The Better Parent
Marie Anderson
“Mama?”
Debra pretended not to hear her daughter. Ria stood in the doorway, facing Debra’s bed.
Should’ve closed and locked the door, Debra thought. She shifted her legs under the bed covers and turned a page in Pride and Prejudice. The little TV on her dresser was softly broadcasting President Reagan’s first public appearance since he’d been shot. He was talking about spending cuts, looking handsome, comforting, and capable.
Debra had voted for Reagan. Her husband had not.
“Mama! Daddy was in my dream again.”
Debra sighed and slammed her book on the nightstand. Ria flinched. Debra gritted her teeth, feeling both ashamed and angry. President Reagan was laughing about something. What? What funny thing did he say? Debra grabbed the remote to increase the volume, but instead, the screen went dark.
Damn. She jabbed the power button, but the TV stayed dark and mute.
“Ria! Go back to bed. Please. We can talk in the morning. I’m exhausted.”
The lamp on her nightstand flickered. Time to replace the bulb, Debra thought. And the battery in the TV remote. More tasks to add to her long to-do list.
It had been such a long, stressful day. Employee evaluation day always was. Debra knew that her employees complained to HR that she was too demanding. They called her a perfectionist. Even the not-so-mediocre employees called her that, as though it were a criticism instead of a compliment.
“I don’t suffer fools gladly,” she always warned new hires, and they always bobbed their heads in agreement, confident until she’d slap files back on their desk, their worksheets and memos slashed with red-ink corrections.
But finally the workday had ended. Finally she’d settled back against goose down pillows. Dishes were done, house straightened, bills paid and stacked neatly on the hall table, hamper emptied, Ria’s homework—way too much for 2nd grade—corrected and corrected until it was mistake-free, Ria toothbrushed and shipped off to bed.
Finally Debra had been able to retreat to her cozy bed. To crisp, fresh sheets. To the soft glow from her bedside lamp, just bright enough to read by. To her novel, her own problems fading, then vanishing in the eloquently sarcastic world of Pride and Prejudice.
For all of 30 minutes. About as long as a mother could expect.
“Mom!” Ria’s voice whined louder. Ria flicked on the ceiling light switch.
“Turn it off, dammit!”
“You swore! Daddy says swearing is lazy talking.” Ria made no move to turn off the light.
Debra frowned. Ria had changed from the flannel PJs Debra had helped her into and now stood shivering in one of her father’s old T-shirts, MAN OF STEEL in white letters against dark blue cotton.
How, Debra wondered, had that shirt managed to escape the Goodwill bag?
She shut her eyes. Perhaps when she opened them, she’d be alone again. She remembered the survey she’d read in a magazine another lifetime ago: would you have children if you could do it all over again?
The vast majority of respondents had said no.
She’d shown that survey to Miles. They’d been married seven years, and he’d been lobbying for a fertility doctor.
He’d skimmed the survey and sighed. “Wow,” he’d said, rubbing his nose. “Lots of frustrated parents out there, I guess. But that’s not us, Debra. You’ll be a great mom. And I want to be a great dad.”
Debra tried. God, how she tried. Maybe if her daughter had not been so . . .
“Mama!”
Debra opened her eyes. Ria still blocked the doorway, sucking her thumb. Her other hand fingered her long, carroty hair. Her left eye was wandering again, looking just to the side of Debra.
Ria suddenly nodded.
“What are you nodding at, Ria? Look at me, not the nothing next to me. And I see your thumb is in your mouth again!”
Her daughter flushed. The thumb shot from her mouth with a squelchy pop.
“You sucked your thumb, too, when you were a little girl. Daddy says—”
“Hey!” Debra interrupted. “Stop with this Daddy-says nonsense!”
Again the lights flickered, both the ceiling light and the nightstand lamp. Fuck, Debra thought. Replacing the ceiling light bulb would require hauling the ladder from the garage.
Ria’s lower lip drooped, wet and quivering. Debra took a deep breath. A sudden whiff of camphor made her grunt. Miles’s smell. Ria must have found and used an old tube of the ointment Miles rubbed on his sore muscles.
“I most certainly was not sucking my thumb by the time I was in 2nd grade, Ria. Or wetting my bed.”
The flush on Ria’s face spread like a rash. Debra wondered whether kids at school were teasing her yet. The school was a highly regarded public school in a highly regarded Chicago suburb—it was why Debra and Miles had poured all their savings into buying a home there—but everyone knew that kids from well-off families could be just as beastly as kids from working class families.
Beets had been Debra’s own nickname in grade school. The horrible and handsome Ricky Calzaretta—she’d scratched out his face in all her school pictures—had been especially skilled at bringing the blood to Debra’s face. Sometimes even the nicer girls would laugh, call her “Beetrice.” But Debra had long ago learned how to stop the blush. Bite the insides of your cheeks. Imagine your tormentor straining on the toilet.
She rarely blushed anymore. She could teach Ria that trick.
Debra sighed, folded back the quilt. “Oh come here, Ria.”
Ria’s eyes focused. She gazed straight at Debra, grinned crooked teeth. “Really?”
Debra wobbled a smile and nodded. Ria turned off the ceiling light and leapt forward, tumbling into bed and snuggling against Debra. Debra stiffened but resisted the urge to push Ria away.
The musty, camphor smell was stronger. Ria or the shirt? She really should have had Ria take a quick shower earlier, but she’d lacked the energy to deal with shampoo in eyes and torturous hair combing afterwards.
Ria’s thumb was again plugging her mouth, but before Debra could scold, Ria pulled it out and clutched it in her other hand.
“You can put the medicine on my thumb or you want, Mama.”
“Oh for goodness sakes, Ria. Like I want to hear you scream how it burns your skin, and how the smell hurts your nose, and then spend the next 10 minutes scrubbing it off. And it’s if you want. If you want. Not or you want. Remember?”
“If you want, if you want,” Ria repeated. She yawned and closed her eyes.
Debra stroked her daughter’s hair. Resisted the urge to fetch a brush.
How did it get so tangled?
Laces never stayed tied, buttons fell off, hems sagged. If tops were clean, they were sure to have a rip or hole. If they were whole, they were sure to display a nosebleed or meal. The dangling shoe laces really drove Debra nuts. She’d finally bought Ria a pair of Velcro-strap sneakers. Any day she saw Ria’s laces untied, the next day she had to wear the Velcro shoes.
“The kids make fun of these shoes,” Ria would protest. “Baby shoes baby shoes, they say.”
