TEN
Dirty Details of a Rotten, Horrendous Day

When the bus pulled up to the unloading curb at the junior high building that Monday morning, I saw Melissa inside the big window by the front door. Her bus always gets to the school before mine, so she waits for me. It gave me some comfort that morning, I tell you, to see my best friend. After all that had transpired, I needed someone besides Myra Sue to spill all my troubles to.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked the minute I walked into the building. “Are you sick?”

Three eighth-grade boys shoved past us. They heard her and turned to look at me as if I had some horrid disease that was oozing out of my pores.

I scowled at them and shooed them away by flipping my hands. They sneered but kept walking. Boys! I’ll never understand them, and to tell you the honest truth, I don’t see what’s so special about them, even though every girl in my class seemed to have a crush on one guy or another. Goofy girls.

I grabbed Melissa’s hand and pulled her over to the wall, away from the crowd of the busy hallway, nearly spilling her books right out of her arms.

“I feel sick!” I said. “The most awfullest thing you can imagine has happened.”

“Isabel St. James wants to adopt you?” she guessed, her eyes all big and gawky.

It was such a crazy, unexpected statement that I just stared at that girl for a minute.

“What?

”

“Well, after all you’ve told me about her, wouldn’t that be the most awfullest terrible thing you could imagine?”

She had a point, but Isabel St. James would rather adopt Daisy than me, I’m pretty sure.

“Listen to me,” I said. “My mama is gonna have a baby.”

Melissa’s hazel eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh!”

She grinned really big and shrieked so loud, the ear wax nearly dribbled out of my ears.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Wow! A new baby in your house. What fun, A.G.!”

I gawked at her. “Are you kiddin’? Mama is too old to be having babies.”

“No, she isn’t.” She moved her books from one arm to the other. “She’s old, but she’s not that old. And your mama is so nice and she’ll love this baby so much that I bet she’ll want to have a bunch more.”

I do believe if she’d had both hands free, that silly girl would have clapped after she said this. And here I was, hoping for a little sympathy and support. Was that too much to ask from a best friend?

The early bell rang, giving us warning that classes started in five minutes. The busy hallway nearly leaped right out of the building with so many kids breaking the rules by yelling and running and throwing pencils or books back and forth as they all rushed to their classrooms. I did not move because the reaction of my best friend stunned me stiff.

“You are out of your ever-lovin’ mind, Melissa Kay Carlyle. Our family is perfect just as it is. We do not need a baby coming along messing up everything.”

Some part of my mind told me I was falling into the thinking of my sister and all the silly things she said yesterday, but having had the night to sleep on it, I now realized that I tended to agree with her. That does not happen very often.

“Listen, Melissa. You don’t know diddly about what a royal pain in the backside it is to have a sibling. Also, you weren’t there for the Extreme Upheaval brought about by having Ian and Isabel St. James cluttering up our home and needing things and getting in the way of everyone, so you cannot possibly begin to imagine what having another intruder in the house will be like. And this one will poop its diapers and demand everyone’s attention. Them St. Jameses, especially ole Isabel, like to have worn Mama down to a nub, having her run around doing things all the time. With a new baby, my mother most likely will fall apart, and our entire family with her. I don’t want Mama to fall apart.”

“I never thought about that,” she replied slowly, after a bit. “I’ve never seen a baby that does all the rotten things you just said.”

I huffed. “That’s because the only babies you’ve ever seen are the ones in those goo-goo cute commercials on television, or the ones in the church nursery who are usually all dolled up and seem to sleep whenever they aren’t playing or eating.”

“But . . . but aren’t those the only babies you’ve been around?”

She had a good point. However, I knew something she didn’t. I knew about Myra Sue’s friend Alice Ann Reed and what happened to her family. So I told Melissa all about the nightmare at Alice Ann’s house when her mother had a baby last year.

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. Then, a moment later, with more conviction: “But your mother is not like Alice Ann’s mother. Not in the least! Mrs. Reed is kinda . . . well, self-centered.”

Like Isabel St. James, I thought.

“Well, anyway,” I said, “this baby is the reason Mama hasn’t been herself lately.”

“And she is old,” Melissa reminded me. “This is bound to be weird for her, April Grace.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry you’re all upset about it.”

