CHAPTER 17

Why Is Mom Wearing a Ring?

When Monday comes, I don’t say anything to the other girls about Marianna’s cottage. At recess, Amber keeps peppering her with questions about the big party she’s going to have. When will it be? How much longer?? Why can’t we have it right away???

I start a game of horses to change the subject. Marianna gives me a relieved smile, and even plays along. She tells us her horse is the color of beach sand. She names her Seattle. All week, Marianna wants to play horses at recess.

Marianna and I don’t talk much on the way to the library after school, but that’s not a bad thing. Friends don’t always need to fill up the quiet spaces with lots of words.

“Are you coming inside today?” I ask Marianna when we get to the library steps on Thursday.

“Of course, Tweety, don’t I always?” she replies.

When I open the door, I see that Dad is there, talking with Mom.

I freeze in the doorway. I haven’t seen Mom and Dad together in the same room since Family Night at school. It’s weird how something that used to be so ordinary seems like the biggest deal in the world now.

In less time than it takes Marianna to ask, “Why the freeze face, Tweety? It’s just your mom and dad,” my brain kicks up a zillion questions.

Why is Dad here?

Did Mom call him after she cried on Saturday?

Did Dad stop by to give her a hug and tell her everything would be okay?

Why is Mom holding a little velvety box?

Ohmygosh, is that a new ring on her finger??

Did Dad just give it to her???

Does he want to be married again????

Does Mom?????

“Dad!” I blurt, flying across the room to him.

“Hey, Squirt!” Dad catches me up in a big hug.

“Hi, girls!” Mom says cheerfully. She waves Marianna over to us and the new ring on her finger sparkles under the fluorescent ceiling lights. Her old wedding ring was a plain gold band. This ring has a pretty red stone. Mom’s favorite color!

“Hello, Mrs. Byrd,” Marianna replies. She opens her tote bag and pulls out a picture book called Winter in Wisconsin. “Reuben checked this out for me. I told him it’s for little kids, but I read it anyway. Did you know people around here sculpt actual castles out of snow? Where I come from, we make them out of sand.” She tilts her hips. “I might try it with snow this year.”

Mom smiles and reaches for the book. The ring glimmers on her hand.

I beam at Dad as he sets me down again. “I like the new ring you gave Mom! The old one was so plain. This one is a lot better!”

I look back and forth between Dad and Mom, waiting for them to tell me that we are going to be a family again. But they just stand there, making freeze faces at each other.

“Oh dear,” Mom says, touching the ring. She wiggles it over her knuckle. “It’s not what you think, Wren. This ring belonged to my grandmother. It got mixed in with your dad’s things. He was just returning it to me.”

Mom puts the ring back in the little velvety box and closes the lid.

My heart sinks to my stomach.

To my knees.

To my sneakers.

Dumb little bird, I say to myself, turning away. Mom and Dad aren’t getting back together. They’re still just dividing up their stuff. I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears creep out.

A hand touches my shoulder. “Squirt, you didn’t think your mom and I—?”

I shake off Dad’s hand and jerk away. “Don’t call me that!” I shout at him. “I hate Squirt! I’m sick of ‘your mom’ and ‘your dad’!” Tears flood my eyes.

Dad kneels next to me. “Wren,” he says. “Wren . . .”

I collapse against his shoulder and sob.

Suddenly, Mom is there with a handful of tissues, wiping my eyes, my cheeks, my chin. Then she puts her arms around me too. We stay like that, crouched together until my sobs turn into words again. “I just want . . . want us . . . to go home.”

Dad looks at Mom. “Maybe I should take her back to your place?”

Mom nods. “I’ll meet you there.”

Mom and Dad stand up.

I realize Marianna is still here.

“I better go,” she says quietly. “See you at school, Wren?”

I nod, feeling too numb to talk.

Too numb to look at her.

Almost too numb to feel her squeeze my arm as she brushes past me and heads out the door.

*   *   *

On our way home, I try to make a nook for myself in the front seat by scrunching down and covering my head with my jacket.

I can barely hear Dad when he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” I say through the fabric.

“Do you want to wait in the truck while I pick up supper for you two?”

“Yes.”

“How about I run a bubble bath when we get to your mom’s?”

“Okay.”

*   *   *

Later, while I’m in the tub, which is the most private of private times in a girl’s life, Mom peeks in to check on me. “I’m home now, Wren, are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“YES!!”

I plug my nose and dunk below the bubbles.

I can’t believe I bawled like a baby in front of Marianna. How could I think my parents were getting back together?

When I come up for air, Shakespeare is standing on the edge of the tub.

