Mom Over Miami Page 3

  “I don’t know what this guy’s problem is, Mrs. B.” A man’s voice, probably one of Aunt Phiz’s fellow travelers, blasted out through the receiver a Cantonese cootchie-coo.

  The dog rolled over on her back, rubbing greasy orange cheese residue on two boys’ new soccer shoes at once.

  And Tessa sneezed, spewing bright red juice directly into the face of none other than Lauren Faison—aka Stilton’s mom.

  “Oh, who am I trying to kid?” Hannah motioned the world’s most perfect mom into the chaos of her home and said, “Come on in, and heaven help us all.”

  3

  Subject: Good News/Bad News

  To: ItsmeSadie, WeednReap

  CC: Phizziedigs

  Hi, there y’all—

  The good news: They’ve found our furniture!

  The bad news: I think I’ve lost my mind.

  What other explanation can there be for Payt and me standing at our back door just after dawn on Saturday, wadding up sliced cold cuts into little ham and salami bombs and lobbing them into the garage to lure Squirrelly Girl in there? You know, that dog might not be quick on the uptake, but as a greyhound she’s not slow. That’s one thing she had over us in our scheme to get her in the garage then hit the door opener—in this case, door closer—and trap her safely inside. We’d no sooner land a lump of deli meat on the garage floor and hit the button when she’d gobble it down, race out to the driveway and look at us standing in the half-open door with an expression on her dopey adorable doggie face that said “Hey, y’all should come out here. It’s raining ham!”

  So we’d load up and try again. We must have stayed at it for a good half an hour before we finally left her outside and let the chips—and I don’t mean nachos—fall where they may.

  In our defense, it did seem like a really brilliant idea at the time.

  —Hannah, skunk-sprayed dog owner

  Sam staggered sleepily into the living room and pinched his nose. His voice sounded like a cartoon character with a cold when he asked, “What stinks?”

  “The dog.” Hannah held their fawn-colored greyhound’s bright pink leash out as far as her arm would allow. Once they’d cornered Squirrelly Girl they hadn’t dared let her run off and hide—or worse, have another run-in with her new stinky play pal.

  The boy grimaced and maneuvered around to keep from getting on the tail end of the beast. “What’ja feed her? Rotten eggs?”

  “It’s not coming from her.” Hannah laughed. “She had a run-in with a skunk.”

  “A skunk?” He looked around but wisely did not take his fingers from his nose. “Where?”

  “It was under the back deck.” She pointed to the ground-level redwood decking jutting out from the sliding glass doors at the back of the living room. “We tried to get the dog into the garage, but—”

  Hannah stopped. The kid thought he was living with two bright, capable, clear-thinking individuals at last. Why shake his faith with the retelling of the ham-bomb story?

  “But we couldn’t get the dog to stay in the garage, so Payt ran off to the grocery store to get some tomato juice.”

  “Huh?”

  “Hmm, guess that made about as much sense as saying, ‘I lost my shoe so I ate a sandwich,’ huh?”

  “You lost your shoe?” Sam looked down at the fuzzy pink slippers on her feet.

  “No, it was a non sequitur.”

  “I thought you said it was a sandwich?” He looked decidedly worried.

  “No, the sandwich is just a…” She tried to think how to explain the concept in terms Sam would get right away.

  Before her brain would engage, though, the dog, spotting the only human in the house likely to be on her side in the whole “what’s a little stink when you’re having fun?” issue, lurched for Sam.

  Jerked forward, Hannah fought to stand her ground. That was all she wanted at this point, wasn’t it?

  In her family life and in her relationships and responsibilities? To simply stand her ground.

  And maybe not get skunk smell on her house shoes.

  She reined in the dog and smiled at Sam. “Forget the sandwich, honey. Payt went to get the tomato juice so we can bathe the dog in it.”

  Sam’s expression went from worried to bewildered.

