Wishes and Stitches

by Rachael Herron

  Rig groaned. “Can’t you wait, buddy? Five more minutes? Just till Dad drops me off at my place? You can pee there.”

  “Now.” Milo stood firm on the matter. And when Keller men made up their minds, Rig knew there was no swaying them.

  “Naomi, would you mind if we . . . ?”

  “Of course not,” she said briskly. “Why doesn’t everyone come inside?”

  “I meant me,” Rig said. “I’ll take Milo in by myself.” But it was too late. Jake and his father were already headed up the walkway. He got Milo out of his car seat, and his nephew shot ahead. All of them were inside the house before Rig finished closing the car door.

  A second later, Naomi’s face appeared in the living room window, just in time to watch him stumble over a sprinkler head in the lawn as he made his hurried way to the front doorstep. Great.

  “You coming in?” She held the screen door open for him.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said.

  “I won’t,” she said. But she smiled, and Rig got stuck all over again on how pretty her mouth was when it moved like that.

  He shook his hands out as if the motion would help him clear his mind. Jake had already disappeared, presumably to the bathroom with Milo, and Frank was leaning forward, taking a close look at the pictures Naomi had up near the hallway. Rig hadn’t noticed them earlier—he’d only really looked at the large print of the poppy.

  These pictures were different; they were family photos, mostly black and white. They were hung haphazardly, some a little crooked, at all points on the wall, in frames that didn’t match. Rig’s mother would have had a heart attack. Once, he’d seen her use a level while hanging her shopping list on the fridge. He’d teased her, but she’d just told him she liked order.

  Naomi, as proven by the pictures, and the piles of professional journals next to the couch, piled so high that several of the piles had toppled over, wasn’t like his mother. At all.

  Not that he would compare them.

  Whatever.

  He had to admit, the photos looked nice the way Naomi had hung them. Homey.

  Frank pointed a finger, almost touching the glass of one of them.

  “Dad,” hissed Rig.

  “Who is this, my dear?”

  Naomi stood next to Frank. “That’s my father and mother when they were still married.” She smiled, a small private grin. “He wore that suit for years, said it was the best one he ever had made.”

  “Where are they now?”

  Rig watched Naomi’s face fall. “Dad died when I was seventeen. He was a doctor, too. Mom’s still in L.A.”

  “Oh, my dear. I’m sorry about your father,” said Frank. “Which one do you most resemble?” He leaned in again. “Your father. I can see it clearly.”

  Naomi nodded, appearing satisfied. “My sister looks like our mother, I look like Dad.”

  “And this is your grandmother?” Frank pointed to a photo of an elderly woman seated, smiling, on a sand dune.

  Naomi laughed. “No, that’s Eliza Carpenter. I wish she was my grandmother. But no, just a friend.”

  Frank said, “Was it taken here?”

  Naomi smiled. “No, she was from here, but she was my patient in San Diego. I broke her out of the hospital one afternoon, and we went wandering. Eliza taught me how to go down a dune that day. She told me to listen carefully, and I thought she’d have some safe way to do it, a way to preserve the sand and ecology or something, so I concentrated. Then she said, ‘You must throw both arms in the air and run down, as fast as you can, screaming as loudly as possible.’ Then she held both of her canes up into the air, and wobbled down the dune, hollering the whole time. She watched as I ran down and gave me an eight for performance, and a ten for volume.” Naomi laughed, and touched the frame of the photo, her eyes wistful.

  Frank nodded, his eyes happy. “Sounds like a smart woman.”

  “All right, Dad, as soon as Jake—”

  “Hi.” The voice came from behind them. Naomi’s sister, Anna, walked out of the dim hallway and into the bright living room. She wore red pajamas that barely covered her stomach and a fluffy red robe. Rig wondered if they were her own clothes or if she’d borrowed them from her sister.

  Naomi would look hot as sin in red.

  Anna rubbed her eyes and, her belly notwithstanding, looked about thirteen years old. “What are you all talking about out here?”

  Frank looked startled. “Oh, dear, I hope we didn’t wake you up.”