“Thanks.”

“And please don’t feel bad. It’ll be a good thing. You’ll see.”

I heaved a sigh. I’ll tell you something. I tried talking Mama and Daddy into giving away ole Myra Sue once, and they wouldn’t do it. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t give this one away, either.

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

She smiled. “Me, too.” She glanced around at the quickly emptying hallway. “We better get to class before we’re tardy. Principal Farber has a real thing about tardiness, you know.”

“So I heard,” I said as we trudged toward our classroom.

“Don’t you need to get your books from your locker?” Melissa asked.

That’s when I realized all my books were still on the table at home. Oh brother.

Well, let me tell you something: some teachers have no heart.

Miss Jane-Nell Dickson, who teaches history and social studies and health, is one of them.

When Melissa and I got to class about two and a half seconds before the bell rang, she was already taking roll. I wanted to tell her that was about as unfair a thing as she could do, but looking at her broad face—which was the color and size of a round slice of watermelon—I decided not to utter a peep. She glared at my friend and me as we sat down in our seats.

“Open your books to page 24,” she said without first saying very nicely, “Good morning, students.” Not that she’s done that yet, and I don’t expect her to start.

Everyone opened their books. I sat there like a stump because I did not want her to notice me.

Oh well. She did.

“April Grace Reilly,” she said, giving me a Teacher Stare.

“Open your book.”

“I can’t, ma’am.” Who would’ve thought my voice would’ve ever come out as squeaky as Betty Boop’s? Everyone in that class laughed until ole Miss Dickson rapped her ruler on her desk. It sounded as loud and sharp and sudden as a firecracker.

“CLASS!” she roared, like we were all tearing the walls down or something.

Everybody shut up like you can’t believe. I’m pretty sure no one breathed. I think our blood just sat unmoving in our veins, waiting for Miss Dickson to give our hearts permission to pump again.

“April Grace Reilly, why can’t you open your book? Did you break your fingers?”

“No, ma’am,” I squeaked like a squeegee on a clean window. “I left it at home.”

Boy, oh boy, I thought that teacher’s eyes were gonna pop right out of her head and roll across the floor to glare at me up close.

“Why did you leave your book at home?”

I swallowed hard. “I forgot it, ma’am.”

“Forgot your history book? Forgot your history book? How could you do that?”

“Maybe she was too overcome with the barnyard smell,” Lottie Fuhrman said.

Miss Dickson is known to be hard of hearing at times, and I reckon that was one time when she was because she did not blink or glare or say a word to ole Lottie.

“April Grace Reilly!” the teacher hollered. “You will write an essay on the importance of bringing books to class.” She glared at everyone else. “In fact, you may all write an essay on the importance of bringing books to class. You will take out paper and you will do it now.”

Oh good gravy. Now everyone was gonna hate me for the rest of the day.

And they did.

When Myra Sue and I got off the school bus, Daisy sauntered down the driveway to meet us. She sniffed Myra Sue, who reared back as if she was going to get dirty from Daisy’s breath. Ole Daisy’s tail never stopped wagging, though, and she came to me, sniffed all the school smells, of which there were plenty, believe me, then butted her head into my hip. I squatted down and gave her the biggest hug you can give a dog who is almost as big as a baby elephant.

As that stinky, noisy ole Bluebird school bus left us behind, I stood up and watched as it went on its way down Rough Creek Road. I was purely glad to see it go.

Then I looked all around at the scenery surrounding me.

Boy howdy, after a hard day, it’s good to be greeted by someone like Daisy. And here’s something else: it is always good to be home, even if you’re just standing in the driveway, looking around. I have to say, when I hear the mockingbird and the cardinal and the meadowlark, or the soft, low moos from our cows, I don’t want to hear the television or the radio or a car engine or any other man-made sound.

If you were here, you’d see how the big wooded mountains that surround our farm make you feel all comfortable and snugged in, like nature is hugging you and giving you shelter. The oaks, hickories, and pines grow thickly and throw cooling shade to make the hillsides look like green velvet. The sight makes me feel good all over.