  “The juice gets the smell out.” She struggled to keep Squirrelly still, which was about as easy as trying to hold a kite motionless on a windy day. “Or at least that’s what Aunt April said when I called her for advice.”

  “You’re going to give Squirrelly Girl a bath in tomato juice?”

  “We’re going to try.”

  “This I want to see!”

  Hannah glanced down at the lean, muscular animal and winced. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m counting on you to help.”

  “I like to help.” Sam grinned. “In fact, I wish you’d waked me up so we could have all gone to the grocery store together!”

  “I almost did, but then…” But then she’d come to her senses.

  They’d chosen Loveland and this particular subdivision in the town for the closeness to schools, shopping and church. They could find all of those things within a few blocks of the house. This helped them “create the ambience of community while still enjoying the larger context of the city setting.” At least that’s what the Realtor had told them.

  And it had sounded grand at the time. After all, Hannah and Payt had grown up in a small town with its own unique “ambience.” They had returned to that town for Payt to put in his years as an intern and a resident. They liked community.

  Up to a point.

  Hannah, at least, liked it in theory. And in the way it made her feel safe and not cast adrift in the unknown territory of her new life. And that it made the world a cozier place to raise her children, but…

  But they’d moved to Ohio hoping to escape some of the very things close proximity to everyone provided. She hated thinking that the people across the street might call out to her some Monday morning, “Hey, we didn’t see you in church yesterday, is someone sick? Should I bring over a casserole?”

  She could do without that, thank you very much. Well, except for the casserole. That she—and those fated to eat her cooking—might actually appreciate.

  But the idea of living so totally exposed and available? Hannah shivered. Would it mean that any given evening, as she snuggled up to her hubby on the couch in the few moments of private time they managed to snatch out of the day, a knock could come at the door and the head of the PTA could be standing there with a box of envelopes that needed stuffing? “Hi. No one showed up for my committee this afternoon, but I saw your lights on and knew you wouldn’t mind contributing a little of your time.”

  Her shiver transformed into a shudder.

  “Honestly, Sam, honey, I didn’t wake you up because I can’t go anywhere around here without running into someone I know.” That meant she always left the house primped, pressed, armed with a repertoire of small talk. And ready with a list of polite and reasonable excuses for not being able to stop and indulge in any talking—small or otherwise. “I never set foot outside this house without looking fresh and fabulous. Even if I just need to run out for a case of tomato juice to de-skunk the dog.”

  Hannah lifted the leash, and the dog responded by spinning around and sending the odor wafting out in all directions.

  “Ugh.” Sam wrinkled up his nose.

  Hannah spun counter to the dog to keep the poor thing from making things worse by adding getting tangled in her own leash to an already-trying morning. In doing that, Hannah caught a glimpse of herself in the sliding-glass door. “Make that a double ugh.”

  She yanked first at one, then the other, of short, frayed braids sticking out from either side of her head, trying to even them out a bit. It didn’t help. “Guess you can see why I couldn’t just roust you and Tessa out of bed and go along with Payt, not with me looking like Pippi Longstocking on a bad hair day.”

  “Pippi who?”

  “Never mind. The import
ant thing is—”

  “The important thing is that we’re the best hiders in the whole neighborhood?” Sam beamed up at her.

  “Hider?” Her pulse did a quick jig. “Sam, I’m not trying to hide from anyone.” Well, not exactly. “It’s more a case of…”

  He tipped his head up, his mouth open and his nose still pinched closed.

  How could she explain to that sweet face that she sometimes felt so insecure about herself that she’d let people talk her into doing way more than she should ever even attempt? She couldn’t—not without planting a seed in his mind that she only agreed to take him into her home out of guilt, and the driving desire to please people and show everyone how much she was needed. Of course, at eight he wouldn’t have the sophistication to put it in that framework. But being a kid in the foster system, he’d pick up on the nuances on a gut level.

