Heart Like Mine (24 page)

“Why would your dad help her get a job when he was leaving her?” Bree asked, moving her gaze from the screen over to me. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“He took care of her,” I said, just above a whisper. “She always said he promised to take care of her and then he just went away.” I read the rest of the e-mail.

We made two beautiful children together, and whatever happened with us, I know that we were meant to be together, even if it wasn’t forever. I know we were together so they would be ours.

That was all it said. He didn’t even sign his name. Bree dropped back against her chair, then spoke quietly. “Do you want to keep looking?”

I shook my head. I felt deflated, suddenly not caring about anything else I might find. I didn’t know why I thought coming here would help me feel better. What I was looking for—what I
really
cared about—was gone. But I couldn’t tell Bree that. I couldn’t say that I’d held a tiny flicker of hope that I’d walk into this house and Mama would be here. “Baby,” she’d say, holding out her arms to me. “Everything’s okay. It was all just a bad dream. I was sick, and I couldn’t come home.” A coma, I imagined. Like on a soap opera. A coma so deep even the doctors wouldn’t know she was still alive.

“Are you sure?” Bree said, snapping me back to the moment. Back to where Daddy had left us and Mama was dead. “You don’t want to get anything else?”

I shook my head again. “Not now. I can’t.” My palms were sweaty and my heart threw itself over and over against the inside of my chest.

“Okay.” Bree sighed. “I’m sorry, Ava.”

“Whatever,” I said, shutting down the computer. “Let’s just go.” My voice trembled and the words didn’t come out hard and strong, the way I wanted them to. I stood up and turned around, this time forcing myself to look at the spot where Mama had died. Her blue comforter was crumpled the way I’d seen it a hundred times before, pulled back like she might come back and climb beneath it at any moment. I could smell her all around me—the faint scent of her sweet perfume. Above her bed, she’d framed a stick-figure drawing of our family I’d made for her in third grade: Daddy tall in the middle, his hair sticking out like porcupine quills; Mama standing in a pink dress next to him. Me holding Daddy’s hand, and Max holding Mama’s. It was a beautiful day in that picture, the sun a bright yellow ball in the impossibly blue sky. We all had smiles on our faces, not a care in the world. It was
the way I saw us back then, when we were all still together. Back before the family I knew—the family I’d thought would always be mine—tore at its seams and finally fell apart.

*  *  *

They were fighting again. I shoved my head beneath my pillow and tried not to listen, but it was impossible. Their anger was so big, so powerful, it pushed through the walls of our house. I imagined it was black, thick, and heavy, like storm clouds brewing in the sky. My bedroom was right next to theirs; I couldn’t ignore it.

Dad had come home late, way after Max and I went to bed. I woke up once to the sound of Mama crying, then once more when I heard their bedroom door slam. “I can’t do this anymore!” my dad yelled. “If you can’t handle how much I have to work to take care of you, then there’s nothing I can do! You’re a grown woman, for Christ’s sake! You need to start acting like one.” His voice was twisted in a way I’d never heard before.

“
I
need to grow up?” Mama shrieked. “
I
do? Who’s the one who’s never with his children?” She paused for a minute, and I hoped it might all be over, but then she started again. “That’s you, Victor.
You.
Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. Don’t think I haven’t seen.”

Seen what?
I wondered, sitting up in my bed, switching on the small lamp on the nightstand, then pulling my blankets up to my neck. Dad had been gone more and more. One night last week he hadn’t come home at all. He told Mama he had so much work to do, he slept over at the restaurant, but I knew Mama didn’t believe him. He had a couch in his office there, so I didn’t know why she thought he wasn’t telling the truth.

“You haven’t seen
anything
,” my dad said. It sounded like he was spitting the words. “You’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself.
I’m sorry your parents disowned you. I’m sorry you can’t get over it! I’m done with it.
No more
, do you understand? I’m
done
.”

“Fine!” Mama screamed. “You have somewhere you’d rather be? Go! Get the hell out of my house!”

