we were growing up. I think she wants to leave the old farm, like Mom did when Dad died. Pam wants to get away from here and start over completely.
I can’t say the thought never crossed my mind during the past six months. But I’m not like Pam. I can’t consider just what I want. I have to think about the kids, even if they might not always believe that I do.
I park the Tahoe, and as I jump out, I glance across the gravel drive to where Pam’s modern house juts behind a stand of pines. The big tinted windows are aglow with the sunset; I can’t tell if Keith’s home or not. No locksmith truck is parked in the driveway. Maybe they’ve already been and gone. It’s pushing eight o’clock now.
I step over boxes on my way to the side door, which stands open. Light from the kitchen spills into the garage. “Hello?” I call out, a bit nervously. Since Rob’s death, I’m not quite sure of the reception I’ll get in my own home.
Some garbage bags sit outside the laundry room. I can’t believe the kids would have been cleaning while I was gone. They don’t do their chores when I’m here, nagging them. Like Pam, they’re using Rob’s death to excuse some of their behavior.
But maybe that has changed.
“What’s going on?” I call out again, when no one joins me in the kitchen. My voice bounces off the antique-white cabinets and oak floor.
From the dirty dishes sitting on the Corian island instead of in the sink, I’m thinking not that much has changed. It’s good that the kids ate dinner while I was with my sisters, but they could have cleaned up the mess.
The garbage bags probably contain Pam’s clothes, things Keith hadn’t felt comfortable leaving in the garage. Even fed up, he could be considerate.
I hear a door open from one of the bedrooms off the hall at the other end of the great room. The master suite is next to the formal dining room, which is separated from the great room, kitchen and breakfast nook area by plaster columns. Rob and I spent a lot of time designing our home so everyone would have their privacy, most especially us.
Claire comes around the corner, her mouth pulled into its perpetual pout. Even with the sulky face, she’s a pretty girl with her father’s big, dark eyes and my golden-brown hair. I gesture to the dishes on the counter—I think kitchen cleanup was her chore tonight—but she crosses her arms across her blossoming chest instead.
If she’s hoping for a reaction, I don’t have one for her. Despite having only a half glass of Lambrusco, I’m feeling mellow tonight.
“Ohh, mutiny,” I tease her.
She glares at me, a look that threatens that I’ve seen nothing yet. Like everyone else, I could blame Rob for her recent change in behavior, but I think hormones might have as much or more to do with it. My mom warned me that this is the age at which my sisters started clashing with her. I, of course, was the perfect child.
“She’s home!” Claire screeches, and there’s pounding as Robbie runs up the steps from the walk-out basement, which is divided into our family room, Rob’s den and the guest suite where my son terrorized Pam. I don’t have to guess where he was; Robbie’s always on the computer in the den and too preoccupied to come when you call him. So why is tonight different?
Uneasiness tightens the knot in my chest, the one that has made it a little hard to breathe since Rob died. I ask again, “What’s going on?”
Robbie pushes his glasses up his nose, his big, dark eyes magnified by the thick lenses. At fifteen, he’s about the same height as Claire and probably weighs less, even though she’s a stick. Unlike his giant of a father, Robbie looks the part of the computer geek, complete with asthma inhaler. Even though he has physical limitations, he’s never felt inferior, thanks to all the time and attention Rob gave him. They’d shared so many interests, probably too many considering the pranks Robbie played on his aunt.
And Claire, she’d been the proverbial Daddy’s little girl, his spoiled princess. He’d forever been buying her stuffed animals and candy. I guess I’d been his princess, too, because he’d done the same for me. Of course, he’d eaten more of the candy than I had.
Despite Robbie’s and Claire’s mulish expressions, my heart softens for my fatherless children, and I start putting the dishes into the sink myself, triumphant all over again for what I did to Smiley’s display. Those damn cupcakes deserve far worse for what they stole from us. I wonder where the factory is…?
“Mom!” Rob shouts, drawing my full attention with his urgency. He usually speaks very softly, only raising his voice if Claire’s irritating him.
“What?”
“Did you really do it?” he asks, his words quivering with emotion.
Oh, crap. They heard already. Those probably aren’t Pam’s things packed in boxes and garbage bags; the kids probably packed mine, ready to commit me to the loony bin. How can I explain that the attack was a good thing?
“Who told you?” I ask.
Even though I’m stalling for time, I am also curious about who’d been in the crowd that had gathered for my performance.
Claire and Robbie share a quick glance.
“You told us…this morning…when you dropped us at school.” She says each part separately, as if reading a list of my offenses to a judge. Rob and I always said she’ll be a lawyer someday.
Since I hadn’t planned my victory over cupcake evil in Smiley’s, I realize with a quick flash of relief that they’re talking about something else. Should I tell them about Smiley’s before someone else does?
I answer myself with a shrug. They lived with their father for fifteen and eleven years respectively; they’re used to outlandish behavior. Their friends had envied them their “fun” dad. I’m not so sure a crazy mom is envy-inspiring, though.
“So what are we talking about here?” I ask.
“The business.” Robbie’s speaking through gritted teeth, his braces scraping together due to his overbite.
I wince over what the orthodontist will say at our next appointment.
“Did you really sell it?”
Okay, they still aren’t happy with my decision. “I told you why—”
“Told!” Robbie interrupts, his face flushing with bright red blotches. Maybe his acne is flaring up again. “You tell us what you’re doing. You don’t ask what we want!”
That’s kind of how it works since I’m the parent and they’re the children, but I don’t say this. I’ll let them vent. Tonight.
“It’s not fair,” Claire chimes in like a backup singer. This is a chorus she’s sung often.
“You got rid of Dad’s car—”
“Just a loan,” I remind them.
When, or should I say if, Robbie gets his license, the car will be back in the garage, waiting for him. A five-year-old Volkswagen is a little easier to hang on to than a business.
“And his clothes!”
No
