Dear Wife - Kimberly Belle Page 0,89
these years later, trying to please this woman is a full-time job. She’s fussing at me before I’ve even clambered out.
“...looks like somebody tossed the place. Now I know you’ve been busy, but I didn’t raise my son to live in a pigsty. Did a tornado blow through town and no one thought to tell me?”
I jog up the walkway, boots tearing up the concrete. “Ma, what are you doing here?”
She gives me an insulted frown. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? I made another batch of chicken soup for Emma. That’s what people do when one of their loved ones is sick. They bring them chicken soup.”
“That key was for emergencies only.”
She points a finger over her shoulder. “Have you seen your house? This is an emergency. And I’ll have you know I rang the bell for at least fifteen minutes, just ask that nosy Ms. Delaney next door. I went around the side and saw Emma’s car in the garage. I thought something happened to her. I thought maybe she’d fainted, or fell down the stairs.” She pauses to take me in, shaking her head. “You look awful. When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
For Ma, every bad or busy day, every sickness or heartache or worry—it all boils down to food. What kind, and when you’d last had some, and if it was prepared with loving care and the correct amount of salt. I don’t dare tell her the truth—that for the past three days I’ve been living off the leftovers from Annabelle’s birthday dinner: standing over the counter, shoveling cold bites straight from the container, barely tasting any of it. But only when I remember to eat, which isn’t often.
Then again, if she’s looked in my kitchen, which she most definitely has, she already knows. The dirty Tupperware is piled high, smelling up the sink.
“I just came from Leon’s,” I lie, knowing the restaurant name will make her back off from this portion of the argument, at least. Leon’s is known for their fried catfish, fried shrimp, fried everything, the kind of fare that’ll keep you full for days. “Look, I appreciate you coming all the way over here, but—”
“Marcus Robert Durand, you tell me what’s going on right this second.” She stabs a fist into her hip and scowls. “Where is Emma? I thought she was sick. Why isn’t she here?”
Mistake number three: I should have had a story ready, a believable excuse I could pull from my sleeve without stumbling over my words. Both of us know Emma would have called to thank Ma for the chicken soup. She would have texted or sent a note. My mother coming over here now isn’t about seeing to the health of her favorite daughter-in-law, or bringing her some more soup. It’s about snagging the thank-you she should have gotten days ago.
I sigh, nudging my mother inside. “She didn’t want you to know, okay? She didn’t want anyone to know.” I shut the door, leaning against the cool wood. Ma’s right. This place is a pigsty, and it smells like a barnyard. “If I tell you where she is, you can’t tell a soul. Not Camille, not Duke, not anybody.”
Ma is already nodding, quick and manic like a bobblehead. “Of course, of course. My lips are sealed. You have my word.”
I look my mother in the eye, and somehow manage to hold her gaze. “She’s at a retreat.”
She frowns. “What kind of retreat?”
“The kind that makes her better. Less...depressed.” My mother squints, folding her arms across her chest, closing herself off. She always knew when I was lying as a kid, and she knows it now. I kick things up a notch. “The thing is...it’s just... Em cries all the time, Ma. She... You know what? I don’t want to get into the ugly details. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because this story makes no sense. If your wife is depressed, the last thing you do is send her away. You definitely don’t send her off with a bunch of strangers. You keep her here, under your own roof, and you fix things. Above all else, you hold your family together.”
For my mother, there’s no other option. Family is why her kids haven’t moved more than five miles away, why she summons us to her house every Sunday and on birthdays and holidays, why we haul our asses over there without complaint. Camille and Duke might not remember how Ma practically killed