I cringed, my stomach starting to hurt worse than it ever had before. I didn’t understand what Mama was saying. Where else would Daddy want to be?

I heard drawers slamming shut, Mama still crying. The door of my room slowly opened and I held my breath, thinking it might be Daddy, but it was only Max. He had one hand on the doorknob and his worn yellow blanket in the other. His eyes were wide; his bottom lip trembled. He was only four. “Come here,” I whispered, lifting up my blanket and scooting closer to the wall. He tiptoed over to my bed and climbed in. His body was warm, but he was shaking.

After a moment, he put his head against my chest and started to cry. “Shh,” I said, slipping one arm around him, and together, we waited for morning to come.

“Grace?” Max’s voice crept into my dreams and tickled me awake. He put his small hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. Victor wasn’t home yet; it was a few weeks after Kelli’s death, and he had started working later hours at the restaurant to make up for the time he spent taking care of the kids in the afternoons. Last night, he’d called at eleven to say he had to finish the wine order and wouldn’t be home until well after the bar closed.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked Max. “It’s so late.”
Or so early.
I forced myself to open my eyes and look at the clock. Two twenty-three.
Ugh. Definitely early.

“I wet the bed,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He started to cry. “I had too much milk last night after dinner and I’m not supposed to and I had a bad dream and I wet the bed!” He began to sob in earnest, and I spun upright, steadying myself on the mattress with one arm and reaching out to him with the other, rubbing his back. The front of his jammies were soaked and cold. I tried not to gasp as a waft of ammonia hit me.

“Hey now. Of course you didn’t mean it. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.”

He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head rapidly back
and forth, not seeming to hear me through his tears. “Mama always says not to but I forgot ’cause I was just so thirsty!”

I wanted to cry, too, hearing him refer to her in the present tense—as though she were still alive. “Max, honey,” I said, dropping into a squat so we were eye level with each other. “I didn’t know that, so it’s nobody’s fault. Okay?” I pushed his damp hair back from his face and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. “It’s only an accident. We just need to go get you some new sheets and new PJ’s, right? Everything’s going to be okay.”

“No it’s not!” he shrieked. He stamped his foot. “Not it’s not, no it’s
not
!”

“Max,” I said again, trying to keep my voice level, but feeling my heart rate begin to rise. “Ava is sleeping. I need you to try to be quiet.” I glanced at the doorway, willing Victor to walk through it. I wasn’t sure how to handle this on my own.

“
No!
” he screeched, and began to sob. “I want
Mama
!” he cried, and suddenly swung his arm out, knocking my alarm clock to the hardwood floor with a clatter.

“Max!” I grabbed his arms so he wouldn’t lash out at anything else.

“Did he wet the bed?” Ava said as she entered the room. So much for not waking her. Max yanked away from me, ran over to his sister, and pressed his face into her side. I straightened my spine and nodded. She frowned. “You shouldn’t let him have milk after dinner.”

Before I could stop myself, I shot her an angry look. “I realize that
now
, Ava,” I snapped. Things had still been a little tense between us since the day she’d fought with Victor over going back to Kelli’s house. I kept my distance, trying to give her the space she seemed to need. Apparently, it hadn’t helped.

She rolled her eyes and wouldn’t meet my gaze. “C’mon,
Max. Can you help me strip off your sheets? And then we’ll clean you up a little and get you back to sleep.” He nodded slowly and sniffled away his tears.

“Let me help you, too,” I said, taking a step toward them, but Ava held up a hand to stop me.

“It’s fine. I’ve got it.” They left the room, and after I listened to the murmur of their voices against the backdrop of running water, less than ten minutes later it was quiet again.

Once curled back up under the covers, though, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of everything I didn’t know about Max and Ava—all the things that were as natural to Kelli as breath. And while so far there was little tangible demand on me with the kids around, I felt oddly strained. When we were all home, everything became focused around what they needed, their schedule. I couldn’t help but feel a little bit backed into a corner by the continuous noise—of the TV, their loud video games, and Max, who seemed literally incapable of moving through the house without slamming a door or stomping his feet against the hardwood floors. Accustomed to silence—maybe infused with a little music or the occasional reality TV show—I jumped at every sound he made. Ava—unlike tonight—most of the time was quiet and withdrawn. On some level, that was almost more disconcerting than Max’s constant over-the-top energy level and need for interaction. The counselor at the hospital told Victor that kids tend to process things more internally, and we should watch out for their grief coming out in other ways.

