Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,13
cough. “Good to know she stops short of cannibalism.”
“We’ll find him, and I’ll kick his ass, and everything will be fine. If Mallory turns up, just . . . play it cool. Stay breezy, relaxed. Don’t hyper her up.”
Relaxed. Right.
I hang up the phone and go out to the patio for another smoke. I’m going to need it. I check my watch after I light up. It’s afternoon already, and all that I’ve consumed since one bowl of cereal at breakfast is nicotine and tar.
That means it’s almost time for my mother to call. I call her instead to get it over with so I can go back inside and call Dylan’s band friends.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Edna! Hi, honey. How’s your day going?”
I lie to her for the sake of simplicity. “Okay. Yours?”
“I ran into Petey at the store. You know he’s still asking about you.”
I know this, because he called me not long ago. “I’m engaged, Mom. And why did you give him my cell number?”
“I’m just saying. If you decide that raising someone else’s kids is not your idea of fun . . .”
“I didn’t sign up for fun. I love him.” I prop my cigarette in my phone hand and cover my eyes with my free hand.
“Fun and love used to go together, you know.”
“It wasn’t always fun with Pete. We had plenty of not-fun times. Remember Billy’s funeral?”
She gasps like she’s been sliced. “Edna Leigh.”
“I’m just saying, you only think he’s a saint because we broke up. It’s nostalgia.”
“He just fit in so well.”
“Did he ever.”
“Don’t you start with me. I know you’re too good to even visit us anymore, but you don’t have to criticize every move we make.”
“I’m not criticizing. I was agreeing.”
“How great can this Michael be if he doesn’t even want to meet your family?”
“It’s complicated,” I say again, because it is.
“It doesn’t have to be. Anyway, are you coming to Wanda’s baby’s party this weekend?”
My cousin’s baby’s first birthday. They’ll even break out the beer for a toddler’s party. By the end of the night, they’ll be shooting cans off the back fence and having wrestling matches in the yard. They won’t talk to me, either, instead whispering behind my back about how I blew town right after my brother’s funeral, not even staying to support my grieving parents. Some of them outright blame me, I know.
My mother insists they don’t, but I can feel their heavy stares, see it in the way they turn quickly away if they happen to meet my eyes.
“I can’t. I’m swamped with work.”
“I just bet.”
“Can we not fight? I don’t have it in me today.”
“Me neither, honey. I ran across Billy’s old hunting jacket today.”
“Oh, Mom. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m not. But I’m standing up, so there ya go.”
“I’ll try to come to the party, okay?”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing, here.”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry. It’s not the best of days.”
“I know the feeling.”
“I’ll call you later. I promised Wanda I’d babysit, and she’ll be over soon. You know, I can’t wait to be holding your own baby, darlin’.”
“One step at a time. I guess I’m old-fashioned enough to get married first.”
“Now don’t you start in on Wanda.”
“I’m not, I just don’t need the pressure. I’m only twenty-six.”
“I’m just saying. I love those baby cuddles, and when I get to be a grandma, I’ll climb up on the roof and scream for joy! Oops, there’s Wanda’s car. Love ya bunches.”
“Love you, too.”
I’ve seen pictures of Wanda’s baby. She’s so deliciously chubby I want to stick my nose in her neck and blow raspberries. Her wispy hair looks like golden feathers, and with her pursed mouth she’s like a pudgy little bird.
I used to fantasize about what my baby would look like, my baby with Michael. She’d have loads of thick black hair, just like her father, and hazel eyes, like me. Like my brother’s.
At a furious, rapid pounding I nearly drop my phone. The doorbell broke a few months ago, and the front door is so thick you have to jackhammer it to be heard. I hurry inside and through the front room curtains I can see a tall stack of white-blond hair.
I yank open the door.
“Where’s my son?” Mallory cries, gripping my arm like she’s drowning.
Chapter 4
Michael
Kate startles me as she says in my ear, “Oh, the copy desk will love you for that.”
Typing up the mall shopping story, I’d written, “ ‘It’s a tough economy, but