“Deservedly so,” Debra would respond. “Velcro is for babies and grandmas. Not for big girls who know how to keep laces tied.”
Slowly that ploy seemed to be working. Ria would cry mornings when Debra took away the lace shoes. She’d claim her stomach, throat, and head hurt. Once she even threw up her breakfast. But Debra would not give in. Nor had she let Ria eat anything after throwing up. Miles had indulged their daughter. There was much damage Debra was now trying to undo.
“Really,” Ria murmured. She snuggled into Debra. “I wanna try the medicine on my thumb again.”
Debra blinked back tears. She would not scold Ria for saying wanna instead of want to. How could her daughter make her feel so exasperated and sympathetic at the same time? She hugged Ria. Her daughter’s body felt warm and cozy. I’ll let Ria sleep with me tonight, Debra decided, and just hope there’ll be no bedwetting.
The odds weren’t good. Ria’s own bed had stayed dry only three times during the past week. The easy solution would be diapers. But Debra would not, would not, put her 7-year old daughter in diapers.
That would be enabling. That would not be tough love.
Debra looked down at Ria and felt worry rush hot across her chest. These were her expensive 800-count sheets. And if Ria wet the quilt, it’d have to be dry cleaned. Maybe, Debra thought, it’ll just be safer if we both sleep in Ria’s bed tonight.
But Debra disliked that bed—a tarnished brass king-sized monster inherited from Miles’s parents. Even in the early pre-Ria days of their marriage, Debra had never slept well in that bed. Not because Miles snored or hogged covers. Rather it was Debra who had tossed and turned, fitful sleep disturbed by strange dreams that she could never quite remember in the morning.
One Sunday afternoon, only a few weeks after Miles was gone, Debra had rolled Ria’s twin bed from Ria’s room to the sun porch. Then Debra disassembled the huge master bed and dragged its pieces down the hall to Ria’s own little room. An entire afternoon it took. Reassembled, it filled Ria’s room.
Ria had been so pleased. “Now my room smells like Daddy’s aftershave!”
Sniffing, Debra smelled it too, faint but definitely there. She hadn’t noticed the smell when the bed had been in her own room, but all the moving must have released dormant smells.
Until Debra’s new bed arrived, she’d slept peacefully on her bedroom floor in her old sleeping bag. Just for a few days until her beautiful sleigh bed was delivered. Cherry wood. Only full-size, why would she need anything larger, so now Debra’s bedroom felt spacious. There was plenty of room for a future purchase: a deep cushioned chair and plush ottoman. She’d tuck them next to the window, add a little table, create her own private reading nook.
Ria snuggled closer to Debra, eyes closed, breathing soft. Debra stroked Ria’s hair. Yes, Debra thought, maybe it would be best to go to Ria’s bed tonight. Better to sleep fitfully in the brass monster than worry that Ria might wet Debra’s good bedding.
But . . . that meant rousing Ria now, or carrying her down the hall, risking a backache from her daughter’s weight.
We’ll stay here, she decided, lifting her hand to turn off the lamp. But then Ria murmured.
“Please, Mama. Tomorrow put the medicine on my thumb. I want it. I real do. And I promise I won’t tell Daddy.”
“It’s really do, Ria!” Debra pulled her arm off her daughter’s shoulders. She retrieved her book from the nightstand. Nine months of counseling. Over $2,000 and Ria was still doing this Daddy-nonsense.
Debra opened her book, stared at the print without comprehension. “You can tell Daddy if you want, Ria. But what do you imagine he’ll be able to do? Now please! Go back to your own room.”
“Mama! Please! I wanna stay here with you. Just five more minutes?”
“Leave! I had a stressful workday! I need quiet time now. And I don’t want to worry about you wetting my expensive sheets!”
“Oh fine!” Ria thumped off the bed. When she reached the doorway, she turned and faced Debra.
“What?” Debra snapped.
“Daddy said I should tell my teacher to put Martin back in my last name.”
“And just when did Daddy say this, Ria.”
Ria shrugged. “He always tells me that. But I always forget to tell Miss Kimble.”
Great, Debra thought. Let’s just involve the teacher in this. Let’s just have Ms. Cutie Pie Kimble call me in for another conference. Purse her Betty Boop lips. Pat my hand though I’m old enough to be her mother, and drench her voice in such fake understanding and pity.
***
“I know it’s hard, Mrs. Martin,” Ms. Kimble had said that first conference when they’d been arranging Ria’s time with the school’s social worker. Debra rarely interacted with anyone at Ria’s school. Miles had always been the parent to attend conferences, school performances, and chaperone field trips.
The teacher had patted Debra’s clenched hands. Lifted her exquisitely thick eyebrows, and somehow sparked tears in her very blue eyes.
Debra slid her hands free from the teacher and cleared her throat. “Well, first Ms. Kimble, my name is Ms. Moss, not Mrs. Martin. I kept my maiden name—Moss—when I married. And second, you’re too young and naïve to understand how hard it is.”
How gratifying to see a blush stain the teacher’s face, and to feel her own skin remain unheated.
***
Now Debra forced a smile at Ria. “Don’t you like being Ria Moss?”
“I like it OK, but Daddy says I’m still his little girl, and he said I should still be Ria Moss-Martin. Or it could be switched to Ria Martin-Moss so then my last name would match yours. He said that would be a good compromise.”
“Compromise? My, they are teaching you big words in 2nd grade.”
Ria shrugged.
“Is that a word you learned in school? Or from your counselor?”
Again Ria shrugged. “Daddy learned me it.” She shivered.
Debra sighed and turned back the quilt. “Oh come here. You’re cold in that smelly old tee shirt. Why ever did you change out of your clean warm PJs?”
Again Ria shrugged. Then she leapt back in Debra’s bed and snuggled into her. Debra pushed her fingers through Ria’s tangled hair. Had her own hair ever been such a frizzy mess? Debra’s mother couldn’t visit five minutes without saying how Ria was Debra’s spitting image at that age.
***
“When I see Ria, I see you all over again, Debbie. She’s even a little pigeon-toed like you were! And look where that thumb is!”
“Yeah, Mother,” Debra said. “But she’s not going to have to beg me for braces when she’s 13.”
“You got the braces, didn’t you? And look how beautiful your teeth are now!”
“But I had to endure grade school with buck teeth. Finally, Beverly’s mother told me that I should ask you for braces. My friend’s mother had to help make that happen! I’ll never forget how scared, how embarrassed I was that morning. Working up the courage to ask my parents for braces.”
