The empty building called to me, and I went past, imagining umbrella-ed tables out in front with people enjoying lattes and cinnamon rolls. I vowed not to drive down that street again. I might as well face the fact that I’d be working at Shop’n Save until the girls were grown and gone, and save myself some disappointment.
After cruising by, I headed home to a pile of bills and the constant reminder that I was fighting a losing battle. Sometimes I felt like one of the two women before Solomon claiming the same child. Andie’s mother reached beyond the grave and wouldn’t release her. Just when I thought I was shaking loose her grip, I’d overheard Andie on the phone with her grandmother, practically begging to go home.
She seemed to be adjusting, maybe even beginning to like us. Perhaps, in some small way, she was, and it frightened her. Maybe that was why she sounded so bitter on the phone. I stood outside her door in the hallway with my feet glued to the carpet, stunned at this turnaround, knowing I should not be listening. Betrayal is what I felt. It was my own sweet illusion that Andie was finally coming around. And it didn’t make me feel any better when she grew sullen and withdrawn after the call.
Could it be that years later the biological mother in Solomon’s story tracked down that other woman and said, “I changed my mind; you can keep her”?
Every month the bills separated themselves into due, past-due, and seriously overdue. I pulled out the checkbook and tried to balance it against the bank statement. Andie’s bankbook winked at me from the bill folder, and I wavered, ever so slightly.
If she was going to end up with her grandparents anyway, why not draw on her money for her living expenses? Allergy medicines, doctor’s visits, school expenses, a winter coat—it all added up.
But if Russell knew we had access to Andie’s money, his attorney would file for a reduction in child support in a snap. No, it was better if I could truthfully say I’d never touched it.
Valentine’s Day was coming. I set aside a little from my own account to buy special treats for the girls and Dad.
The next day at work I picked out four little heart-shaped chocolate boxes, wrapped in red cellophane, and set them on Jo’s check stand as I was leaving.
“Better throw one in there for yourself,” she told me. “You don’t want to be the only one without chocolate on Valentine’s Day. We have to look out for ourselves, you know.” She counted out the change from my twenty. “Leastways, I don’t count on Walter to remember.”
Early on Valentine’s Day morning, I sneaked the candy into their rooms and placed them on their nightstands. Winnie squealed and hugged me at breakfast, downing her chocolates with milk. I reminded her to take her valentines for class, and we loaded up the car for school.
Deja was unusually quiet, and I noticed her eyes were puffy. I admit that initially I suspected drugs, but then I realized her nose was stuffy, and I knew she’d been crying.
Valentine’s Day could be ruthless, like salt in a wound—even an old one—unless you slathered on a thick hide. And a thick hide will only keep you from loving again.
Two separate florists arrived at work with red roses in ceramic vases, and each time the younger checkers feigned disinterest when they were passed by.
Valentine’s Day could be demoralizing, if you cared too much. I found the best way to deal with it was to keep busy.
I made a decadent chocolate mousse cake for dessert that night. Deja passed on it, which wasn’t like her. When I found Andie trying to read on the couch with Dad watching basketball, I realized she’d been banished from their room, and that Deja had barricaded herself with the phone. It could mean only one thing—boy trouble.
My heart went out to her, but I wasn’t altogether unhappy about her getting distance from the boy in the trench coat.
Valentine’s Day was hard on singles in general. Even married, it’d been like any other day for us. Had Russell ever been romantic? It was hard to recall.
I sat back down at the empty kitchen table and served myself another slice of cake. I stuck the tines of my fork into the dense chocolate on my plate and lifted it to my mouth. Raspberry puree tingled my tongue. Maybe he had been romantic, in the beginning. I picked up the steaming Garfield mug and cradled it in my hands, feeling the warmth of it burning my palms. Yes, there’d been occasional flowers, and chocolates. And on the first Valentine’s Day in our little apartment over the bakery, I had come home to find dinner all ready. Russell had set up the coffee table like a nice restaurant, with a tablecloth and candles and a red carnation in a vase. Dinner was only hamburger patties and canned vegetables, but I was touched that he would go to all that trouble for me. Who needed a dozen roses or a night out dancing? It was sweet.
