Home Again

My arms were elbow deep in a sink full of dirty dishes. Every few minutes I’d stop scrubbing to blow a strand of hair out of my face. Billy was watching me, laughing each time the strand of fading brown hair found its way back to the tip of my nose. I smiled at him this time, scrunching my nose and blowing with comical force. The hair swung wildly and landed back on my face. Billy laughed and slapped his knee like his daddy did when something got his funny bone. As he slapped his knee once more he realized he still had his marbles in his pocket. He jammed his hand inside the pair of hand-me-down jeans that had been patched more than their fair share. He fingered each marble checking to see if they were all still there. When he was satisfied with his inventory, he jumped off the kitchen counter where he’d been perched waiting for a sample of the pie I was making and ran out the back door, letting the screen door slam back on its frame.

I continued my scrubbing until all of the breakfast dishes were clean, and then wiped my hands hurriedly on my threadbare apron. It had been a gift. I couldn’t remember the occasion, but I knew it had been many years since it had looked like new. The bright yellow, embroidered daisies were now a shade of white. But for some reason this was the apron I always reached for. Each time I pulled it off of the rusty nail in the wall, I told my brain not to remember that it had been a gift from her. Everything from her was full of expectation, and I was certainly not the cook, housekeeper and god-fearing woman she’d wanted me to be. Just like her hopes for my future, this apron had faded with time.

I took out the eggs and milk that Robert and the children had gathered from the chicken coop early that morning and searched the cabinet for my baking ingredients. As I stooped down to grab the last bag of flour, I heard the little girls bounding into the kitchen with their sundresses floating up around them. I watched from the corner of my eye as Nettie helped Greta climb onto the counter where I kept a jar of cookies.

“Just one,” I said not turning around. My voice stopped their fidgeting and Nettie espoused a “yes ma’am.”

When they were satisfied with their choice, they climbed down and stood chomping loudly on their cookies. I was still searching for the rest of what I needed for my pie, hoping it was all still there. My frustration grew as that little strand of hair fell once more, tickling my face like a house fly.

As I batted at it, I suddenly felt the presence of someone standing nearby. Still stooped down, I pivoted around and saw Greta’s baby face staring at me with those big, brown, sorrowful eyes. I was close enough to notice the little gold flecks in her irises; something I hadn’t noticed before.

Without saying a word, she took hold of that little strand of hair and gently twisted it around her finger. She pulled it towards my temple and tucked it behind a clump of hair that was held tightly in a barrette. When she noticed I was watching her, she blushed and smiled. She turned away from me and Nettie took her hand. They skipped off out the back door and ran towards the rope swing Robert had fashioned for them that summer.

I finally had all of the ingredients I needed and began mixing and rolling and constructing. As my mind wandered down rabbit holes and into story books I’d read as a child, I heard the front screen door open on its creaking hinges. This was something that happened so many times during the course of the day that I hardly had the time to look up every time it opened.

“Mama,” Billy said with a strange twinge in his voice.

“Billy, please don’t come in and out. You’re going to track mud all through the house.”

“Mama,” he said again, with more force than before. The handful of marbles Billy had been holding rolled out of his fingers and down to the wood floor. Every red devil, steely and aggie hit the warped planks below with bell tower reverberation.

Annoyed by the loud clanging of marbles and Billy’s unresponsiveness, I turned with a sigh. As my eyes pulled away from my pie and into the living room, I suddenly came face-to-face with my mother. My breath would not return. I stood there wanting to run. I wanted to turn away from her. But, her gaze had always been able to paralyze me. My feet felt heavy and immovable.

“Charlotte,” she said with the same pious voice she’d always held between her lips. Her face was angled and severe. Her small, green eyes were disappearing under wrinkles and the stress of a life she’d never imagined. She wore a dress shirt, starched into submission and buttoned to the throat. It was tucked into a heavy, wool skirt even though it was the middle of summer.

“Mother,” I said almost too quiet to hear. “Why…why are you here?”

