That was Aunt Lulamae.
“Pig!”
That was Mom.
I watched Mitch move toward me. When there was silence outside, I turned to the kids’ door and cautiously opened it, peeking in.
Billie was sprawled, covers half on, half off, Mitch’s pink teddy bear firm in hand, dead to the world. Billy was on his side curled into a tight ball, hands shoved under the pillow. Both were asleep.
Thank you, God.
I moved back, closed the door carefully and turned to see Mitch close.
“All good?” he whispered and I nodded.
Then I moved quickly down the hall to the front door and checked the peephole. I couldn’t see anything so I put my ear to the door and I couldn’t hear anything.
Then I moved to the wall beside the door and banged my head on it. This I did repeatedly. This was what I was doing when Mitch made it to me.
His hand wrapped around my upper arm and his mouth muttered, “Sweetheart,” as he pulled me away from the wall.
My eyes went to him.
“Case in point,” I declared.
He pressed his lips together, looking amused and knowing exactly what I was referring to. My eyes narrowed on his mouth then shot to his.
“Do you want to have that discussion again about there not being different kinds of people out there in the real world?” I asked.
“Mara,” he whispered.
“You want to call your Mom here?” I asked. “Stand her beside my Mom? Do a comparison?”
He used my arm to guide my body toward his and when he got my body close enough both his arms closed around me.
“Yeah,” he replied. “We can have that discussion because you’re still wrong. But I’d rather take this opportunity to point out that you’re also wrong about bein’ able to take all this on your own. Now I know I’m right more than I was before and before I was already right,” Mitch stated. His hands had started traveling up and down my back in a soothing way which, even though I was strung out emotionally, I had to admit felt really good.
“I am right. You live in a totally different zone than me,” I asserted.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, lips twitching, for some reason finding this funny which it was not.
“Your mother probably wears twinsets,” I told him.
“I don’t even know what that means,” Mitch told me.
“Pretty matching sweaters and cardigans,” I explained.
“And?” Mitch asked which proved I was right about the twinsets.
“She also probably adds scarves,” I added for good measure.
“And?” Mitch repeated.
Yep, she also wore scarves.
“I’m sure she picks very pretty scarves that accessorize her twinsets perfectly.”
“Mara,” he said on a rumble that communicated he was close to laughing.