But he didn’t stay sweet. If our marriage was ill-fitting, it wasn’t my fault.
I wondered whether he was still sweet on Starr, or if their marriage had been tried in some way, as ours had.
Something in me stirred, some dark nameless thing buried in a place where I tended the wound. I’d been wronged and hadn’t deserved it. He owed me. I stared at my empty plate and pushed it away, the chocolate turning leaden in my stomach.
I knew the Bible verses that would prompt me to forgive Russell, but it was simply not possible as far as I could see. Perhaps if I’d ever witnessed some small sign of remorse. But he’d never flinched. Just walked away at the worst possible time and knocked the dust from his shoes. “I gotta go, Marty. I’m losin’ it,” was all he’d said, as though he’d rehearsed it. Or been prompted.
Later, he’d even accused me of wanting to get custody of Andie to prevent a reduction in his child support payments after Ginger died. As far as I knew, he’d never even been to Ginger’s grave.
I traced the smooth lip of my coffee mug with my thumb. Ginger’s anniversary was coming. March 5th. It was always in the back of my mind, and it was coming fast. In all fairness to Russell, maybe Valentine’s Day, combined with the anniversary of Ginger’s death, had ignited my ex-bashing. Or maybe it just lanced the wound.
No matter how busy I stayed, or how much I baked, I could not overcome the sorrow that was beginning to build as March drew near. Was it better to face it head-on, run out to meet it? Maybe I’d pick up some coconut tomorrow.
I cleared the table as Winnie came out from her room with her backpack on her shoulder and let it slide heavily onto her chair. It hit the seat with a thud. She dug inside for papers and books. Then Andie joined her at the table with her own homework. Her backpack sounded just as heavy. They’d probably be visiting the chiropractor before they were sophomores.
Winnie tried to convince Andie again to go to snow camp, and I gave her a look that said Drop it. She grew sullen.
I forced myself into gear, unloaded the dishwasher, and filled it. I emptied the dryer and folded laundry. Keep busy, I told myself. Housework was mindless and plodding, and it didn’t demand much concentration. It was perfect to keep my mind off things.
I kept myself occupied for a few days, but the thought was never very far away. There was always more laundry. I was shocked to find that Win’s pockets were increasingly full of cookie crumbs, and I started noticing her buttons were straining at the waist.
One night when Andie was doing homework at the kitchen table and Deja was in the shower, I stepped into their room with their folded laundry and took time to hang up a few things in the closet. Scuffling noises came from beneath Andie’s bed. I froze. What a time for mice, when Cyclops was banished from the house.
Then I heard a frustrated meowrl. Cyclops. Before Andie’s arrival, he’d been used to sleeping under the bed, poor cat. I got down on my hands and knees and peered underneath. He’d pushed off the lid from a box and was trying to get inside. I grabbed the box and pulled it over to me, but Cyclops wouldn’t give up. Whatever was inside must be good.
“Go, shoo!” I said, dragging him out. He had something clutched in the curl of his claw. It was silver and long and had rings threaded on it. Andie’s chain.
Andie had the chain. It took a moment to sink in. I’d checked that box thoroughly before and found nothing. Had I overlooked the necklace, or had she found it later and put it there? And if she had found it, why didn’t she tell us?
I gently pulled it from Cyclops’s grasp. He didn’t want to give it up, and I had the scratches to prove it. The rings were shiny gold, each worn thin in a spot.
Did she have them all along? If so, what would make her hate us so much that she’d make all of this up? Was she trying to get us to send her home?
I put the chain back into the box and shoved it under the bed. Cyclops didn’t want to be gathered up, and I swatted him a little angrily. He struggled all the way to the garage door, where I deposited him for the night. Nursing my wounds, I took a cup of coffee to my bedroom and shut the door behind me. Anger and hurt and confusion gathered like the eye of a storm within me. I was tired of giving and giving and being taken for granted. How long should I try to make this family fit together?
On top of it all, I felt like a bad mother. Poor Deja. I’d been positive she was lying and guilty as sin. She still could be, but how could I know? She didn’t help herself any.
Deep down, I wondered, was Andie really like her father?