“Six hundred dollars those braces cost us. Your dad took a second job at that warehouse to pay for your vanity. Hurt his back, remember? Lifting those foolish TVs.”
“My vanity? Oh Mother, do you think that maybe your dear God has just added some time to your purgatory sentence?”
“He’s not just my dear God, Debbie. He’s everybody’s dear God. Yours too. Whether you believe in Him or not.”
“Maybe Dad wouldn’t have had to take a second job that hurt his back if you’d managed to contribute to the family paycheck.”
“My job, Debbie, was my children. I wasn’t about to run around in high heels and briefcases while my babies needed me.”
“Babies? By the time I was in 8th grade begging you for braces, we were all in school seven hours a day.”
“Your children never stop needing you, Debbie. Not just for a few quality hours after a hard day at the office. They need you at home even when they’re not at home. And none of my children ever wet their pants past age 2. None of my children ever needed to see counselors or have . . .”
***
Debra squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head to expel her mother from her thoughts. At least she knew what not to do. Her mother had taught her that much. What the hell, she suddenly decided. Why fight it. Why fight this thing Ria thought she had going on with her father.
“Ria? Should we visit Daddy on Saturday? We could go right from the mall.”
Ria sat up, eyes wide. “Saturday! Can we get cinnamon buns at the food court? And the Chicago Style Hot Dogs? And Seasoned Fries? And I wanna go to SassyGirl and get some of those stick-on earrings and butterfly clips for my hair!”
Debra laughed. “And then we can visit Daddy afterwards. You can explain to him about your last name. You can tell him that Mom gets to decide on your last name because he got to pick your first name. And he did a good job. Ria is a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
Ria blushed and giggled. “I’m not beautiful. Gloria’s beautiful,” she said, naming her best friend, or more accurately, the little princess whose friendship Ria had been pursuing since kindergarten, the little princess who was indeed a visual delight of freckles, long golden hair, large green eyes, and beautifully manicured nails, always polished in sparkle colors. Gloria was also popular and gifted and painfully indifferent to Ria. Debra herself had suffered friends like that. Girls whose casual indifference or deliberate snubs still had the power to sting, nearly 40 years later.
***
“I’m sick of you,” lovely 8-year-old Charlene Cunningham said as they walked home from school. They lived three houses apart. “Here, gimme my books back.” Charlene grabbed them from Debbie’s arms. “I’m gonna play with Mary Roberts today. At her house. She invited me and Mary Payne over.” Debbie kept the smile on her face. Her cheeks hurt. “OK,” Debbie said, hugging her own books to her chest. She ran ahead, burst into her house, still smiling. Her mother was in the parlor, praying the rosary aloud with some lady friends. Debbie managed to keep her face smiling until she reached her own room, shut the door, and curled on the floor in the corner, thumb in her mouth.
***
“You are beautiful, Ria. And the name Daddy chose for you is beautiful, too. But now our family is just us. Just Ria and Mommy.”
“Dorothy too!” Ria exclaimed, naming the Polish lady who babysat when Debra’s job occasionally lasted beyond after-school hours at the local YMCA.
“Dorothy’s not really family, Ria. She works for us.”
“Yeah, and her teeth are brown and she gots chin whiskers,” Ria said. “And she don’t let me jump on the bed like Daddy does.”
“Has chin whiskers. Doesn’t let you. And she’s right. Beds are not made for jumping. But Saturday, when you visit Daddy, I want you to explain to him that now it’s my turn to choose your last name. Compromising means taking turns. And I think we two girls should have the same last name. Mommy’s last name. Debra and Ria Moss. Sounds pretty good, don’t you think?”
Debra’s heart pounded. Was she crazy to be talking to Ria like this?
“OK, Mama. I’ll say that. And could we stop at the flower shop at the mall and get some flowers for Daddy? Tulips? Purple tulips! They’re my favorite and they’re Daddy’s favorite, too. He always picked purple tulips when they had them at the grocery store.”
“Sure, Ria. I like purple tulips, too, you know. Didn’t you ever think that maybe purple tulips might be my favorite flower, too? Well, they’re not my favorites actually, but I bet you have no idea what my favorite flower is.”
Ria looked up at her, eyes wide in a cartoonish way. Her thumb zoomed to her mouth.
“Oh, don’t give me those eyes, Ria.” Debra yanked the thumb from her daughter’s mouth.
Ria sat up. “I guess I’ll just go to my own bed, Mama.”
Debra pulled her daughter close. “I’m sorry, Ria, that I’m so crabby. But I am beat. And you know, carnations would probably be better for Daddy. They’re not as fragile, they’re cheaper, and they’ll last a lot longer.”
“But Daddy and me love purple tulips so much, Mama. And we hardly ever visit Daddy, and—”
“Oh for God’s sake! We’ll see, OK? We’ll see. Whatever.” Debra tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “Now come on. Let’s close those peepers, jeepers creepers.”
Debra turned off the lamp and curled up on her side. Mother and daughter lay back to back. An airplane rumbled far overhead.
I would like to be on that plane, Debra thought.
She was drifting away when her daughter’s voice pulled her back.
“Mama?”
“What.”
“Maybe the cemetery is too far from the mall? Maybe the tulips will die before we get there?”
“Ria, tulips aren’t that fragile. It’ll take us only 30 minutes to get there from the mall is traffic is good. Now please! I was nearly asleep when you woke me with those goofy questions.”
“Maybe I could just draw a picture of purple tulips Saturday morning before we leave. I could tape it to Daddy’s headstone.”
“Ria. We’ll see what they have at the florist, OK? You can pick out whatever the hell you want. OK? Now please!”
Ria mumbled something.
“What?!”
“I’ll guess I’ll just get carnations, Mama.”
“Good lord, daughter. Not another word, or I’ll be the one to leave.”
And soon, Ria was fast asleep. Every now and then a snore erupted or a whimper. Like sleeping with a little pig, Debra thought, and then frowned, angry with herself at the unkind thought. The room was not pitch black. Yellow leaked through the mini blinds from the street light on their parkway. The mini blinds Miles had insisted on for every window in their house, though Debra would have preferred curtains and shades.
Nothing but money now to stop her from doing whatever she wanted in her home.
Debra sat up against the headboard and stared down at Ria. Of course the thumb was in her mouth. Even in the ultrasounds Ria’s thumb had been in her mouth. But by kindergarten Debra had pretty much cured her of that habit. Despite Miles objecting to the thumb paint.