  “You did,” Anna said with a smile, “but it sounded nice out here. Interesting.”

  Naomi said quickly, “This is Frank, Rig’s father. His whole family is here, actually. They’re using the bathroom. Then they’re leaving, and you and I can talk.” She paused. “Are those my pajamas?”

  So they were hers. Now Rig had a visual of Naomi moving though her house at night in the red silk.

  “Bathroom?” Anna ignored the question and plopped onto the couch, yawning. “Why?”

  Jake came out of the side bathroom, ushering along Milo, who held his hands in the air and flapped them.

  “Air dry,” said Milo. “Air dry!”

  Naomi said, “Isn’t there a towel in there?”

  Rig nodded. “Milo likes to air dry. Even when he gets out of the bath.” He still thought it was one of the funniest things his nephew did, and he did a lot of them, careening naked around the house after his bath, thumping wetly off walls and furniture.

  Milo sped up, like he always did when air drying, and he zoomed around the living room. On his second lap, he jumped up onto and then off of the couch where Anna sat.

  “Milo!” said Jake. “Come here. Stop.”

  Milo kept running, but he stayed on level ground.

  “Sorry,” said Rig to Anna. “That’s my nephew, Milo. And this is my brother, Jake.”

  Anna pulled the red robe around herself more tightly and said, “Well, hi. I didn’t know it would be this much fun out here.”

  Jake said, “He’s crazy. Gets that from his uncle.” Milo stopped running and started spinning like a top.

  “Unfair,” said Rig, but he was barely listening. He watched Naomi’s face, how it lit up at the sight of her sister, only to fall, so quickly, as her eyes fell to her sister’s stomach. There were a lot of emotions that needed to be dealt with, and the women couldn’t start until all the Kellers left.

  Milo stopped spinning and staggered sideways, running into Anna’s legs. She reached forward, moving awkwardly with her belly, and caught him under the arms. “Come up and sit next to me, big guy.”

  Rig waited for Milo to struggle, to pull away like he always did when he was placed in one spot and told to stay. Rig knew it wouldn’t fly, especially from a stranger.

  But Milo looked up into Anna’s eyes, and then down to her belly. He crawled up next to her. “Is there a baby in there?”

  Anna nodded. Naomi watched her sister with a guarded expression Rig couldn’t read.

  “Yep,” said Anna. “It’s a baby girl. You must be really smart. How did you know?”

  “Mrs. Misty at day care has one in her tummy, too.”

  “Well, you’re very smart to figure it out.”

  Milo nodded, put his thumb in his mouth, and curled up against Anna. Damn. Milo didn’t cuddle with strangers. Maybe it was a knocked-up thing.

  Jake said, “Don’t suck your thumb, Milo. And we should go. Let’s get out of their hair.”

  Anna put her arm around Milo and drew him closer. “You don’t have to go. Or is Milo’s mother always sure you boys are dead on the highway if you’re late?”

  Naomi gasped. “Anna!”

  Jake opened his mouth, looking like he had something to say but only managed, “Well . . .” before he stopped speaking.

  Rig would have to clean it up somehow. “She—”

  Milo unstopped his thumb from his mouth and interrupted him. “My mom died a really long time ago. When I was little.”

  Anna’s eyes went wide. “Oh,
God. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?” said Milo, but Anna was looking at Jake.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  Jake waved his hands, but still appeared mute.

  “But you did,” said Naomi sharply. “As usual.”

  Anna’s eyes filled with tears, and she stood up from the couch and rushed down the hallway into the darkness. A door slammed.

  Rig swung around, thinking he could say something to ease the situation, smooth it over. Jake was going to be more hurt than he would let on, and Naomi would probably be embarrassed by the whole thing. Dad, of course, would be oblivious, as usual.

  As he turned, his elbow hit a tall standing lamp and sent it pitching to the left. He jumped, grabbing for its pole, but missed and sent it flying farther. Just before the lamp crashed to the ground, it thunked a tall gray pot, decorated with an owl, that sat on a side table.

