Momma shook her head, shooing us with her hand, but Dad followed her into the kitchen.
“Here,” he said, and pulled a pan from the lower cupboard. “Let me cook some spaghetti.”
“I can
do
it,” Momma said, then whispered, “I can make spaghetti. Please.”
“Let me help you,” he said.
“Just sit down in the living room.” She stared directly into his eyes as she took the pan from him. Then suddenly smiling at the rest of us she added, “Everyone relax in the other room. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Phil went first and sat tall and stiff on the couch. I slouched beside him, swinging my legs, staring at the room, stripped of its life—all but the dolls Momma had made, which peeked their heads out of the cardboard boxes.
“I’m happy to give you a hand,” Anne shouted occasionally toward Momma, but there was no answer—only the sound of her lighting the gas burner and filling the pan with water.
“I’m sorry for causing such trouble,” she said to Dad.
“It’s no trouble,” he said, but when I listened closely I could hear Momma sniffling in the other room.
Dad searched again for his briefcase, making more noise than necessary to drown out the sounds coming from the kitchen. When he finally found it right beside the chair he’d been sitting in, Anne smiled, trying not to laugh.
I kicked my feet to pass the time. Usually when Momma made dinner, we just found something at our placemats—a bowl of cereal, a sandwich and chips, an avocado sliced in half with dressing where the seed had been. This would be something if she cooked a hot meal and sat down to eat with us.
Phil sat expressionless while Dad wound his watch, and
Anne studied something on her blouse. “I have to learn not to wear light colors,” she said, dusting her hand across her bosom. “The red clay gets on everything.”
It seemed for a moment that my father and his secretary were the only two in the room. Their smiles were long and strange, my father’s face an embarrassing pink.
“Dinner.” Momma’s voice broke as she spoke this single word, standing in the center of the room with oven mitts over her hands and her shoulders trembling.
We sat at the table as Momma brought out the pan of spaghetti, then a jar of sauce, which she opened and poured in without stirring. We served ourselves, and Anne asked, “Would you like me to make a side of vegetables or some garlic bread for—? Mrs. Harris, are you all right?”
Momma sat quivering and staring at her empty plate. This was no longer something that alarmed our family—Momma not eating or speaking. Sometimes she tapped her nail over and over on the edge of the table, no sign of life in her eyes, and you knew the reason she didn’t answer you was because she wasn’t there.
Dad stared at Phil and me and mouthed,
Eat
.
We tried to hurry the spaghetti into our mouths, but it was slippery, falling off my fork, slapping Phil’s cheeks. Anne, with a worried expression on her face, did the same. We didn’t bother with drinks, and no one asked for seconds.
When we had finished eating—in fact, at the very moment when Phil, always the slowest eater, put the last forkful in his mouth—Anne rose cautiously.
“Well,” she said, straightening her skirt. “I know you have a busy day tomorrow. I should take those papers I came for and get on my way.”
Momma stood too, collecting the dishes and bringing them to the sink, while Dad, red-faced, walked with Anne into the other room. He unlocked his briefcase and passed her documents with the word confidential stamped in big red letters.
I ran to be with Momma, tugging on her dress and telling her, “I’m ready for bed.”
“Bed? But it’s still light outside.”
“Please, Momma. We’ll read.”
She gave me a tired smile. “If I tuck you in now, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night.”
“I won’t. I’ll sleep the whole way through.”
“I don’t know, Bear.”
“Please. I want to know what will happen in the book. Then I’ll go right to sleep and I’ll stay asleep.”
“Okay. If you promise. The sooner this day ends, the better.”
“I promise. I’ll wait in my room for our story.”
“All right,” she said, putting the kettle on. Her voice was tired. “I’ll be in as soon as I can.” And she reached into the cupboard for my ruby cup.
Before I got to my room, I could hear all three grown-ups in the living room—the hard-to-believe thank yous for dinner, talk about the busy day ahead, hopes that Momma would soon feel better, and finally, the latch closing on our front door. As I waited for Momma, I skated in sock feet over the shiny wood floor, brushing my hand against the walls. In the kitchen, there was the sound of plates clanking into the dish rack and my parents arguing in low voices. My father said, “Pull it together,” and I moved to the far end of my room until their voices disappeared. There, I opened the lid to my music box so the plastic ballerina would turn in circles with me.