But then Miles died.
And the thumb sucking started again. And more disturbing behavior. Bedwetting. Baby talk. Dreams and hallucinations.
Not uncommon, the counselor consoled, though she saw it more in youngsters who’d lost their mothers. Mothers being the far more impactive parent for the younger child.
Impactive parent. The childless young counselor’s words. With her bouncy hair and cold blue eyes and multi-syllable name—Georgianna.
Debra had tried to explain. Miles, she’d said, had worked the second shift at the steel mill, four to midnight, so he was the “impacting” parent during most of Ria’s waking hours. Debra managed the pension office of the U.F.C.W. Benefits Fund. She’d worked her way up from a high school degree and clerk-typist’s position. Helped the make the money that paid for the house in a good Chicago suburb.
“Well,” the counselor said, “Ria was extraordinarily bonded with her father. She feels the loss acutely, Mrs. Martin.”
“It’s Ms. Moss,” Debra said.
The counselor pursed her lips and looked down at some papers. “Excuse me, Ms. Moss,” she murmured. Then she looked at Debra with such hostility that Debra was shocked into silence. Debra would have fired the counselor on the spot, but Ria liked her, and she saw how gentle and sweet Georgianna was with Ria. And her HMO insurance limited her options.
But when would Miles stop invading Ria’s dreams. This was something the counselor seemed to relish. To almost encourage.
“I told Georgianna all about my Daddy visits,” Ria once reported after a Monday evening session. “She says it’s great Daddy visits me so much becept she says it’s not really Daddy. But it is, Mama! It real is!”
Even more disturbing to Debra was how Ria saw Miles in strangers. For Ria, Miles-look- alikes seemed to be everywhere: tall, thin men, poor-postured, long faces dominated by black-framed, thick-lensed glasses.
“She’s grieving,” the counselor once scolded Debra. “You’ve got to give your little girl time. Don’t make her feel wrong. I’m trying to let her know that it is her grief, her love, her profound sense of loss that triggers these episodes. Don’t encourage. But don’t discourage them either. Ria feels an immense void. These episodes are her innocent attempt to fill that void. The best thing you can do is be her mother. Be there for her. Be there in a loving, noncritical way.”
Debra had nodded, and afterwards on the drive home from her private counseling session, she’d defended herself. “Right, Georgianna!” she shouted while navigating heavy traffic. “But I work 10-hour days, honey, and it’s my job that pays for you, honey, and for the house and clothes and food I provide Ria.” She shook her head. The problem wasn’t really the counselor.
“Damn you, Miles,” she whispered. “Leave us alone!”
He’d been dead nine months. Steam-cooked by a pipe he forgot to shut off at the mill.
***
The mall was jammed. And the absolute worst place to be, Debra thought, gritting her teeth, was the food court at high noon. She was sweating in her jacket. The din and competing smells from all the different food stations were making her dizzy. She and Ria had already navigated once the vast, torturous maze of tables without finding anything free. The hot dog booth had run out of lids for the cups, and their two colas sloshed a bit onto the tray when another table-hunting diner bumped into her.
“Mom!” Ria tugged Debra’s jacket. “I’m so starving! I want some fries now!” She reached for fries, jostled the tray. More cola sloshed out.
“Ria! No! What am I supposed to do? Stand here like your servant while you eat? I told you we should have eaten earlier!”
Ria shot her thumb to her mouth, but before Debra could scold, her daughter’s eyes widened. Out popped the thumb as a huge smile stretched her lips. She flung her arm high, waved.
“I’ll get us a table, Mom!” She skipped away, disappearing into the crowded maze of tables, planters, and people.
Confused, Debra turned in the direction Ria had vanished. Who had she spotted? Please, Debra thought, let it not be a mom and classmate of Ria’s. Debra did not feel up to smiling, small talking, feigning interest in whatever wonderful things some wonderful kid was doing in soccer or ballet or tap or ice skating or piano or horseback riding—things Debra had no time, energy, or money to get for Ria.
“Mom! Mom!” Ria’s high-pitched squeal cut through the din. Debra bumped her way toward the voice. She spotted her daughter’s orange hair and purple jacket. Somehow Ria had made it to the upper level of the food courts.
Debra gasped. Her heart flipped and her muscles spiked with adrenaline.
“Ria!” she screamed. People around her stared. “Ria! Hey! Get away from her!”
She thrust her tray down on a table crowded with teenagers and rushed to the stairs leading to the upper level.
A man was crouching by Ria, hugging her. He stood. He was tall, thin, his head shrouded by a baseball cap, his neck hidden under the turned-up collar of a Notre Dame jacket. White pants covered his legs, loose and without pockets like the kind karate instructors wear. Purple gloves covered his hands. As she stumbled toward him, he turned, his profile showing thick-lensed glasses and the bright red skin of a bad sunburn. He patted Ria on the head and slouched away through the crowd.
By the time Debra reached her daughter, Ria had seated herself at a little round table. She smiled up at Debra.
“Daddy saved this table for us, Mama! I told him we’d be visiting him in a little while, and that we’re buying him purple tulips. Or carnations because they last longer and don’t cost as much.”
A teenage girl set Debra’s tray on the table.
“You put this on our table,” the girl said.
Debra nodded and forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I was in a rush to get to my daughter, and—”
The teenager shrugged, winked at Ria, and sauntered away.
Debra sank into the chair. The chair wobbled. The table wobbled. More pop spilled. A headache blistered behind her eyes.
“Ria! Are you totally delusional? Who was that man hugging you? You never let strangers touch you. How many times have I told you that?”
Ria’s lower lip trembled. She reached for a greasy bag of fries and knocked over a cup of pop.
Debra jumped up. A curse exploded before she could stop it. A cold wet circle of cola darkened her cream-colored slacks, right at the crotch. “Oh for God sakes,” she whispered. Her jaw ached from the effort to keep her voice soft. “Ria, Ria, Ria.”
Ria pushed two thin paper napkins through the puddle of cola spreading over the table, causing more liquid to splash to the floor. The wet wad of napkins fell off the table. Ria squirmed in her chair, crossed her legs.
“Ria. Please don’t tell me that you have to go to the bathroom!”
“No! No!” Tears brimmed Ria’s eyes. “I don’t have to go! I promise! Should I . . . should I get more napkins?”
