Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,18
supposed fit—a lot of days her life did resemble time in the lion’s den.
“‘Peace. Be strong,’” Hannah repeated. “Too bad I’m not strong enough to reach through these wires and snatch you by the scruff of the neck so I could shake some sense into you.”
“Me? What did I do?” Sadie’s tone left no doubt—she knew exactly what she had done.
“What did you do? Only took my private thoughts and personal anecdotes…” A writer’s word. Payt’s gentle prodding came back to her. “You took my letters and held them up for public ridicule.”
“Ridicule? Hannah, do you know what people around here have to say about your work?”
Her pulse fluttered. For a moment she considered begging her sister not to tell her. She’d spent her entire life cultivating an image of quiet sophistication, of good taste, of grace, of—
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the side of the toaster. Her pale blue jeans bagged where the pudding-muddied water had soaked into the knees. Her hair stuck out every which way from Payt’s running his hands through it. And the oversize bright green shirt meant to show off the skin tone she worked daily to keep perfect had baby spit-up on the shoulder. Grace. Sophistication.
Hannah laughed, more like a whimper really than a laugh, but still she served up a mincing smile as she asked her sister, “What do people around there say when they read about my life, Sadie? Do they say, ‘Poor Hannah, tell her we’re all praying for her swift return to sanity’?”
“Hardly.”
“You mean they aren’t praying for me?” Obviously they had never seen her after a day working in the nursery. She squared her shoulders. “That isn’t very nice. You’d think someone would at least—”
“Hannah, stop talking about yourself and listen to me. I want to talk about you.”
“Okay.” It wasn’t the kind of thing she could argue with, could she?
“Here’s what people tell me when they read your work—Hannah is so bright, so talented. We always knew she’d end up doing something creative.”
“Really?”
“Really. The day after they print one of your pieces, I have to put up with it all day long—Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.”
“Wow! Wait a minute, after they print one of my pieces? How many of my e-mails have you sent in to the paper already?”
Sadie didn’t miss a beat in her rant, much less bother to respond to Hannah’s question. “And my favorite compliment—‘Of you three girls, that Hannah has the best sense of humor.’”
“No way. No one says that about me.”
“Yes. Absolutely yes. April and I are totally insulted, by the way. So much so, we talked about starting up one of those clown ministries to show everyone we can make people laugh, too.”
“But, Sadie, I don’t want people to laugh at me.”
“Hannah, they aren’t laughing at you, they’re laughing…”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
“Peace, Hannah. I called to make peace, remember?”
“And just how do you propose to do that, after what you’ve done?”
“How about if I tell you the paper wants you as a regular contributor?”
“Doing what?”
“Your column, dope. ‘Nacho Mama’s House.’”
Hannah leaned against the wall and stared into her stark, disused kitchen. “Did you have to call it that?”
“It’s cute.”
Hannah groaned.
“Anyway, the paper can’t pay much, but they will pay. Plus the editor says he will personally try to make sure your work gets seen by other sources, so you might pick up some freelance jobs.”
“Freelance?”
“Jobs, Hannah. Writing. It’s what you always wanted.”
“Isn’t that some kind of kooky curse? For people to actually get the things they think they want?”
“The only thing kooky is you, if you don’t try this. Come on, Hannah, you have to try. If you don’t, you may regret it the rest of your life.”
“Sadie, do you sell plots in that cemetery of yours?”
“Um, no, why?”
“Because you’re just very good at it, that’s all.”
“At selling?”
“Yeah, and at helping people dig their own graves.”
“What does that mean, Hannah?”
“It means…” She squeezed her eyes shut and silently echoed the admonition from Daniel again. “Peace. Be strong.” “It means tell them where to send the check. I’m going to write the column.”
6
Subject: Opinion, please
To: ItsmeSadie, WeednReap
Keep in mind this is a rough draft. Sadie be kind. April, be honest.
Things really are cooking at Nacho Mama’s house!
Really! My son’s soccer team won their first game this week! Not that they won the first game they ever played, but after weeks of playing they finally won one! Ha-ha!
To celebrate, I wanted to do something special, and since I don’t own a