stools. “Hey, Gumdrop. Glad to see you made it home safely.” He ventured as far as the counter. “When did you get home? I thought you’d text me, let me know.”
She eyed him, arms crossed, daring him to come any closer.
He hesitated, still at the counter. “Uh . . . you okay?”
“Don’t ‘Gumdrop’ me.” She spit it out. “I see you made a miraculous recovery.”
“Well, yeah, my back’s feeling a lot better.”
“Uh-huh.” She was all but tapping her foot. “Couldn’t go with me to Fort Wayne today, but, oh my. Pastor Q calls, and you’re suddenly hunky-dory.”
Jared threw up his hands. “Oh, come on, Michelle. That’s not fair. I rested all day, didn’t go to church . . . when was the last time I missed church? But when Pastor Q called this afternoon, I was feeling a lot better. These back spasms do go away eventually, you know.”
“Right.” Her eyes narrowed. “How convenient. Not ‘better’ enough to fix supper for the boys tonight, but ‘better’ enough to jump through hoops when the Almighty Quentin calls.”
He gaped at her. “What? You’re mad because I didn’t fix supper for the boys toni
ght?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Look, those two went to church with the Bentleys this morning, and they were well fed by Estelle Bentley before she sent them home this afternoon. I should know, because they brought over a plate for me. Beef-something-or-other over fat egg noodles. A heap of green beans. Cole slaw. Even chocolate cake. Don’t know what those two ingrates told you, but they weren’t starving.”
“Well . . . still.” Michelle didn’t want excuses. “You made a big deal about taking it easy today, not taking any risks—like riding in the car—so you could get completely over this back thing, to make sure you’re able to go to work tomorrow. And then you drive to the church, sit through some dumb meeting, who knows how long, and don’t get home till ten thirty—”
Jared rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Michelle. I was feeling better by this afternoon! I’d missed prayer meeting this week, missed church . . . So when Pastor Q called, I didn’t have an excuse not to go.”
Michelle pressed her lips together, her arms still crossed. She felt dangerously on the verge of either yelling at him or bursting into tears. She squashed both impulses, and instead just marched past him, down the hall, and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
Turning the water on in the sink full force, she gave in to the tears. If he was that close to “feeling better,” couldn’t he have gone with her today? Even if she had to drive the whole way, she’d at least have had his company. And she’d been so excited to tell him about her idea for their anniversary . . . and instead, they were fighting.
But she wasn’t ready to forgive him. Or be understanding.
She half expected him to tap on the bathroom door and say her name, but he didn’t. She waited a good five minutes, held a hot washcloth to her face, then unlocked the door and slipped out of the bathroom into their bedroom. No Jared. The light was still on in the living room and kitchen.
She closed the door, turned out the light, and crawled between the sheets, her back toward Jared’s side of the bed.
* * *
Michelle quietly slid out of bed the next morning, trying not to wake Jared. She didn’t feel like talking yet. If she could get out of the house before he got up, he’d be gone when she got back and wouldn’t be home till eleven or so.
Maybe she could pull herself together by then.
To her surprise, Destin dragged himself into the kitchen just as she was gathering her lunch, purse, and keys to get out the door. “Hey, you.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “What are you doing up so early? School’s out. You get to sleep in.”
“Yeah, you’d think.” An ugly frown distorted her son’s normally placid face. “But Dad told me last night I’m supposed to see getting a summer job as my job right now, which means he wants me up and outta the house by eight, or else.”
Michelle blinked. “Or else what?”
“I dunno!” Destin stalked to the cupboard, snatched a clean cereal bowl, then opened another cupboard and pulled out a box of Raisin Bran. “He didn’t exactly say ‘or else,’ but he was acting like, I dunno, if I can’t pay it off, maybe I shouldn’t go to camp after all.”
Michelle tried to ignore the cereal and milk that slopped onto the counter from Destin’s disgruntled efforts to make his breakfast. “Uh, well, honey, I’m sure he doesn’t mean you have to pay us back before camp starts. Camp is next week.”
“Don’tcha think I know that?” Destin perched on a bar stool and shoveled cereal into his mouth. “He just expects me to have a job before I go, which means I gotta find something this week. But it’s not fair, Mom! I’ve applied for a whole mess of jobs but nobody’s called me back. That’s not my fault. So what am I s’posed to do?”
Michelle sighed. “I don’t know either, honey. What about this SlowBurn thing you’re doing for Mr. Singer? Why don’t you tell your dad about that? That’s a job . . . of sorts . . . I guess. Are you having any luck selling this energy drink?”
Destin glanced nervously over his shoulder, as if afraid his father would walk in and overhear. “Some. But I haven’t had that much time ’cause school just let out on Friday. And . . . I wanna have a bit more success doin’ it before I tell him. Or he’ll think I’m just foolin’ around and tell me to stop.”
