I swish some more.
Who would have thought
this would feel good?
I spit.
Who would have thought
candy would hurt so much?
I check out my tongue.
It’s extra red.
Thanks a lot, Mr. Paul.
When?
Mom teeters on the ladder
and tries to shove the Christmas stuff
back up into the attic.
“Stupid box!
Get in there!”
She bangs it with her fist.
“Mom?”
She jumps
and grabs the ladder
to steady herself.
“Did you know
the neighbor’s husband died?”
“What?”
“Ms. Ruthie’s husband.”
“No, I didn’t.”
She slides the cover over the attic opening.
It doesn’t fit,
and she has to shove it into the slot.
With a big sigh,
she carefully climbs down.
“When?”
“I’m not sure.
Not long ago, though.”
“Poor woman. I ought to get to know her better.”
Yep. I think of Chris
and know just what she means.
Three A.M.
Scrhl, scrht.
Mom is rocking on her knees
on the floor
with a pair of scissors.
Flipped out, moaning.
She doesn’t even say,
“I’m sorry.”
She heaves herself
to her feet, with a giant groan,
and stumbles to her room.
I dive down onto the rug
and root across the floor.
She cut up every photo
with Dad in it.
Chunks of photos
stick to my palms
and my knees.
I sit down in the middle of the mess
with the empty photo album
on my lap.
“No,” I moan.
A tiny piece of Dad’s face
laughs up at me
between my toes.
The Bits
I gather a few bits
and tape myself
back into Dad’s arms.
This is what I have
to show he loved me once.
This was me
before I hated him.
This was then.
I wipe my nose on my shoulder
and slide the photos
to the back of my underwear drawer.
A sticky note on top says,
“Hands Off!”
I bang the drawer shut.
If Mom touches those pictures again,
I won’t ever forgive her.
FOUR A.M.
Mom stands by my bed.
She’s holding a box
of the cut photos.
“I’m sorry, Estele,” she whispers,
and she sits down on my bed.
“I can’t—
I can’t—”
She can’t talk.
Doesn’t even give me any words
to hear around.
Just her shaking, crying body.
I’m so mad
that she took the last thing I had.
She destroyed everything.
I make myself hug her.
My arms bounce against her body
until I get a grip and squeeze.
The box digs into my ribs.
“It’s okay,” I mumble,
because she can’t
handle anything else.
I have to.
And she’s all I have.
A Safe Spot
Finally
she stops sobbing,
tucks me in,
and leaves.
I slide the box
under my bed
to a safe spot.
It bumps into something.
I get down and look.
It’s Dumplin’ Spinner.
I pull him out,
pound the dust out of him,
and nudge the box farther.
I scootch down
under my sheet
and try to breathe in
forgiveness
and whisper out,
“Not a victim.”
Dumplin’ Spinner
doesn’t believe me.
Why Now
Why did Mom wig out now?
Why didn’t she cut up photos earlier?
Must have been those divorce papers.
Sometimes people seem normal
and then just totally freak.
Scary.
Sleepyhead
We slept through church.
It’s lunchtime.
I stumble to the kitchen in my pajamas
and find
Pastor Lyon and Mrs. Lyon praying with Mom.
I stand there not knowing
whether to leave or stay,
wishing I could evaporate.
“Amen,” he finishes.
“Essie.” He sees me.
“Hello, Essie,” says Mrs. Lyon.
“Hi,” I say,
tugging my top down
to cover my stomach.
I feel totally naked.
“The Lyons have brought us some food
from the church ladies
and a big bag
of things for the baby.” Mom smiles.
“Great.”
“Why don’t you run and dress, sleepyhead?”
I race out of there.
My feet slap and sting on the terrazzo.
I lean against my door
and lock it.
From my face to my belly button
I’m hot.
Just Like Nothing Happened
Man.
How can Mom sit there
in the kitchen
in front of them
like she didn’t destroy
everything
last night.
I peek under my bed.
The box is still there, safe.
What,
is it like
if we don’t mention it,
it never happened?
But it did.
I won’t forget, Mom.
Better
“That’s better, Estele.”