“No! Sit! Don’t move. Don’t talk to any strangers! To anyone! I’ll get napkins and be right back.”
Debra flew to the nearest stand, grabbed a metal dispenser crammed with napkins, and rushed back to their table. Thirty seconds. Ria’s head was bent over the table, tears oozing down red-blotched cheeks.
Debra began wiping the puddles on the table and chair. Forget the floor, she thought. The activity calmed her. No big deal, she could hear Miles saying. Kids spill stuff all the time.
“Oh Ria, stop crying for goodness sakes. I’m the one who should be crying. That was my pop you spilled, young lady. Now you’ll have to share yours with me!” She smiled to show she was joking.
Ria looked up, her nose and eyes dripping. “I sorry, Mama. Please don’t get mad.”
Debra sat, lifted her cold hot dog, took a bite. “I not mad, Ria. Now does that sound right to you, or does that sound like baby talk. It’s I’m not mad. I’m sorry. Now let’s just eat our food before it gets any colder.”
Ria wiped her nose on the sleeve of her sweater. “Oh!” she gasped. “Sorry. Don’t wipe with sleeves! I forgot!” She lifted her hot dog, nibbled a tiny corner on the bun, and erupted into a coughing fit.
Debra took a deep breath. Stay calm, she ordered herself.
“Mama?” Ria whispered, staring at her food. “I . . . guess I really did have to go.”
Debra continued to eat her hot dog. She lifted a soggy French fry. Carefully chewed, slowly swallowed. Sipped cola. Gazed at nothing over Ria’s head.
“Well. Are you done eating, Ria?”
Ria nodded, eyes big. Debra gathered everything onto the tray. She marched to the nearest garbage bin and tossed everything in. The tray slipped from her hands and clanked into the bin.
Ria called out, “Hey, you don’t throw the tray away, Mom!”
Debra said nothing. She returned to their table, held out Ria’s jacket.
“Come on. Let’s go. Tie your jacket around your waist, so people won’t see how you peed your pants.”
“Like you, Mama!” Ria pointed to the cola stain at Debra’s crotch. “It looks like we both did!” Ria giggled.
Debra stared at her daughter.
“Can we go to the flower store now, Mama?”
“The flower store? The flower store? If we go anywhere, it’s going to be the diaper store.”
Debra strode away from the food court, dodging babies in strollers, clusters of laughing teenage girls, slouching boys, bag-laden women and bored-looking men. She could hear Ria panting behind her. She felt a tug on her jacket, heard a mewling cry.
She stopped abruptly, and Ria tripped into her, fell to the floor, burst into tears.
Debra yanked her up by the arm, and Ria shrieked, “You hurting me!”
“Is Granny hurting you, honey?” A young woman set down a shopping from Marshall Fields next to Ria. Long blonde hair framed a round, rosy face. Her companion stood behind her, football-player sized, arms crossed over his massive chest, brows pinched in a frown.
Ria stopped crying and stared up at the young woman. Ria sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. The woman glared at Debra, narrowed her blue eyes into slits.
Debra opened her mouth, but found she could not speak. She shook her head, grabbed Ria’s hand, and pushed past the woman. The football player stepped in front of Debra. “We’ll be watching you, Grandma,” he said in a soft, high voice. His lips tightened into a razor-sharp line.
Debra felt her face burn like it hadn’t burned in years. Even the tips of her ears felt hot. She stepped around him. A headache scratched its claws up her temples. Her stomach coiled. She lifted her head, thrust back her shoulders, squeezed Ria’s hand, and set forth at a deliberate pace. She felt like a bug under a microscope. The attention of strange, hostile eyes prickled her skin. As they marched past stores, she couldn’t help but fling glances at their reflection in the plate glass windows.
Grandma! Forty-eight years old and looking like her daughter’s grandma? Was it the gray strands webbing her hair? The tired eyes? The lines bracketing her mouth?
Damn you, Miles. You pushed for fertility treatments, the painful shots of Pergonal. And at 40, I finally got pregnant. Then you did all the fun mother stuff while I worked.
She’d thought she’d won an important battle. “I’m not quitting work,” she’d insisted. “I’ll go insane staying home taking care of a baby.”
He’d agreed. He’d rearranged things at the steel mill so he’d be home with Ria during the day. She thought she’d won. Ha.
During the drive home from the mall, Ria sucking her thumb in the back seat, Debra continued her silent monologue with her dead husband.
You made yourself the parent Ria loves best, then you got yourself killed. You idiot! Simple leak in a pipe. Routine repair job. But you didn’t shut off the valve. You couldn’t even die right!
The insurance company was still balking at paying the maximum. Something about contributory negligence, some question about whether the opened valve suggested suicide. The lawyers were arguing, and in the meantime, money Debra and Ria needed wasn’t there.
Stopped at a red light, Debra blinked her eyes, trying to dispel a sudden vision of Miles perched on the ladder, hooked to the pipe by his safety belt, tools strapped around his waist, bright yellow hard hat on his head, eyes dreamy, unfocused as he probably worked out a tricky metaphor or uneven rhythm in his latest poem. A sudden hiss, an explosion of 400 degrees of scalding steam.
Damn you, Miles. You disappeared. You disappeared in that beautiful white cloud of death. How’s that for a poetic image, Darling? And I wonder, whose name did you cry? The Lord’s? Your wife’s?
“Ria’s,” she murmured. “Probably Ria’s.”
***
The invitation arrived two days later.
“Mama!” Ria exclaimed before Debra had even set down her briefcase or slipped off her shoes and coat. “Gloria invited me to her birthday party! A sleepover! Can I go? Can I?”
Debra frowned at Dorothy who sat knitting in front of the 6pm news on TV. “You let Ria open mail?”
“Was her name on envelope, Ms. Moss.”
“Anything else I should know, Dorothy?”
“She happy little girl today, Ms. Moss. Why not you be happy, too.”
Debra sighed. Once again she’d be thrust in the villain role. The invitation couldn’t be unopened. She decided she’d have Dorothy start watching Ria in Dorothy’s own house, even though that would mean extra driving for Debra into the sketchy neighborhood where Dorothy lived.
During the month before the party, Debra worked hard on Ria, determined to cure her of what she knew would embarrass them both during any sleepover. She canceled the Monday evening counseling sessions, not trusting Ria to keep her methods confidential.
She did not change Ria’s sheets. “You choose,” she’d tell her crying daughter in the middle of the night. “You can stay in your wet bed or go sleep in the bathtub. And don’t you dare go to the couch or lay on the floor. I can’t afford to clean your pee off my couches or carpet.”