When I heard the whistle of the kettle, I hurried into
my nightgown and under the covers. Momma took slow steps into my room and handed me my drink carefully so it wouldn’t spill. Then she sat, slumped, on the edge of the bed, her hands shaking. “I’ll just sit here tonight,” she said. “We’ll read tomorrow.”
Alice in Wonderland
was turned upside down on the night-stand. We had one chapter to go. I chattered about Alice and ballerinas and a new hole in my sock. She placed her hand on me. “Sh. Enough talking now.” She was crying, and when her tears fell on me, she gently rubbed them into my skin. “It’s been a long day, Bear,” she said.
She handed me the cup filled with bright orange liquid, an ice cube melting inside of it. I felt the rough edge where the handle had broken off, listened to the ice squeak and crack as I took tiny sips. My eyes never left her.
She sat there, trembling, trying to keep it in, but soon covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Mascara and the ivory base she used to coat her skin melted down her face and between her fingers.
“Don’t cry,” I said out of habit, though I loved how she was so full of emotion. She was like the beautiful women who cried on the movie screen, the scenes you remembered even after you forgot what the rest of the movie was about.
The drink had cooled enough to finish it in one last swallow. “There you go,” Momma said, taking the cup and resting her hand on me.
“This is my favorite part of the day,” I said, not sure if I had spoken aloud or not.
I could feel the numbness I knew as sleep moving through my limbs. Momma cradled my head in her hand and lowered me to the pillow. I closed my eyes and felt her tears again. I pretended
we were at the playground together, lying on our backs on the merry-go-round, turning and turning in the rain.
I woke to the sound of stomping and banging. My head felt heavy on my pillow, but I pulled myself up and stumbled to the bedroom door. Phil was listening from the hallway.
“What’s happening?” I asked. My tongue felt swollen and my words were slurred.
“I’m not sure. The doorbell rang while we were eating breakfast, and Dad jumped up and started rushing around the house.”
“It’s morning?” I felt woozy and held on to the wall.
Before he could answer, Dad barreled down the hallway, carrying a suitcase, which bumped against the wall every few steps. I moved out of the way as he turned into my room.
Another wave of dizziness caused me to bend over and place my hands on my knees, but he didn’t stop to check on me. Instead, he began taking clothes out of my dresser drawers.
“Dad?”
He handed me my sneakers. “Here, put your shoes on.”
I was too tired to grip them and they fell to the floor. “What’s happening?” I asked.
“Anne is here to pick you up. She’s going to take you back to her place for a bit.”
I rubbed my face, trying to wake up. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ll stay with her for a few days while we pack up the U-Haul and drive it to the new house.”
“You’re moving without me?”
“It’s a very long drive, Tillie. You’ll join us as soon as we have the new house set up.”
I held to the side of my costume box, overstuffed with tutus
and cowboy vests and dress-up shoes. I leaned over it like I might get sick. “Dad, I don’t want to go with her.”
“Don’t argue with me.” He rolled the clothes the way he rolled socks so he could pack tight without anything wrinkling. “Hurry up, now. Anne is waiting out front.”
“But Dad.”
“Put your shoes on.”
I reached for the closest pair from inside the costume box, slammed them to the floor, and stomped my feet inside. “I won’t go!” I shouted, then turned to Phil and said, “Tell him we won’t go!”
Phil, who never raised his voice or questioned what he was told, looked stunned and said, “Dad? I’d rather stay here, too.”
“She’s only taking Tillie,” Dad told him. “I can use your help.”
I felt the same sort of shock as if waking from a bad dream where nothing made sense. All I knew was I needed Momma and bolted out of the room, tripping most of the way until I’d pushed open her bedroom door, letting the light shine in from the hallway.
There were serving trays, pill bottles, half-empty glasses on the end table. On the far side of the bed, the covers rose and fell. I stepped into the room and slowly closed the door so Dad wouldn’t hear it latch.