Our house, an old, white, two-story farmhouse that has been in our family forever, has always been a sweet sight to my eyes, even with the St. Jameses living in it with us. I was happy to see that house. The big front porch beckoned me to come and sit in the swing and forget all about the day at school, but I wanted to go inside and see how Mama was feeling.

When I walked inside the house, there was no one in the kitchen, so I shot a glance into the dining room.

There sat my schoolbooks, stacked right on the corner of the table where I had left them that morning. The sight of them made my stomach clench, especially since I’d been sent to Mrs. Patsy Farber’s office for leaving them all at home, and she said she was gonna call my folks.

Myra Sue was already chattering away with Isabel in her room, but I went to check on Mama. She was fast asleep when I peeked in on her. She slept quietly, as a lady sleeps, not snoring like a hibernating grizzly bear the way Isabel does.

From where I stood staring at her in the doorway, Mama looked young and fragile, not like Mama at all. I was aggravated at myself for being aggravated at her and that baby. I knew how babies were made, and I knew how they grew and how they were born, but I just never thought my mama and daddy would present the world with another offspring. I reckon Myra Sue and me weren’t enough.

That was a disappointment that I couldn’t quite come to terms with. Disappointment in myself, I mean. Maybe if I had been more careful to think before I spoke and had not been as sassy when I did speak, and if Myra Sue had been less prissy and uppity, our parents would not have thought they needed another child to make up for our rottenness.

Maybe Myra Sue felt the same way I did, but it sure as the world seemed to me that she cared more about ole Isabel than she did her very own mother. Which just goes to prove my point. If I had not been so sad and so weary in body, mind, and soul, the whole idea would have made me downright mad.

I silently closed the door to the bedroom where Mama slept. In my own room, I changed out of my new jean shorts and blue-and-yellow T-shirt, and I put on a soft, scruffy pair of jeans that had been Myra’s a couple of years ago and pulled on Mama’s cast-off green T-shirt.

I knew I should go downstairs, get my schoolbooks, and do my homework. I knew Big Trouble awaited me if I did not. But I have to say, my bed looked purely inviting. I just crawled right up on it, scrooched down between the covers, and went to sleep in about five seconds.

The most awful racket you ever heard woke me up.

I had no idea where I was, what time it was, or what day it was. The color of late evening lay outside my window, which surprised me because it felt like I’d just lain down a few minutes earlier.

Then I knew what had awakened me. Voices. Voices in the hall outside my room and voices coming from the room next door. The room where Mama was. They were loud and scared-sounding.

My daddy was yelling, “Lily! Lily!” like my mama had fallen into a frozen river.

The sound of his voice terrified me worse than anything had ever scared me in my entire life. My heart stopped, and I couldn’t think.

I tried to get out of the bed, but those covers seemed to have a mind of their own. They wrapped around my arms and legs and twisted around my torso like they were gonna eat me alive, and the more I growled and hissed and kicked and fought, the more tangled up I got.

“Hey!” I yelled to those voices. “What’s going on?”

I finally freed myself from those crazy bedclothes and bounded to the door. I opened it up just as Daddy came out of the other bedroom, carrying Mama in his arms like she was a rag doll. Grandma tagged right behind him. I ran toward them, screaming bloody murder.

Someone scooped me up while I kept hollering, “Is she dying? Is my mama dead?”

I struggled in those arms, and a voice said right in my ear, “It’s okay, April. It’s okay.”

Ian St. James cradled me like I was a little kid. His voice was quiet and soothing, but I did not want to be quieted or soothed. I wanted to know what was going on with my mama and why she looked lifeless.

“Daddy!” I screamed. “Where are you going with Mama? What’s wrong with her? ”

We followed him downstairs. Grandma was on his heels, and Ian carried me, though I wriggled the whole time. Isabel stood, propped on her crutches, at the foot of the steps, wide-eyed. Myra Sue stood real close to her. They wore the exact same expressions of fear and worry.

Grandma opened the front door for Daddy. She looked like someone had drained all the blood out of her body.

I reached out, tried to grab Daddy, but Ian held me back. Farmwork had made him strong and wiry.

“Daddy!

”

He turned around.

“Honey, I’m taking her to the hospital. You need—”

“I am going with you! Put me down. Put me down right now, Ian St. James! ”

Ian’s arms just got harder than rocks.