Michelle glanced at the clock. Oh, no, she was going to be late if she didn’t leave now. “I’m sorry, honey. I gotta get to work. Maybe we can talk later. Just . . . do your best today.” She gave him a quick hug and hurried out to the minivan. One more thing she and Jared should probably talk about—once they were speaking again.
She felt frustrated too. The whole plan for Destin’s basketball camp wasn’t very realistic—agreeing he could go to camp early in the summer, but saying he had to pay for it after the fact. Couldn’t use it as leverage that way. And it was going to come back and bite them if he couldn’t find a summer job. They’d be out five hundred dollars, Jared would be upset with Destin . . .
Michelle groaned as she threaded the car through morning traffic. “But to be honest, God, I don’t know what else we should’ve done!” she blurted aloud. “Sending Destin to that Five-Star Basketball Camp is a good thing! He needs a good summer activity, and he’ll have good mentors and coaches . . . And the fact that college scouts will be there might lead to some scholarships. Right?”
She sighed. No answer from on high. Maybe they’d just have to eat the five hundred dollars, though God knew it wasn’t in their budget, stretched thin as it was. How long had it been since she’d had a raise? Too long. Though in this economy, she should be glad she still had a job.
After the weekend, Michelle had to hit the ground running at Bridges Family Services, dealing with the usual Monday onslaught: answering a pile of phone messages, scheduling her case management visits throughout the week, attending a staff meeting, turning in her expenses for mileage so she could get reimbursed before the end of the month, and squeezing in afternoon visits to two of her regular foster care homes plus an interview and assessment of a new foster home application. But she was glad to keep busy. No time to think about the unfinished business at home.
Her cell rang shortly before noon. Didn’t recognize the number but she answered. To her surprise it was Nicole Singer, her neighbor down the street. “Thanks for taking my call, Michelle. Sorry to bother you at work, but I was wondering whether Tabby would be available to babysit for the next few days, starting tomorrow. I figured I should ask you first before I talked to her.”
Michelle smiled, remembering Tabby’s hunch. “Oh, I’m sure she’d love to, Nicole, but Tabby’s down in Indiana at cheerleading camp this week. Won’t be home till Saturday evening. Maybe next week, though. She’s said how much she enjoys watching your young ones.”
“Thanks, Michelle.” Her neighbor seemed disappointed. “Yes, next week might work. I’ll get back to you.”
Well, that would be great for Tabby if it did work out. Michelle hung up, but as long as she had her cell out, she tried calling her parents’ house, knowing that Tabby’s camp didn’t start until Tuesday. But there was no answer. They were probably out—shopping or getting nails done or having lunch somewhere awesome. Or all of the above. Oh well, that’s what grandparents were for, right?
By the time she got home, her anger at Jared had dissipated. What was the point of holding on to it? Deep down she knew Jared hadn’t blown her off intentionally. But the disappointment was still there. She’d wanted to surprise him with her idea for their upcoming anniversary, but it got derailed. Now when could they talk about it? They were on the O’Hare Control Tower weekly schedule roller coaster, with only a slight hiccup of overlapping time on Wednesday evening.
Their actual anniversary.
Also prayer meeting night. Argh.
But her idea wouldn’t kick in until Friday anyway, so maybe . . .
Destin was monosyllabic at the supper table. Tavis bounced up after ten minutes of scarfing down two helpings of the frozen lasagna she’d heated up, wanting to skateboard in the street with DaShawn whi
le it was still light. Good thing they lived on a dead-end street. Destin said he was going out to sell you-know-what and she let him go with the promise he’d be back before dark, so for the moment at least, she had the house to herself.
After calling Tabby to wish her well at camp the next day and booting up the family laptop, Michelle surfed the net and felt a tickle of glee when she found just what she wanted. Should she go ahead and make a reservation? Why not? If it all fell through, she could always cancel. On the other hand, if she already had a paid reservation, it was more likely that Jared would accept it as a gift.
The boys came in at nine. Destin surprised her by going to bed by ten, same time as Tavis. Was he trying to avoid his father? She, on the other hand, wanted to stay awake until Jared got home and mend the barbed-wire fence between them. That had to happen before anything else. But it’d been a long day and she was so tired . . .
* * *
Jared was shaking her gently. “Hon? You’re still in your clothes. Don’t you want to get ready for bed? Are the boys asleep already?”
Michelle sat up groggily. She’d fallen asleep on the couch. “Oh. I . . . I was trying to wait up for you, see if your back survived work today.”
“Really?” He stood looking at her a long moment, then held out a hand and helped her up. “You didn’t need to wait up. It’s late. My back’s okay.”
His touch melted the last of her anger. “Actually, I didn’t want us to go to bed another night mad at each other.” She followed him into the bedroom.
“I’m not mad at you.” Jared sat down on the bed and began taking off his shoes.
“Yeah, well, I was mad at you.”