CHAPTER
eighteen

In the middle of the night I woke to Flannery stepping on my head so she could look out my bedroom window. I tried shooing her, but she just meowed her refusal and jumped up to balance on my headboard.

I rolled over to look at the alarm clock. The glow-in-the-dark hand pointed to half past three.

I groaned and gave a stink eye to the cat, who couldn’t have cared in the least.

“This is why you got kicked out of your old house, isn’t it?” I whispered at her.

Flannery flicked her tail and went on ignoring me.

I thought I should get up to go to the bathroom and get a little drink of water. When I stepped out of my bedroom door, I heard a bumping kind of sound. Drawing in a sharp breath, I stilled myself, waiting to hear another noise. When I didn’t, I tiptoed into the hallway.

Just the house settling, I figured. I turned toward the bathroom before heading back to bed.

But then I heard the sound again. And again. It was coming from the basement.

My heartbeat quickened and my breathing shallowed. Before, I would have roused Norman to go check and see what it was. He’d have ventured down groggily in his undershirt and boxer shorts, tying his robe at his middle as he went. Of course, he’d find nothing and refuse my apologies for getting him up.

“My job is to make sure you’re safe,” he’d say, climbing back into bed and falling asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Norm wasn’t there and I had Clara and Hugo to look after, so I went to the kitchen and got my heaviest rolling pin, holding it cocked at the ready on my shoulder in case I needed to brain an intruder. Inching down the stairs, I felt my body go numb and noticed every sound.

Padding footsteps on the bare concrete floor. A bumping of something on metal followed by a heaving grunt.

At the bottom step, I hesitated, drawing in a good breath before stepping into the basement.

There, instead of a burglar or rat, Hugo stood in front of the washing machine, a bundle of bedclothes in his arms.

“Honey,” I said, lowering the rolling pin and letting out the air I’d been holding. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Cleaning up,” he answered, trying to lift the armload to the mouth of the washer.

“Did you have another accident?” I put the roller on the bottom step and walked toward him, trying not to notice how he flinched when I drew near. I put both hands behind my back so he’d know I had no intention of grabbing or hurting him. “It’s all right. Remember? It’s not something to be upset about.”

I reached the washer and turned on the water before measuring in the detergent. As gently as I could, I took the sheets and blanket from him, working them evenly into the drum. His arms empty, he lowered them to his sides. He’d worn an old set of the twins’ pajamas. Red flannel far too warm for June, but the cowboys on horseback printed all over the material had so delighted him he’d insisted on wearing them.

“I’ll need to wash those next,” I said.

His eyes grew round as if he might cry.

“You can have them back tomorrow as soon as they’re dry.” I nodded. “I promise.”

“I don’t have to throw them away?”

“Of course not, honey.” I ran the pad of my thumb under his eye, knocking a tear off his cheek. “Why would we throw them away?”

“Mommy says . . .”

Then he stopped and shut his mouth as if he was trying to keep something in.

“Mommy was upset when she said it?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I think sometimes adults say things they don’t mean when they’re upset. Don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, Aunt Betty says she can wash nearly anything,” I said. “Besides, I think I saw a blue pair of jammies just like those when I put everything in your drawers. Isn’t that something?”

He nodded.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, huh?” I put my palm on his cheek.

He walked beside me to the foot of the steps, where I leaned down to pick up the rolling pin.

“I’m sorry,” he said before taking the first step.

“You didn’t do it on purpose,” I said. “I’m not angry.”

“You won’t tell Mommy, will you?”

I shook my head. “This will be our little secret.”

Upstairs, cleaned up, and in the fresh blue pajamas, he helped me put clean linens on the bed. Once tucked in, he let me stay beside him until he fell back to sleep, his breath coming slower and deeper.

I stood as quietly as I could so as not to disturb him and reached for the switch on the bedside lamp. Before I turned off the light, I took one more look at his little face. His lips were parted, just slightly, and his long eyelashes curled against his cheek.

He held the silky edge of the blanket in his clenched fist just like Clara had when she was his age.

I clicked off the light, hoping they’d stick around.

By the time I made my way down the stairs, I knew that I would never fall back to sleep. So, I went to the living room, thinking about finding a book to read until Hugo got back up in the morning.

When I crouched down by the bookcase, I saw the old photo album, jutting out farther than the other spines on the shelf. Sighing, I resigned myself to looking at it. The middle of the night seemed the right time for facing memories that one would never be able to confront in the daylight.

Inside the front cover, in my mother’s looping and curling script, was listed the name of each family member that she could think of. Date of birth and date of death followed their names. Behind hers—Etta Johnson—was written the day she died in Clara’s uncertain and less than neat hand. February 18, 1935.

I cleared my throat and turned to the next page.

There was a photo of the four of us standing next to the steps of our apartment building. Dad had on his work clothes—a white jumpsuit that he had when he delivered milk—and stood with hands in the pockets. Clara was right in front of him, her hands clenched in fists as if ready for a fight. My hands were clasped in front of me, eyes wide as if I was afraid to blink. Both of us girls had on sad excuses for winter coats. Threadbare and thin, they did very little to keep the biting wind out.

Mother stood off to the side as if she wasn’t meant to be in the picture. As if she was simply passing through, walking by a little family that she’d never seen before.

A family she wouldn’t see again.

The photo had been taken the Christmas before my mother died. I only knew because it had been written on the white border of the picture.

I put my finger on the page beside the glossy photo, afraid that if I touched it, I would leave fingerprints, spoiling the picture.

Looking into the past was opening a door to recollections that were not necessarily welcome. That night I wished I could shut them out, but they filed in anyway.

One scrap of memory stood out clearer than the rest.

I was meant to be asleep. It was a school night. Clara snored, unperturbed by the sounds of my parents arguing in the next room. I, on the other hand, shook with every raised voice and jumped at each slammed door.

“Why don’t you just give me a divorce?” Mother had screamed at one point. “Go marry someone better! I know that’s what you want.”

After a while, as usually happened, they both ran out of steam. Dad went to bed and Mother came to our room to check on us. When she opened the door, I shut my eyes so she wouldn’t know I was awake. She touched my forehead with her cold hand.

“I wish I could be the mother you need me to be,” she’d whispered. “You deserve better.”

By the next afternoon she was gone. My dad had taken her to the sanitarium.

I never saw her again.

Forgetting the fear of smudging the photo, I put my finger on the image of my mother.

“I didn’t need a better mother,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I just needed you.”

With all the care in the world, I closed the album and put it back on the shelf.