Mom pulls a chair out for me.
I smooth my shorts and sit.
Mrs. Lyon smiles at me.
She’s always so happy.
Pastor Lyon leans across the table
and takes my hand.
“Your mother has told us
about your father leaving.”
I gulp.
“I want you to know that
the church is going to help
meet your family’s bills
for a while—”
“The house payments?” I blurt.
“Well, if necessary,” he says.
Mom looks down.
He goes on. “We’ll also
do some household chores,
like mowing the grass
and fixing things.”
“Isn’t that great news, sweetheart?” asks Mom.
I nod and stare at my lap.
“We’ll be helping your family
just like we’ve helped your friend’s,”
Mrs. Lyon says.
“My friend?”
“Chris.” Mom rubs my back.
“Right. Yeah, he’s missing.”
“Chris and his family are in our prayers,
like you and your family are.”
Mrs. Lyon smiles again,
but her eyes are about to gush tears.
I look at Pastor Lyon’s face.
His really kind, gray-bearded face.
“But Chris’s family doesn’t even go
to our church.”
; “No. They go to another church.
And we really want to help
however we can,” he says.
“Oh.”
He squeezes my hand,
and it helps me
a tiny, little bit.
Praying in My Head While the Grown-ups Talk
Thank you, God,
for the food
and the baby stuff
the Lyons brought,
and especially the money,
because now
we can make Dale
some green jiggly salad,
and we’ll all get seconds.
And our house is safe.
It’s just not the way
I wanted
to get some
money.
You left out the
Dad coming back part.
Aside
Mrs. Lyon pulls me aside.
“Essie, we have known you since you
were wee high.”
I nod.
“And you are a strong girl.
You’ll get through this
by God’s grace.”
I slouch, thinking it over.
She wraps me in a big hug.
Some of her happiness
flows into my heart
and straightens me right up.
Tiny Baby Clothes
Mom walks the Lyons to their car
while I slip the meal into the warmed oven
like she told me to.
The counter is covered
with containers of food
with notes on what each thing is.
Even a chicken pot pie!
Mom comes back in
and hefts the brown garbage sack
to the table.
“I’ll get the food in the fridge
after we take a quick look
at the baby things, Estele.”
“Okay.”
“I wish I had saved
yours and Dale-o’s clothes.
But this will give us a good start.
Ohhh!” She pulls out
the teeniest little white T-shirt.
“That is so small, Mom!”
She brings it to her face
and rubs it on her cheek.
“And it’s incredibly soft.”
I pull a handful of stuff out.
It’s all little and adorable.
Even some small sheets
and teensy socks.
Our baby
is going to look so cute.
And it won’t know
someone gave us these things
used.
They all look clean
and smell clean.
But will the baby really fit
in stuff
so tiny?
Easy Peasy
I drop each piece
into the washing machine.
Even if the stuff smells clean,
it feels good to start fresh,
Mom said.
I sprinkle the detergent in
and shut the lid.
The machine starts swishing.
Our baby is getting taken care of
already.
It’s not so hard
yet.
Dig In
“Here you go, Dale-o.”
Mom mounds a pile of casserole
on Dale’s plate.
“All right!” he says.
“Estele.”
I take mine.
It’s covered with steaming chunks
of chicken and rice.
“This smells so good.”
Mom dishes some for herself.
“Dig in, everyone.”
Mmmm.
It’s definitely worth
having the church know about Dad
if this is what we get.
Delicious!
Evening Service
Since we missed church this morning,
we go tonight.
We always used to go both times,
till Mom got so uncomfortable on the pew.
Now she shoots for once a week.
The casserole ladies
sing loud and smile at me
when they catch me looking.
All the widows
and moms with grown-up kids
took time to help feed us.
They know about Dad
and care.
I’ve never heard Pastor Lyon
preach on the blessing of casseroling,
but we sure have gotten it!
Super Nice
Monday morning,
I peek through the drapes.
Mr. Esparra pushes our mower
back and forth and around
the mango tree.
He makes it look
super duper easy.
Even if it is,
it’s still really nice of him
to mow our grass.