Some mornings that first week Debra did find Ria asleep in the bathtub, her skin goose pimpled, her urine-soaked pajama bottoms buried in the hamper or under Kleenex in the bathroom garbage pail.
Debra bought a pair of gloves and made Ria wear them to bed. She sewed them to the sleeves of Ria’s pajama top so Ria could not remove them, the only way Debra could stop Ria from sucking her thumb at night.
Ria began complaining of headaches, stomach aches. Dark half-moons smudged the skin under her eyes. She threw up at school a few times, and Debra had to leave work to get her and cart her to Dorothy’s house.
“Stay with me, Mama,” Ria would plead, but Debra would not. She’d rush away from Dorothy’s dark, cluttered bungalow, the TV bleating talk shows, closing her ears to Ria’s pitiful mewling.
Tough love.
***
“I guess I don’t want to go to Gloria’s party.” Ria stared at the brightly wrapped present on their kitchen table. She began pulling the ribbon that Debra had curled and taped in a festive heap on top of the box.
“Will you leave that ribbon alone!”
Ria’s hands fell to her lap. She sniffled. “I feel sick.”
“You’re going, Ria. I spent a lot of money on this party.” And she began itemizing the cost of everything: the Sleeping Beauty Barbie doll Ria had picked for Gloria, and for Ria herself, a new Barbie nightgown, Barbie overnight bag, Barbie sleeping bag, and purple Barbie leggings and sweater. “So don’t tell me you’re not going.”
“But what if . . . what if, I have . . . an accident?”
“Then the girls will laugh at you and Gloria’s mom will call me to come and get you. So if you don’t want that to happen, and I know you don’t . . .” She softened her voice. Her heart swelled in unexpected sympathy for the funny-looking little girl squirming in the chair across the table.
Tough love, she reminded herself. Tough love, and what Debra was feeling right now was a heavy love and tenderness for her funny-looking daughter with the frizzy carrot hair, wandering left eye, and protruding front teeth which the orthodontist said shouldn’t be braced until Ria was older.
“I know you don’t want any accidents, Ria, so all you have to do is make sure you use the bathroom before you zip yourself into your way-cool Barbie sleeping bag. Don’t drink more than one glass of pop. You can stay dry tonight. I know you can. Didn’t you stay dry for the past six nights? That’s the best you’ve done!”
Ria lifted wet eyes and smiled. A little smile, but a smile all the same. She nodded.
“And I have a surprise for you. Tomorrow night, you can sleep in your bed on brand new sheets! Barbie sheets! And a new comforter! A Barbie comforter!”
King sized, insanely expensive, but now, looking at Ria’s huge smile, absolutely worth it.
“Mama! Thank you!” Ria’s fingers flew to her hair, pulled and twirled, but her thumb did not venture to her mouth. Nor had Debra seen Ria suck her thumb for nearly a week.
Tough love. It was working. Finally, it was working.
***
Debra followed Ria through Gloria’s front door, watching proudly as Ria skipped eagerly into the house. Two little girls were clinging to their mothers and fighting tears. But Ria was smiling, hauling her Barbie overnight bag, her Barbie sleeping bag, and shiny in her new Barbie outfit. Debra was gratified to hear Ria call out confident, excited hellos to Gloria and several other little girls already seated around the dining room table. They were busy stringing bright plastic beads on shiny plastic strings.
Then things changed.
A pretty raven-haired girl widened her eyes when she saw Ria. She poked Gloria. “You invited her?” she asked.
Gloria looked at Ria. “Oh my gosh!” Gloria exclaimed. “You still like Barbie!”
Ria’s face reddened. Her overnight case and sleeping bag thunked to the floor.
At that moment, Debra could have happily slapped Gloria’s sweet dimpled cheeks.
A slim pretty woman laughed. She motioned Debra into the kitchen. “I’m Melanie, Gloria’s mom.” She held out a manicured hand. “You must be Ria’s mom. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I think it’s sweet that Ria likes Barbie. They move beyond these things too quickly, don’t you think?”
Debra nodded and kept her mouth smiling despite how it hurt.
“We’re so glad Ria could come,” Melanie continued, tossing her long, incredibly curled, Crayola yellow hair. “I encouraged Gloria to include Ria on the invite list.”
Well, aren’t you a saint, Debra thought.
“I know how much Ria enjoys Gloria’s company. It’s just so sweet when Ria calls over here asking Gloria to play, and my heart just breaks when Gloria explains she has other plans. I just wish we could get our girls together more often, but I’m sure you know how girls this age are. They have their few best friends, and there’s no sense we mothers trying to manipulate them into other friendships.”
Melanie bared her gleaming teeth into a smile, and Debra nodded, bit the insides of her cheeks, and visualized the lovely Melanie straining red-faced on a toilet.
The house was filling with other mothers and bouncing girls.
“Ladies! Ladies!” Melanie called out. “Before you escape . . .”
Laughter tinkled out every throat but Debra’s.
“Before you escape, let me remind you that tomorrow morning when you come for your girls, my parents will be the ones here. You all know about Frank and I being lucky enough to advance to the playoffs in our club’s annual tennis tournament . . .”
Applause from everyone but Debra, who had not known. Frank and me, Debra thought, not Frank and I.
“Luck had nothing to do with it, Mellie!” one of the moms shouted. “We all saw you and Frank slaughter James and Bethie!”
More laughter and applause.
Debra clenched her fists as “Mellie” modestly bowed her head.
“Well,” Mellie said. “It’s not so lucky that the playoffs start tomorrow morning at the ungodly hour of eight. I mean, the girls will likely just be falling asleep then!”
More laughter.
Debra stood in the cluster of slim, sleek-haired moms. She knew none of their names. She felt alone and invisible and her jaw hurt from the effort it took to keep a smile on her face.
“So, you all know my parents, Patsy and Henry, and they’ll be here tomorrow morning to whip up their famous buttermilk pancakes for the girls and see them safely into your arms when you come to pick them up. Now all of you get outta here, and those of you with just one little angel, I hope you enjoy your kid-free night!”