  Hannah knew. She’d grown up as that kid from the less-than-normal household. She understood how a child might take a seemingly innocent remark and bury it in his or her heart. Where no one would know it lay hidden. But the child would know. The child would keep those words deep inside for always, and they might affect how that child grew up—who that child eventually became.

  The very story of her own life had begun with her mother abandoning their family. In telling about it, her father always added, “And with Hannah just three weeks home from the hospital.”

  Growing up with that ingrained in her makeup, what could any human being ever say or do to make her feel truly loved and wanted?

  They would try, of course. And on an intellectual level, she accepted their assertions. On the surface of things, she’d moved along with cool ease and confidence because up there—on that surface—she realized that everything in her life looked pretty great.

  To whine or complain about pretty much anything would seem shallow and petty. And since she lived her life always trying to make sure she never gave anyone any more reasons to reject her, shallowness and pettiness were qualities she could not afford. So she’d put her best foot forward. Her best shoes, best clothes, best hair and—always, always, always—best smile. Since it was all she knew she could rely on, she kept a tight rein on that tidy veneer.

  But deep down, hidden in the dark pockets of her soul, she’d always carried a very real fear.

  If her own mother didn’t want her, then who could?

  And because she was a flawed being, she would find plenty of reasons why no one would choose her as a daughter, sister, friend, wife or mother. So she would—perhaps without always realizing she was doing it—go for the next best thing.

  Maybe people couldn’t fully love her, but if she worked hard enough, if she acted sweet enough, if she gave and gave and gave and did not ask for much in return, then maybe people would at least begin to need her.

  If Hannah was anything, she was needed. So much so that she couldn’t do something as simple as take the family out of the skunk-scented house long enough for a morning run to the grocery store for fear someone would nab her for a favor. Or worse, see her shortcomings and decide she wasn’t needed at all.

  But how could she explain all that complex stuff, much of which she had barely worked out herself, to a child that she wanted more than anything to protect from those very demons?

  “Okay. I’m hiding. But just a little bit.” She held her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart and peered at him through the opening. “You see, there are these two sisters. You remember them. The ones that have their own interior design business and told you they’d like to decorate your room for you as a welcome present?”

  “The ones that smell like paint and flap their hands when they talk?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And they talk all the time?”

  “That would be them.” She shut her eyes a moment. Maybe now Sam would cut her some slack about not wanting to go out this morning and risk seeing them. “Anyway, these ladies—they want me to volunteer at church…”

  “Church?” He raised his eyebrows and finally let go of his nose. “You’re hiding from church ladies?”

  “Well…” She held her thumb and forefinger up again to illustrate the minuteness of her sin. Then quickly she moved all her fingers in counterpoint to her thumb, the universal sign for someone yakking her head off, just to remind Sam of who it was she was avoiding.

  “B-but—” he shook his head “—you can’t hide from God.”

  “No! No, I wouldn’t. That is, I never intended to…” Or had she? For weeks now she’d dodged the two women that everyone called the DIY sisters and their repeated attempts to enlist her help. “But I just don’t see how I could take on any more responsibilities.”

  “Not even for God?”

  “It isn’t exactly for God, Sam. It’s for the nursery.”

  He folded his arms, his head bobbling with eight-year-old attitude. “At church.”

  Oh, he was go…o…o…d.

  Sighing, Hannah ruffled her fingers through her hair until a stray red strand fell over her forehead. She gritted her teeth and forced out a sigh. “Fine. If God asks, then okay. I’m Mrs. Available.”

  Not too risky of a promise seeing as they were ensconced safely at home this morning.

  “In the meantime, let’s take Squirrel outside and let her air out a bit.”

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.” He dashed toward the back door.

  “No, Sam! Better take her out front—if we let her out back, she’ll just roll in the scent again.”

  “She’s not very smart, is she?” He made a quick detour and launched himself ahead of Hannah and the dog.