I peek out again.
This time I don’t even giggle
at his shorts,
black socks,
and church shoes.
Temporary
Mom brings in
the baby stuff from the dryer
and folds it so very carefully,
just right.
She tucks it all
back in the brown garbage sack
and looks up to see me watching her.
“This is just temporary,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for a little dresser
at a garage sale.”
“Okay.”
She sounds like she’s apologizing.
Maybe she is,
to the baby.
Whoo-hoo
Dale rides the shopping cart
like he isn’t supposed to,
and Mom doesn’t even correct him.
He’s going to bash into
some old lady.
I just know it.
But it is a ton of fun
to put good stuff in the cart.
“Can we get these cookies?” he asks.
Mom nods.
“How about these chips?” I say.
“Yes,” says Mom.
“Whoo-hoo!” Doozerdude shouts.
How embarrassing,
but this cart
is full of some great food!
Chores
Today I
scrubbed
the car,
the toilet,
the sinks,
the pots and pans,
and now I’m
doing behind Dale’s ears.
“Stop, Es!”
He pulls away.
“Fine! Do it yourself then.”
“Fine! I will.”
“At least you can clean something
around here.”
Thankfulness
for piles of yummy food
get turned into anger
so fast?
Doing chores
and stuff I don’t want to
eats up all the happy feelings.
It’s like the happy part
just sits on the top of my heart,
and it doesn’t take very much
to punch a hole
down into the angry chunk,
which is really deep
and ugly.
The very biggest part
is also the loudest.
Super Mad
I have to
baby-sit Doozerdude
so Mom can get checked at the midwife’s.
“Set the table,” I say.
“No.”
“Stop blocking the TV!”
“No!”
I can’t even control
a little seven-year-old.
“I hate you!” I yell.
But I really
hate Dad.
It’s his fault
I have to baby-sit.
Now Dale’s crying,
and so I have to hug him
to prove I don’t
hate him,
which actually
doesn’t feel so bad,
the hugging part.
And then he says,
“Es, are you going to leave me too?”
My breath catches.
He thinks I would
and even worries about it?
“No, Doozerdude. I’m not leaving.
I’m not a slimeball.”
“Yeah,” says Dale.
“You’re not a slimeball, Es.”
He hugs me back
tight.
No Stinking Way
He left us.
No stinking way
is it my fault or Dale’s.
We did nothing
to make him walk away.
He wanted it
all
for himself.
Tinkertoys
Dale finally leaves me alone
and plays with his new building set.
Finally.
It’s like
he’s not even here.
Like he’s gone.
This is what it would be like
if someone kidnapped Dale sometime.
Freak-out!
I hurry over,
sit down,
and make him the best Ferris wheel ever.
“That’s way cool, Es!”
Dad might leave my brother,
but nobody is going to steal my brother.
Wondering
“Hey, Estele.”
Mom struggles into the house.
Her belly looks huge.
“Can you get the door for me?”
“Sure.” I jump up to help.
Her hands are full
of groceries, her purse,
and a bunch of pamphlets
about …
giving birth?
I shut the door.
Mom heads to the kitchen.
Who’s going to be
her labor coach
since Dad left?
Someone from church?
Mrs. Lyon?
A neighbor?
Mr. Paul?
Because it won’t be me.
No way
do I want to see that ick.
I’ll wash dishes,
vacuum,
even clean the stinky toilet,
but no way
do I want to see Mom
in labor.
That’s totally Dad’s job.
Just one more
he’s walked away from.
Bras and Panties
The last day of the year, and
I could die.
Mom said
we needed to buy
some clothes.
Standing in the underwear section,
she’s hooking and snapping
weird bras
that are supposed to be
for nursing a baby.
Flappy fronts for
“easy accessibility.”
Doozerdude
is snickering, pointing out
the leopard-spotted panties.
But the worst is when Mom says,
“Let’s look for you, Estele.
It’s time for you to start wearing a bra
with some of your tighter shirts.”
She drags me over
to the preteen section
while Dale
actually falls to the carpet
howling.
Hate It