More laughter and goodbyes. Women made plans to head somewhere for a glass of wine. Debra pushed her way through the chattering moms into the dining room. She looked at the tableful of girls, giggling and chattering and occasionally stringing a bead. A few girls were tossing beads back and forth. Ria sat at the end of the table, quietly and diligently stringing beads. Her string was the only one that was nearly full. She looked up, saw Debra, and held up her string. Debra smiled, nodded, and gave a thumbs up. She waved goodbye and hurried away. Smiling and murmuring “excuse me,” she made her way through the throng of mothers crowding the foyer, all talking and laughing like the good friends they all apparently were.
Back home, Debra dusted, vacuumed, popped a huge bowl of popcorn, and ate it in front of a TV movie. She kept waiting for the phone to ring, but it stayed silent. Near ten, she went to bed with a glass of chardonnay and the latest issue of People. She kept waiting for the phone to ring, Gloria’s mother calling to say Ria’d had an “accident,” or was crying and her tears were upsetting the other girls.
But the phone stayed silent. She nodded off, and when she next opened her eyes, the clock on her nightstand showed nearly 2:30. “Ria!” she gasped. She stumbled to the phone, but there was no light blinking to show a message left on the answering machine.
Debra hurried to Ria’s room. She sat on the bed, grabbed Ria’s pillow, and clutched it against her heart. “I’m proud of you, honey,” she whispered. Something hot pressed behind her eyes, and to her astonishment, she began to cry.
***
In the morning, the phone rang just as Debra was leaving to pick Ria up from the sleepover. Gloria’s house? Calling to say how much they’d enjoyed having Ria over? Could she stay longer? She and Gloria had become best friends? Ria was such a delightful little girl! Her beaded string was the best! She was the life of Gloria’s birthday party!
Debra smiled at her fantasy as she hurried to the phone on the kitchen desk. She did not pick up. She stood motionless, waiting. After seven rings, the answering machine kicked in.
The connection was bad. Static distorted a faraway voice. Loud whooshing roars, like planes taking off. She caught only a few words.
“Best . . . hope . . . sorr . . . happier . . .” The line crackled violently, and then, suddenly, clarity. “I have to.” A male voice, deep and raspy. Debra lunged, knocked over a cup of pens.
“Hello? Hello?” she shouted into the receiver.
The line went dead.
Debra frowned. She looked at the clock on the wall. Nearly 10. Time to get Ria. She shook her head. Grabbed her purse. She’d offer Ria a trip to the mall, she decided, if Ria wasn’t too tired. She’d let her pick out a fun hair ornament at SassyGirl. Reward her for her stellar performance at the sleepover.
The phone rang again. Debra waited, then hurried out the door as her mother’s voice invaded the answering machine, ordering Debra to pick up the phone.
Reaching the garage, Debra glanced at her watch. The grandparents were probably counting the seconds until the house would be free of all those children. She waited impatiently as the garage door creaked up. She stepped into the garage. Stopped short. The rear tire, passenger side, was flat.
“Damn!” Again she looked at her watch. Ten to 10. She liked to be punctual. Pick up around 10, they’d said. They lived less than a mile away. She could ride Mile’s bike, glad she hadn’t managed to donate it yet, but then, how to handle Ria on it?
Miles had hated driving. He was a nervous driver, unable to maintain a steady speed, or brake smoothly. He’d go out of his way to avoid turning left on busy streets. He’d biked everywhere but the steel mill. He’d been big on perching Ria on the bar in front, helmet-free of course, and whooshing the streets to the library or the local movie theater for a kids matinee or even to school. That was until Debra recruited the teachers and crossing guards to educate him on how unsafe that was. Miles had never listened to her when it came to Ria. He seemed to think he was the better parent. Why? Because Ria was so happy with him and so nervous with her. Because Ria laughed and chattered with him and chewed on her hair and whined with Debra. Because he could happily spend an afternoon playing endless games of Candyland or reading storybooks or coloring or playing Barbies or Colorforms, and Debra, well, Debra hadn’t gone and gotten herself killed.
Debra was the parent Ria had now.
Damn it, Miles. Leave her alone. Stay out of her dreams. Stay out of strangers who remotely resemble you. God, the world teems with guys who look like you.
Almost without realizing it, Debra had managed to loosen the lug nuts, jack up the car. Of course, she could change the tire herself. She’d handled the “manly” tasks around the house all her adult life, and that hadn’t changed when, at the decaying age of 32, she’d married Miles.
He’d never been unwilling to tackle the “manly” things, but if he tried cleaning the gutters, the ladder would slip and crash into the neighbor’s window. If he hung a picture, it was always hung too high or a bit crooked. He’d leave a pan full of motor oil in the driveway after changing the oil, where Ria, on her tricycle, would run into it, spilling the oil and staining her shoes. The grass after he mowed would have patches and strips that he somehow missed. He’d remove the old furnace filter, get distracted, and forget to put a new filter in. Twice he forgot to open the flue in the fireplace, and the result—well, that was another task that Debra took over.
It had shocked Debra to discover how unhandy he was, a pipefitter at a steel mill like his father and brothers and uncles. How could a pipefitter be so unhandy?
Yet, she’d thought she’d loved him, at least in the beginning. Looking back, she realized it was loneliness and desperation that had fueled her love.
***
A long slow freight train cost Debra nearly 15 minutes. It was almost 11 when she finally reached Gloria’s house.
She saw no other cars, no other parents spilling into or out of the house. The door was shut, curtains drawn. She hurried up the steps, glad that it was only grandparents she’d have to apologize to for being late, not Gloria’s cotton candy mother.
She rang the doorbell once, then again. She heard it bleat the first eight notes of Beethoven’s Fifth. The sun disappeared behind a cloud. A cold wind frisked her as though she were a criminal with something to hide. Her coat flapped around her legs. Her hair blew into her eyes.
Her stomach fluttered. She jammed her finger into the bell, again and again. Her fingernail splintered.
Should’ve called to say I was running late.
She knew why she hadn’t. She’d wanted to prolong the hope that Ria was having a great time, that Ria had become popular with all those little girls.
She banged on the door and was about to ring the bell again when she heard someone shout from inside. A woman’s voice. Angry. Elderly. “All right! All right! I’m coming! Hold your horses!”
The inner wooden door opened. A tall, thin woman frowned behind the glass storm door. Her face, pulled tight undoubtedly by surgery, belied the wrinkled neck and querulous voice. She had the same perky nose and pale blue eyes Gloria’s mother had. Thick white hair framed her face in an expertly cut page. She wore a royal blue robe, silk. She squinted at Debra.
“Yes?” She crossed her arms against her chest. “Can I help you?”