“Mew?” he says.

I reach up to scratch his chest, fresh tears filling my eyes. They roll down my cheeks and off my chin.

“If Dad were living here, the crybaby scene never would have happened,” I tell him. “They wouldn’t be acting like I’m made of glass. I could be with you every day of the week.”

Shakespeare sits down, listening. His tail tips a shampoo bottle into the water. It floats like a little island in a sudsy sea.

“I could call Amber and we would plan a sleepover for this weekend, just like we always used to do. Remember how we would dress you up in old doll clothes and pretend you were our baby brother? It felt like we were a real family even though it was just pretend. Now I have to pretend we are a real family all the time.”

When Shakespeare finally hops down and slips out the door, I hug my knees until the bathwater turns cold. Then I open the drain and my tears wash away in the sudsy sea.

*   *   *

Dad is gone when I get downstairs from my bath. Mom is in the kitchen, talking on her phone. I’m not hungry, but I grab a take-out box and a plastic fork from the counter anyway. Then I shuffle to the dining room in my slippers and crawl under the table. Shakespeare winds his way in through the chair legs.

Sitting down and closing my eyes, I imagine myself smaller and smaller, until I’m the size of my cat. When I open my eyes again, the table is my little house. The chairs are the doors and windows.

Shakespeare curls up next to me.

“Are you hiding?”

I look past Shakespeare and see Mom’s stocking feet. She leans over and looks at me, a take-out container and a paper cup of coffee in her hands.

“No,” I reply. “I’m pretending.”

Mom moves a chair. “Is there room for me?”

“Really?”

Without answering, she crawls under the table too, scooting in next to me and trying to bend her legs in a yoga move.

It takes her a while, but when she’s all settled, she smiles at me. “Cozy.”

Mom’s never sat in one of my nooks.

Spreading out some napkins, we start eating.

Quietly.

Even though we’re sitting on the floor, using plastic silverware and take-out boxes for bowls, Mom doesn’t make believe it’s a picnic. I’m glad because it’s too hard to always pretend that everything is happily-ever-after when it isn’t.

The pocket on Mom’s blazer chirps. She sets down her salad, pulls out her phone, and checks the screen. “It’s your dad,” she says, setting the phone on the floor. “I’ll put him on speaker.”

“Hi, Dad,” I say.

“Hey, Squir—Wren.” With him on speaker, it’s almost like he’s sitting here with us. “What’s up?” he asks.

“The table,” I say. “Mom and I are sitting under it. I guess you are too.”

“Cozy!” Dad says. “I was just thinking, I haven’t asked you any good questions in a while. Got time for a quick round?”

“Shoot,” I reply.

“Okay,” Dad says, thinking for a moment before he begins.

“Was that a grizzly bear I saw lounging in your bedroom earlier?”

“No, it was a polar bear.”

“Heh, heh. Good one. Did capuchin monkeys invade your school today and hold the principal hostage?”

Giggle. “No.”

“Did you raise your hand during math class?”

“Yes.”

“Attagirl! Did you ace your spelling quiz?”

“Not yet, but I will tomorrow.”

“How many boyfriends do you have these days?”

“Yuck. Zero.”

“How many erasers, then?”

“Fifty.”

“Wow! That’s a lot. Do you know how much I love you, Wren?”

“How much?”

“More than fifty times fifty times fifty again.”

“Wow! That’s a lot.”

“Yep. And your mom loves you just as much, got that?”

“Okay.”

“Done,” Dad says.

“But that was only a few questions,” I say.

“It’s a good place to stop for now. We’ll have more this weekend. Don’t forget to ride the bus to my place.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not a baby anymore, Dad. You and Mom don’t have to keep reminding me.”

I hear Dad smile. “Got it.”

“And . . . I don’t actually mind Squirt.”

“Didn’t believe it for a minute.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Bye for now.”

“Over and out.”

“Grizzly bears and capuchin monkeys?” Mom says as she tucks her phone away. “Your dad has added new material to his repertoire.” She takes a sip of coffee, then smiles. A real smile.

“Mom? Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she replies.

“Will we ever be happy again?”

She studies my face for a moment, like it’s a line from a poem she doesn’t want to forget. I think she’s trying not to cry again, but she doesn’t look away.

“I know things are different now,” Mom says. “I wish different was the same as happy, but it’s not.”

I stop chewing.

“Someday we’ll be happy,” she tells me. “But for now, I’d say we’re happier.”

“Happier-ever-after?” I ask.

Mom nods and gently rests her forehead against mine. “Happier-ever-after.”