  With a huge smash, the pot hit the hardwood floor and exploded into shards of ceramic. A coarse, heavy dust spilled from the broken container.

  This Frank noticed. He jumped back and said, “I was nowhere near that. What was it?”

  Heavyhearted, Rig stared at the dust rising from the floor. There was only one reason to keep a pot full of ashes.

  Naomi visibly paled. “Dad,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Double decreases are awkward with all their slipping of this and that. Better just to knit three together through the back loops and call it a day. No one will ever notice.

  —E.C.

  Frank perked up. “That’s your father? That’s a lot of ashes. Was he taller than he looked in that picture?”

  Jake gathered Milo up into his arms. “We’ll be out in the car.” They disappeared out the front door before anyone else could move.

  “Shit, Naomi,” said Rig. “I didn’t mean to—oh, God. Is that really—?”

  Naomi nodded, her mouth twisting miserably. She was going to have to . . . sweep Dad up.

  “I’ll get the broom,” she said.

  Rig leaped forward. “No, let me do it. Please?”

  She shook her head. Dammit, she would not get emotional about this. Not right now. There would be time for that later, when the house was empty again.

  Except for her sister.

  A moment later, she brought the dustpan and brush into the living room. Rig still looked shell shocked. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine . . . but your sister said that to Jake, and then I was just going to say something, but I hit the lamp instead—”

  God. Her sister and the comment about Jake’s dead wife. The house was full of dead people, wasn’t it? At least Jake didn’t have to sweep anything up.

  The ash was both fine and gritty at the same time. Some of it stayed heavy as sand on the floor, and some flew up into the air like dust. Naomi tasted it in her mouth and bit her inner lip to keep from crying.

  She wished Rig would just go. But he wasn’t getting it—he just stood above her, staring down at her with those impossibly sad, apologetic eyes.

  Frank raised one hand and said, “Lovely to meet you, my dear. My regards to your . . . ” His eyes fell to her brush. “ . . . family.” He slipped out the front door, quietly closing it behind him.

  Naomi finished collecting everything into the dustpan, and then she had no clue as to what to do with it. Was it okay to put the ashes into a plastic bag? Was it disrespectful?

  Rig spoke again, “Will you at least let me buy another urn? Was that one sentimental?”

  “No. My mom gave it to me, actually. Thus the owl on it. I always kinda thought it was funny I stored Dad’s ashes in there. It’d rile her if she knew.” She smiled at the thought and then felt sadness at having to sweep up her father’s ashes. It warred with anger at Rig for creating the whole mess in the first place. But he hadn’t meant to. Just like Anna hadn’t meant to throw the bomb into the middle of the room.

  “I’m sorry about my sister,” said Naomi. “She’s so used to charming everyone she meets that . . .” When it comes to men she wants to flirt with, she thought. Jake was Anna’s type, she knew. Tall, dark, and probably emotionally unavailable after a traumatic loss. With a kid to top it off. Great.

  “She was fine. She didn’t know,” said Rig. “Jake’s a big boy. He knows that people will ask him questions.”

  Naomi looked down again into the dustpan. “I don’t have any idea what to do with this now.”

  He considered it with a serious expression and then said, “You don’t want to store that in anything like a cup or a bowl. Nothing you eat from. Just as a matter of politeness, of course.”

  She blanched. “Of course. Do you think a bag would be okay?”

  “Do you have a vase?”

  Her mind went blank. “Like, for flowers?”

  “It seems like a nice place to be until you get a new urn, and the flowers won’t mind later. They’ll like it.”

  What a morbid conversation to be having. What a macabre thing to be doing. But it had to be done, and preferably before Anna came back out. Naomi didn’t want to have to explain to her sister what had happened when she’d left the room. Even though it wasn’t her father who’d hit the floor, it still wouldn’t be a pleasant surprise for a pregnant woman who was probably supposed to be taking it easy.

  “I’ll get one from the kitchen.” But she was still holding the now-heavy dustpan. She didn’t want to set it down. . . .

  “Tell me where it is. I’ll get it.”