Debra smiled. “I’m Debra. I’m here for my daughter, Ria. I’m so sorry I’m late. I know I should’ve called, but I had a flat tire and then . . .” Debra faltered. Why did the woman continue to frown? Debra wasn’t that late.
“Look, just send Ria out and we’ll get out of your way. I’m sure the sleepover has left everyone tired. Sleepover hangover, right?” Debra laughed at her poor joke, desperate to wipe the frown off the older woman’s face.
The woman shook her head. “All the girls are gone. Thirty minutes the last one left. Gloria is sound asleep. At least she was. We all were.”
“But . . . how can that be? I mean, if my daughter is not with me, then she must be here!”
Debra grabbed the door knob, turned and pulled.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh dear,” she said. “Henry! Come quick!”
The storm door was locked, but Debra kept pulling the knob. A buzzing filled her ears, a tornado whirled in her gut.
The woman was no longer frowning. She looked frightened. “Ria, you say? Which one was she?”
“Ria! Red hair! Purple Barbie pajamas!”
“Oh!” The woman smiled. Relief smoothed her face. “Oh yes, that sweet little carrot top. Don’t worry, dear. Your husband picked her up a little before 10. She was the first one to leave as a matter of fact, so she got her pick of the little teddy bears we had for party favors. In fact, I remember she selected the little angel teddy bear. Purple wings. All the girls wanted that one.”
Debra’s hand fell from the door knob. Icy fingers crawled down her spine. Her eyelids twitched. She stared at the woman’s pleasant smile.
“My husband.” Her voice came out raspy and shaky. “I have no husband.”
The woman stepped back, her eyes wide, her lips moving soundlessly.
Debra beat her fists against the glass door. “Who took my daughter? Where’s my little girl?”
“Oh my God, calm down! You’ll break the glass! Henry! Henry!”
A man appeared, rubbing his eyes. Gray sweat pants covered thick legs. His massive chest stretched a black T-shirt showing the solar system.
“Hey!” His voice boomed. Debra froze. He ran his hand through his thick white hair. “Now what’s the problem here, ma’am?”
“Henry,” the older woman said. “She’s that little carrot top’s mother. You know, that quiet little thing with the crooked teeth. The girl’s father picked her up over an hour ago, and I guess Mom here didn’t know about it.”
“No!” Debra shouted. “There is no father! Who took my daughter?”
Henry opened the door and stepped outside. He looked back at the older woman. “Patsy,” he said. “Keep the storm door locked.” Then he looked at Debra. “Look, ma’am. I guess you must be divorced or something. We didn’t realize that. But there’s no need to get hysterical. Your daughter is safe with her dad. He came for her. We didn’t know it was your weekend. We had no idea it wasn’t her dad’s turn for her, and frankly, that is something the two of you gotta work out. We can’t get involved in that.”
Debra felt dizzy. Her heart hammered. She opened her mouth but what came out sounded like a kitten’s mewl.
He looked back at his wife standing behind the glass door. “Jeesh, you can’t even have a kid’s birthday party these days without working out the custody arrangements.”
Debra grabbed Henry’s T-shirt, pulled him so that they stood nose to nose.
Henry’s eyes bulged. “Hey!” he shouted.
“Her father is dead,” Debra hissed into his face. “The man who took my daughter is not her father. Her father is dead. Her father is dead. Her father . . . is . . . dead.”
She let go of his shirt, pushed him away. She swayed, grabbed the metal railing. “Oh dear God.” Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the cold cement step. She buried her face in her hands. Tears spilled. “Ria, Ria, Ria,” she moaned.
The voices of the man and woman came from far away. She heard Patsy open the door and step outside.
“But she ran into his arms,” Debra heard the older woman say. “Henry, remember how she ran into his arms? She called him Daddy. He came into our house. Helped her choose the teddy bear party favor. All the girls wanted that angel teddy bear. They protested when your Ria picked it, and nice little thing she is, she dropped it back in the basket and chose another one. But her father picked it back up and said it was hers to choose fair and square. I asked did he just come back from someplace tropical, what a sunburn he had.”
***
Patsy fell silent. She stared at the crazy woman sitting on the top step, sobbing. Patsy’s skin prickled and she shuddered, remembering suddenly how her granddaughter had pulled on Patsy’s shirt, saying something strange. But other parents were arriving and Patsy, distracted, shushed Gloria.
“But Grandma,” Gloria was saying. “I thought her dad was in heaven. And it’s not fair she gets the angel bear. Becca has dibs on it, Grandma!”
Patsy stretched her hand toward Debra, but Henry pulled her arm back before she could touch the crying woman. Patsy cleared her throat. “Your little girl, she just wouldn’t let go of . . . him. She hugged him, said how much she missed him, how glad she was to see him.”
Henry shook his head, put a finger to his lips to signal her to stop talking, but Patsy felt panic flood her body, a storm of confusion, fear, and worry that they’d be sued. She couldn’t stop the words from pouring out.
“‘Was my little angel good?’ he asked me. And I said what a nice quiet little monkey she was. How she enjoyed just sitting in the corner and watching the other girls dance and show off their gymnastics. A big smile on her face the whole time.”
Patsy paused, swallowed, remembering how his eyes blazed and how hot his breath had been in her face.
“Don’t call my little girl a monkey,” he’d said. And there’d been such hostility in his eyes, she’d been grateful when the doorbell pealed, and she’d turned away to let in other parents.
Patsy stared at the woman on their front steps. She took a deep breath, wrung her hands. All she could think of were lawsuits, police sirens. Could they possibly be charged with some sort of crime?
“He was her daddy!” Patsy protested. “She called him ‘Daddy!’ She did! She kept calling him ‘Daddy!’ I . . . I don’t understand all this. How could he be dead?”
***
Debra did not answer. She sat on the cold cement, closed her eyes, tilted her face to the sky. Something prickly and wet slithered and snapped from her throat to her heart to her stomach.
“Bring her back,” she begged. “Please. Bring her back.” Her mouth felt numb. Her voice sounded strange and far away.
She felt someone’s breath on her neck, scenting the air with camphor. She heard laughter, a young girl’s happy laughter. Ria!
But when she opened her eyes, she was alone.
Marie Anderson is a Chicago area mother of three. Her work has appeared in about 30 publications, including LampLight, Gathering Storm, Brain Child, Woman's World, Downstate Story, St. Anthony Messenger, Liguorian, Every Day Fiction, Writer's Digest, and Mental Paper Cuts. She has been the head of her library's writing critique group since 2009.