“What kind of ways?” I’d asked him, a little panicked by the thought of what their behavior might entail. I suddenly envisioned Max purposely throwing baseballs through our windows or Ava coming home with a tattoo.

Victor had shrugged. “She didn’t really say.”

“How’s the schedule working out?” Melody asked one evening when she’d come over to our house and Victor and the kids weren’t home yet. She and I sat at the dining room table, nibbling at a plate of cheese, flatbread, and fruit she’d brought over, sipping at a small glass of crisp Chardonnay.

I shrugged, crunching on the bite in my mouth before speaking. “Victor says it’s going okay. It’s only for a couple of hours when he picks them up from school, and then I take over so he can go do the dinner shift.”

“Isn’t having to leave the restaurant and then go back later pretty stressful for him?”

I took a swallow of wine. “Are you saying I should change
my
schedule and go pick them up from school, so he can have a break?” The sudden defensiveness in my tone surprised even me.

She dropped back against her chair, eyebrows raised. “Wow. I’m pretty sure that’s not what I said, Grace.”

I sighed and reached out a hand to squeeze hers. “Oh god, I’m sorry. It’s just been so hard seeing how tired he is, and I feel guilty, like I should be doing more, you know?”

“I get it,” she said, squeezing my hand in return before pulling away. “But your job is important, too, and it’s not exactly conducive to bringing children with you, right?”

“I know. But if I’m going to marry him, isn’t that part of the deal?” Melody didn’t answer, so I went on. “And now Ava wants to try out for the dance team and Victor isn’t sure he can manage getting Max to basketball at the Boys and Girls Club
and
getting her to practice. He already had to give up his Tae Kwon Do classes because he just couldn’t fit them in.” I sighed. “Jesus. Listen to me. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Can we talk about something else, please? What’s happening with you? How are things with Spencer?”

She sat back against her chair with a dreamy expression on
her face. Her brown eyes lit up as she told me how he’d been calling her every day since their first dinner date and how the massage she gave him ended in a highly unprofessional manner.

I laughed when she told me this. “I thought you said that was against the masseuse’s professional code of ethics or something.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It was an accident!”

“Oh,” I said with a snort, “I see. Your hands just
accidentally
massaged his penis?”

“No!” she said, still laughing. “He rolled over onto his back and there it was, beneath the sheet. I didn’t mean to do it. The opportunity just sort of . . .
presented
itself.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “In a
big
way. If you know what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, chuckling. “Okay, I so did
not
need to know that.” I paused, thrilled to feel such a sense of lightness in this moment, laughing with my best friend. “Do you think it might be serious?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded briskly. “He’s just the gentlest man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t talk a lot, but when he does, it’s genuine and totally honest, you know?” She paused. “Did you know he was a foster child?” I shook my head, and she continued. “He told me he learned he was more likely to get adopted if he seemed quiet and well behaved, so it just stuck with him to be like that. But he never
was
adopted, and he really, really wants to have kids, so he can give them the kind of life he never had.” She sighed. “Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“It’s very sweet. And fits right in with your plans, huh?”

She stared out the window a moment before responding. “I’m trying not to have any plans this time. No agenda. Just appreciating what I like about him, which is a lot. We’ll just see how things go.”

We chatted more about how she wasn’t going home to Iowa for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year, even though her parents were begging her to. She booked more stressed out clients during the holiday season and they tended to tip her extremely well as a bonus, so she decided she couldn’t afford to be gone.

“You’ll spend them with us, then, I hope?” I said. “You and Spencer.”

She smiled. “That would be great.” Holding up her wineglass, she tilted it toward mine for a toast. “To good friends,” she said.