“April!” Daddy said. “Sweetheart, don’t make this more difficult than it already is.” He glanced at Ian. “Hang on to her.”

He turned to Grandma. “Mom, will you please explain to the girls what’s happening? I’ll call you when I know something.”

Then he was out the door, gone into the black night with Mama in his arms. Grandma shut the door behind him.

Holding back all the snuffling and sobbing as best I could, I tried to reason with those three adults.

“I need to be with my mother,” I told them. “She needs her daughter. Let me go now.”

“Take her into the front room, Ian,” Grandma said. “Isabel, honey, you need to get off your feet before you fall over. C’mon, hon, I’ll help you.” She guided Isabel to the soft old rocking chair, and ole Myra Sue trailed them like a lost dog.

Myra Sue settled on the floor right at Isabel’s feet. Ian put me on the sofa, then sat on the edge of it. I heard the car speed out of our driveway and knew Daddy had taken my mama away.

Grandma sat in the brown leather recliner. She did not put the footrest up or recline the back of it. In fact, she sort of sat on the edge of it like she didn’t plan to sit there very long.

“Okay, girls, let me tell you right quick what happened, then I’ll give you a bite to eat. After I got supper fixed, I took a tray up to your mama, ’cause I knew she was feeling extra tired. I figgered it was a good idea to let her stay in the bed. When I got upstairs, though, I couldn’t get her to wake up, so I started hollering for your daddy. Your daddy finally got her to wake up, but she passed right out again. He’s taking her to the emergency room, and they’ll find out what’s wrong with her.”

Myra Sue and I looked at each other, and I could see she was as scared as I was.

“Mike isn’t taking her to that horrible hospital in Blue Reed, is he?” Isabel said.

Grandma nodded. “It’s the closest one.”

Knowing that, I felt sicker than ever. I hardly saw how going to Blue Reed General Hospital would help my mother, and in fact, it might cause more harm than good.

But Grandma made me feel better when she said, “If it looks like it’s anything serious, Mike will insist they transport her to the Springdale hospital by ambulance.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Isabel said, heaving a deep sigh. “I hate to think of Lily in that odious place.”

“Me, too,” said Myra Sue, and I heartily agreed with her.

Right then, I did not like that baby and what it was doin’ to my mama. Not one little bit.

Grandma cleared her throat, glancing at Myra Sue and back at me. “Girls, I need to explain something to you,” she said.

Myra Sue and I exchanged looks. This sounded way serious, and I’d had about all I could stand of serious.

“You see, it’s this way. Your mama has lost a couple of babies before.”

I sat straight up, and Myra Sue kinda jumped a little.

“Huh? What?” I asked. “What do you mean, Grandma?”

“I don’t remember any such thing,” Myra Sue said, looking as mystified as I felt.

“No, you wouldn’t remember, either one of you. You were little, and Lily thought it was best you never knew. She did not tell you girls about this baby early on because she didn’t want to build up your hopes only to let you down if she lost it.” She smiled, sad-like. “Babies are mighty sweet, and we get attached to ’em right quick. She didn’t want you girls to be hurt and disappointed. That’s why she waited to tell you this time.”

“Is she losing this baby?” Myra Sue asked. “Is that why she’s so sick?”

“Honey, I don’t know. I hope not. Let’s pray not. Let’s ask God to spare this baby so’s we can get to know it and love it and welcome it when it gets here.”

“Do you think praying will do any good?” Myra Sue asked.

“I believe in prayer, Myra. You know that.”

The St. Jameses, who are about as religious as a rotten old tree stump, did not say anything, for which I was grateful. Someday, maybe, they would believe in God and the good things He does. Maybe they would realize that there are things in our lives beyond our control, things that, if we trust and believe, will get better. I mean, they have had what some might call miracles happen to them since they moved to Rough Creek Road, such as showing up broke and alone and being taken in and cared for by strangers, and then having more folks who they don’t even know agree to help them get their very own house fixed up. If that’s not God working miracles for them, then I don’t know what is. But they haven’t realized it as such. In the meantime, I hoped they would kindly keep their mouths shut about not believing. It makes me sad for them.

“I will say prayers for my mama,” I declared, “but I should have been allowed to go with my daddy.”