part0074

Lydia Marsh watched the bad news unfold on her television set. The stout, balding man standing before the computerized map of the state had just said the magic word. Nor’ Easter. His animated arm gestures and childlike grin told Lydia it was going to be a whopper.

She let out a heavy sigh. A laundry basket idled on her hip. As if things weren’t already tough enough, now Our God and Savior had to toss a snowstorm into the mix.

Alex flashed a smile from the kitchen table where he scribbled furiously, and for a moment Worry slid off Lydia’s shoulders. She managed a smile, then moved down the hallway, Worry climbing its way back up onto its perch.

She set the laundry basket on Alex’s unmade bed, plunked down beside it. The room was like a typical seven-year-old’s. LeBron James and Tom Brady flashed their multi-million dollar smiles from their prime spots on the worn blue plaid wallpaper. Books on sports and science and animals spilled from a red plastic bookcase. This morning’s pajamas lay in a heap by the bed, having missed the hamper by a mile.

In fact, aside from the Special Olympics ribbons tacked with pride to the cork board, one would never know there to be anything out of the ordinary.

Lydia reached for the solitary photograph on the nightstand. Though the frame was made of wood, she handled it as though it were the Hope Diamond.

It was more valuable.

The photograph was Alex’s last memory of his father. Sunlight bounced off the gleaming faces, Alex in his favorite baseball cap, Wayne in his ridiculous fishing hat. Dangling in front of them were two tiny fish, insignificant in size but sure to grow each time Wayne relayed the story.

Lydia pulled the photo close enough for her breath to fog the glass. She searched the crevices in Wayne’s face for any hints of illness. There were none. And, still, two weeks later she’d find herself a stranger in her own home, people carrying casseroles and telling her how unfair life could be.

“We just have to accept the hand God deals us,” Wayne’s Uncle Danny had said as he shoveled Gwen Livingston’s homemade meat lasagna into his mouth.

“If this is the hand meant for me, then get me a new dealer,” Lydia had replied. She had laughed hysterically at her joke, was still laughing when she was admitted into the place with stark white walls and no laughter, only hushed whispers in the corridors.

Lydia returned the photograph, positioned it to stand watch over her little man. She hummed a tune she couldn’t place as she neatly put tee shirts and sweaters and jeans in their right place, noting that they looked more like the wardrobe of a five-year-old.

She arranged the eruption of books. She snatched up the pajamas with a weary hand and tossed them into the hamper. Passing by the window, she paused.

A woman peered in at her. The woman was much older, with hollowed cheeks and hair that didn’t know which way to go. The woman wore the same tired blouse and when Lydia frowned, the woman frowned back.

Turning to leave, she gave the room a once-over. Something seemed out of place. Then she spotted it. A pie-shaped piece of drawing paper protruding from one of the desk drawers. She opened the drawer and the creased sheet of paper slid silently inside. On the sheet was a colorful rainbow, a pot of gold at one end, a dancing leprechaun at the other.

Lydia pulled up a spot on the carpet and settled in. She lifted the stack of drawings onto her lap. The rainbow. A lion sitting atop a hill. An adult Alex dressed in a policeman’s uniform. Another rainbow. Alex and Wayne fishing, the fish larger than the boat. She smiled and flipped to the next masterpiece.

Her smile fell apart. The paper trembled in her hands. The word came out in a single puff of breath.