  “Well, as my Daddy used to say, ‘If brains were baking powder, that poor thing wouldn’t have enough to bake herself a biscuit.’”

  “I like your daddy. He makes me laugh.” Sam yanked the door inward.

  “Oh, yeah, my daddy is more fun than a barrel of—”

  “Church ladies!” Sam grinned up at the two women standing framed in Hannah’s front door.

  “Oh, Hannah! You’re home!” Cydney Snowden, the more…retiring—if you could call wearing handmade clothing covered with your own artwork and plastic jewels retiring—of the pair of sisters threw her hands up.

  “We saw your car leaving as we turned the corner and thought you’d be gone.” Jacqui Lafferty, definitely the dominant diva, cocked her head and narrowed just one eye, sizing Hannah up.

  Cydney pushed forward, a sour-apple-green piece of paper in her hand. “So we’ve been sitting in your drive trying to fit everything we have to say onto one of our business cards!”

  Hannah took the card and glanced at the front of it. “The DIY-Namic Duo. Isn’t that…cute?”

  She did not flip the card over to read the message telling her what they had wanted. Hannah knew what they wanted.

  And she had just promised Sam that she’d give it to them.

  4

  Subject: What have I done?

  To: ItsmeSadie

  Hi, Sadie—

  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Simple, huh? The Golden Rule. Something we should all aspire to, right?

  I thought so myself until it happened to me. Yes, I’ve been done unto—by a pair of first-class do-it-yourselfers. Literally. They call themselves the DIY sisters and they are a handful. Two handfuls? I don’t know. What I do know is that Jacqui Lafferty and Cydney Snowden have enough energy to tackle anything—and anyone! And there I was Saturday morning, standing in the proverbial end zone, with nothing more substantial to protect me than my fuzzy slippers and my desire to set a good example for Sam.

  “Oh, no,” they said, rushing into my house—did I tell you we still don’t have any furniture and the house smells like we’re stewing skunk in tomato soup? Anyway, they worm their way into my house, assuring me they only want me to pitch in as I can. “We wouldn’t dream of asking you to take on the whole nursery program yourself. We haven’t had an official program director in over a year and we’ve done all
right.”

  Picture, if you will, a sad, big-eyed puppy saying this—one with flecks of paint in her perky blond hair standing next to an even bigger-eyed puppy wearing a slightly askew vest that she quilted with her own two hands.

  They were so sweet. So earnest. So undemanding.

  That’s how they get you.

  Confused? Welcome to my world!

  The upshot of it all is that I have stepped forward—pushed, actually, but in such a nice way I couldn’t decline—and volunteered to take on running the church nursery program.

  There are a few little “issues” of concern. Jacqui made little quote marks in the air as she told me this to clue me in that these “issues” are neither little nor are there only a few. Apparently the Sunday school teachers and those who help out during the services have been, um, pulling rank on the lowly nursery workers. So in hopes of reminding everyone that we are all doing the Lord’s work, I made us this sign to post.

  In many ways we feed the flock,

  They also serve who sit and rock.

  Cute? Too cute? Cowardly? Maybe I should adapt it and do a drawing of myself as a big chicken—they also serve who sit and cluck!

  Your fine-feathered sister

  “You are so cute.” Payton strolled into the almost-bare nursery with a stack of mail under his arm.

  “No. You are,” Hannah insisted, looking up at her darling hubby with his close-cropped sandy hair, white shirt and black tie, slightly askew. Yum. Even after all these years of marriage, he still sent a thrill through her. She wriggled in the tiny red plastic chair pushed against the low, round table she’d dragged from the basement to the shabby room she planned to use for the toddlers. “What’cha got there?”

  “Oh, just some mail forwarded to my office.”

  “Didn’t you fill out those postal forms to give them our new home address yet?”

  “I’m right on top of it.” He plopped down some envelopes and last week’s copy of the Wileyville Guardian News then gave her a wink.

  She sighed and shook her head. “Do you want me to—”