  “Upper-right cabinet, next to the sink. There’s a dark-colored one—maybe that would work.” If it was the dark vase, they couldn’t look through clear glass and see Dad, what was left of him. Oh, God.

  As he went into the kitchen, Naomi noticed that there was still dust on the floor, the finest bits that the brush hadn’t picked up. It was between the slats of the hardwood. It would probably take a vacuum cleaner to get it up.

  She sat on the couch, as carefully as she could without jostling the contents of the dustpan. She didn’t even want to breathe too hard, lest she cast any more of the dust upward.

  Rig came back. “Is this it?” he asked, holding up the dark vase. It was a shorter, squatter vase than any of her others, and it would be a fine temporary holding place. She could fashion a plastic-wrap lid later.

  Naomi nodded.

  “You want me to hold it? While you . . . pour?” he asked, sitting next to her on the couch.

  Nodding again, Naomi held the corner of the dustpan to the lip of the vase. Carefully, she tipped it, pouring the ash as slowly as she could.

  “Would your dad at least have thought this was funny?”

  Naomi didn’t look at Rig, just kept pouring. “Well, yeah. He wouldn’t talk about it much, didn’t really talk about anything, usually. Just work.” Maybe that’s where I get it from. “So he didn’t laugh much, but when he did, his laughter boomed like thunder. I loved feeling it in my chest.”

  “That’s a nice memory.” Rig cupped one hand around the top so that nothing escaped.

  It was kind of him to do that, she thought. He was a nice man.

  And it was completely, terribly wrong that she heated up this way when she looked at him, warmth pooling between her thighs when she remembered how he’d kissed her. He had the dust of her father on his hands, for God’s sake.

  Naomi stored the vase carefully on the same end table and took the dustpan and brush through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. She’d shake them off in the morning, when she was more clearheaded. Now, she just wanted to get Rig out and away, then she wanted to talk to her sister, then she wanted nothing more than deep, oblivious sleep.

  In the living room he stood, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Long day,” he said.

  “Obviously.” Crap, it sounded like she was mad. But she wasn’t angry with him anymore for breaking the urn, she really wasn’t.

  Rig didn’t flinch, though. “I’m going to go,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the front door. “They’
re out there waiting for me.”

  How had she forgotten all about the other Keller men? “Yeah, that would be good.”

  This time he did flinch. “Again, I’m sorry.” Then he just stood there, not moving.

  “I guess I’ll see you on Monday, then,” she said.

  They faced each other. Naomi didn’t know whether she should put out her hand to shake or not. That would be the polite thing. The professional thing.

  Therefore it was the right thing. “Well, good night.”

  Rig looked surprised at seeing her hand, but he shook it brusquely. “Good night,” he said.

  When she shut the door behind him, she felt a wild urge to either laugh or cry, and she wasn’t sure which one she felt more like doing. She turned, leaning her back against the door, staring into the living room that just moments ago had been so abnormally full of people.

  And her house still wasn’t empty. One person remained, the only person she’d ever avoided more than her mother.

  Anna.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Grace is knowing when to bind off.

  —E.C.

  Anna?” Naomi didn’t want to just push open the guest room door that stood ajar, but her sister hadn’t responded to the light tap she’d given on the wood. The room was dark, no lights on. Anna couldn’t possibly have gone to sleep already, could she?

  “You still in there?” Would she have slipped out the back door? Without saying anything?

  Sure she would. She’d done it before. Naomi entered the room and flipped on the light switch. “Anna?”

  Her sister, still wearing the red robe, was lying on her back on the bed, one arm slung over her eyes. “What?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I guess. Can we do it in the morning, though? I can’t even begin to tell you how tired I am. I was on the bus for two days, and that’s no place for a person who has to pee every seventeen seconds.” Anna sighed. “It’s just that everything kind of hurts. And I’m exhausted.” Her voice wobbled at the end of the sentence, and Naomi ached to give her something: a hug, maybe, or a kiss on the top of the head. Even a pat on the knee would do. She took a step toward her sister, but Anna rolled so that she was on her side, facing the wall.