Maddie’s mom tells her about Ms Turner’s suggestion about the good times.
‘She said you should try it too, Mads. And she’ll ask Noah to do the same.’
‘That’s such a cool idea, Mom,’ Maddie says.
Sometimes, when her parents talk about her brother and where he is, it’s as if everything about him is difficult and complicated, but it wasn’t always.
Maddie remembers sitting in the garden with Noah, making mud pies, hers lumpy and misshapen, Noah’s set neatly in rows. She was only four years old, and that’s what Noah said to her, ‘Don’t worry, Maddie, you’re only little. When you’re as old as me, your pies will be much better.’
Maddie remembers the mud on her fingers, how it became darker and shinier as Noah added water. He knew just how much, as well. The mud couldn’t be too sloppy, nor could it be too dry. When it was just right, Noah dipped his hand in and scooped up a little, rolled it into a ball, then reached behind him for the twig lying ready. A quick flattening and the mud pie lay there, perfectly formed, the same size as the one next to it.
Maddie’s brother may not talk much, but he’s always there to listen. He’s kind and generous. And he was the best mud-pie maker in the world.