I tiptoed closer and leaned against the bedspread. “Momma? Tell him I won’t go. I want to stay with you.” I crawled under the warm, sour-smelling covers and pressed my back against her belly. “I want to stay with you, Momma,” I said, tucking my hands under my chin.
She did not move. Outside, I heard Anne’s car start up, as Dad stomped through the house. I pressed closer and slid my legs under the covers, wincing when I heard the blast of a horn.
“That’s her honking. Please don’t let her take me. I don’t want to go, Momma. Momma?”
All of the muscles from my throat down to my stomach tightened as I waited there, staring at the serving tray with the fold-down legs. My eyes followed the tray’s gold edge back and forth until it became two blurry lines. Then, very slowly, Momma’s arm, blue white and freckled, rose from the covers and she closed her fingers around my hands and warmed them. “I don’t deserve you, Bear,” she said.
As she wrapped her arm around me tight, I started to cry. It came in waves and it came with no sound. Nothing, not my father or even my long-gone mother who used to twirl in circles and smell of gardenia lotion, could have comforted me more. I wanted to fall asleep there. Her arm was heavy, but until it hurt, I wasn’t going to move.
There was a moment of peace, a slippery sense of calm in which I believed that Dad’s secretary would leave and our family would load the U-Haul and drive away together. I wanted to believe in this, though I heard Dad calling for me. I could hear him in the hallway, and I braced myself for the sound of his hand on the doorknob. There it was.
The door opened and he entered the room. His shadow approached the bed, and I quickly closed my eyes, believing he would not want to wake me. I tried my best not to move, sure he could hear every swallow. And when I felt his hand on my shoulder, I flinched.
“Come on, Tillie. It’s time.”
I kept my eyes closed, my heart wild and thumping.
“Please don’t be difficult now,” Dad said and started to pull me away from her.
“Bear,” Momma whispered into my ear with dark and powerful breath. “My little Bear.” Her arm stayed limp around me.
I grabbed hold of the mattress, kicking my legs and arching backward when he tried to lift me, but his grip was strong. He carried me, thrashing, down the hallway past my silent brother and out the front door. Anne’s white hatchback, stained by the red dust, was waiting at the end of our walkway with the engine running and the passenger door open. Dad wrestled me in beside his secretary.
“I won’t go!” I screamed.
He tried to buckle me in, but I flailed around so much he couldn’t get close. I didn’t realize he’d shut the door until I tried to launch myself back out of the car and hit my head against the window. But it was when he held his hand up to say good-bye that the panic started. My teeth chattered and my legs began to tremble as if I was only then awake enough to understand what was happening.
“Tillie, you have to settle down,” Anne said, as if I could.
“I want my mother!” I yelled, but my voice sounded far away, drowned out by the sound of blood pumping in my ears. I felt the thud of my suitcase landing in the trunk, and lunged for the handle. She slapped my hand away, and we began to drive.
Sobbing and dazed, I turned around in my seat and stared out the back window at the house I’d never see again. It got smaller and smaller, and then Momma rushed across the lawn in yesterday’s clothes, waving her arms desperately over her head.
“Let me out!” I shrieked. I couldn’t catch my breath.
Anne kept her eyes on the road, accelerating as Momma called my name again and again before she fell to her knees in the grass.
I
OPENED MY EYES TO
see flat, beige land speeding by, and sat up suddenly, feeling the seatbelt across my lap.
“Awake already?” Anne asked.
Seeing her behind the steering wheel, I remembered that I was in her car, remembered how she slapped my hand when I tried to run back to Momma.
“You were out so quickly. I thought you might sleep the whole way.”
Everything ached—my back and neck from leaning away from her, my head and throat from screaming. My feet, which didn’t touch the floor, felt tingly from hanging still for so long.
“I’m only about thirty minutes off base,” she said. “But it feels like we’re way out in the country, doesn’t it?”
I kept my face against the glass, watching the heat rise and blur the red earth and purple mountains. Closing my eyes again, I thought of Momma—how she’d held me till the very moment Dad yanked me from her arms and shoved me into the car. I
thought of her running after me with her hands in the air, and wondered if Dad had brought her back inside or if she was still there on the lawn. I cried again, but softly this time, so my head wouldn’t pound.