I wrung my hands on my apron, pretending to dry them. She sighed the way she had my whole life; frustrated at my lack of understanding.

“A child needs its mother, no matter who she might be.”

She paused for emphasis, looking down her long, pointed nose. I felt as though I might be sick. I just wanted the moment to be over.

“Your father and I are getting on in years and it isn’t proper for a grandparent to raise a grandchild.”

My heart dropped so loudly into my stomach that I was sure she could hear the gut-wrenching splash. Then, as I gasped on the inside, my mother stepped aside, unveiling a child in clean clothes worn only once. She stood, frightened, clutching a small brown teddy bear and a suitcase.

Her short, brown hair was brushed just so, into two white ribbons. She looked like a porcelain doll you put high on shelf and never play with. I found myself filling with anger as my mother brought the child forward, closer to where I stood.

But as angry as I was, no words made their way to my mouth. My vocal chords were paralyzed; my tongue dry.

“The time has come for Lottie to return home,” she said placing her arm on the child’s shoulder. Lottie looked terrified and broken-hearted all at the same time. She looked back at her grandmother who gave her a nod of approval. “She is a good girl. She minds her manners and keeps herself clean. She is also working on her memory verses, which I hope will not be in vain.”

I still had nothing to say. As I struggled to find words, I saw Billy inching towards the front door. His face was pale and he looked ill. For a moment our eyes met. I hoped my eyes were apologizing. His stayed fixed on mine for a moment longer and then looked toward the floor.

“All right,” I finally managed to say. I let my apron fall from my hands, but I did not reach for her. I could not bring myself to touch the real life child I had let slip through my fingers five years ago. The moment seemed to go on forever. My mother was waiting for me to do something.

“Well, I should be going,” she said turning towards Lottie. She bent at the waist and put her hand under the girl’s chin. “Be a good girl. Do as your mother says.”

Lottie began to cry. “But I don’t want to stay, Grandmother. Please take me back home. I will polish the silver and dust the piano,” the small porcelain child said wrapping her arms around my mother’s waist.

I cringed at her words. They cut into a deep part of my heart I hadn’t known was there. I knew she didn’t know me. I knew her grandmother was more of a mother to her than I’d ever been, but it didn’t make it any less painful.

My mother removed the child from her middle and patted her head.

“No tears, child. I will see you at church on Sunday,” she said glancing in my direction. She turned quickly and was soon disappearing in her new-model car.

Lottie collapsed near the door, her dress floating out around her like a cloud. She sat quietly sobbing, letting her tears soak into the eyelet apron she wore over her dress.

I stood there wringing my hands, staring down at this doll of a child, melting into her unsoiled clothing. Then, I noticed that Billy was still in the room, standing as still as I’d ever seen him; his eyes looking down at the sister he’d never known. I tried willing myself to reach for him, but my hands were glued to my apron. My heart was racing and I felt as if I might be sick.

Billy’s glance left the child and he noticed her teddy bear lying motionless near her feet. He knelt down and picked it up. He looked at it for a moment, running his fingers over its eyes still stitched in place and its soft brown fur. Then he extended his arm, shaking it a little to get Lottie’s attention.

She looked up at him, and for a moment their eyes met like they had so many years ago, and she took the toy. He attempted what seemed like a smile and she began rubbing her face in the bear’s fur. She began to quiet, and sat straightening her dress, sniffling in three second intervals.

Billy still stood there, watching her every movement like she was an attraction at the fair.

“Do you wanna play marbles with me?” Billy asked, piercing the silence with his soft voice. He gathered the smooth, round toys that had rolled under the couch and near the wood-burning stove and shoved them back in his pocket.

Lottie nodded slightly and Billy extended his hand. She put her soft, un-calloused hand into his and stood up. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and the two walked hand-in-hand out the front door and down the porch steps. I watched them as they disappeared down the front walk and into the barn. Billy was so gentle and kind. He knew his role and he filled it without a second thought.