The Seventh Mother (15 page)

“He was okay that day,” Jenny said. “I mean, he called Lashaundra a nigger, but other than that he was okay.”

Brannon shook his head. “I don’t want you to get friendly with either one of them. The dad was a bully and the son is just like him. And the wife . . . well, she just stood by and watched while they behaved like animals.”

“It’s not her fault,” I repeated. “She seems like a nice person.”

He shook his head again.

“Nice people don’t raise kids who are racist bullies. Besides, you need to be thinking about yourself right now. Your job is to take care of yourself and the baby, not run around trying to take care of everyone else in this damned town.”

I turned to touch Jenny’s cheek. “Thank you so much for the daisies, honey. They are just beautiful.”

I didn’t want to argue with Brannon, especially not in front of Jenny.

“I
t’s snowing!”

Big white flakes were falling fast. The backyard was covered in a blanket of white.

“Yes it is.”

Emma hobbled into my room carrying a mug of coffee. She was still wearing her pajamas.

“Are you feeling better today?” I asked.

She’d only been home from the hospital for two days.

“I’m good,” she said, grinning at me. “You have a snow day today. School is closed, so we have a whole day to do whatever we want.”

“Does Daddy have to work?”

“He’s already gone,” she said. “I let you sleep in, since we have a day off.”

“It’s so pretty.” I pushed aside my new yellow curtains to take in the view. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much snow.”

“This is nothing compared to Idaho. They get feet of snow at a time out there. When the roads get too bad, people just get around on their snowmobiles.”

“So, what are we going to do today?”

She tilted her head and smiled.

“We can do whatever we want,” she said, “as long as we do it here. I don’t want to drive anywhere. We don’t have a snowmobile.” She laughed.

“Can we make pancakes for breakfast?”

“Sure we can. You brush your teeth and I’ll get started on breakfast.”

After we ate, I watched television for a while. Emma sat in my mother’s rocking chair looking at magazines about babies.

“Can I ask Lashaundra to come over?”

I was getting bored with cartoons.

“You can ask her,” Emma said. “But I’m betting Angel won’t want to drive in this weather any more than I do.”

Lashaundra picked up on the first ring.

“Hey,” I said. “Do you want to come to my house?”

“Let me ask,” she said.

A moment later she was back on the line.

“Mama doesn’t want to drive,” she said. “Can you come here?”

“No,” I said. “Emma doesn’t want to drive, either.”

“I guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

I fidgeted for a while, half watching the television but mostly wondering what to do with myself.

Then, I had an idea.

“Hey, Emma?”

“Hmmm?” She didn’t look up from the magazine in her lap.

“Can I go up in the attic?”

She raised her eyes and arched one eyebrow.

“Why do you want to go up there?”

“I think it would be a good place to read.”

She laughed.

“Your room is a good place to read,” she said. “Or right there on the couch is a good place to read.”

“I know,” I said. “But I like the light up there. I could take some blankets and pillows. It would be like having a clubhouse, only inside the house.”

She smiled. “Honey, if you want to build a fort in the attic and read, that’s fine with me. But do me a favor and sweep the floor before you start taking up blankets and pillows. It’s pretty dusty up there.”

I ran to the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan, then walked into the hall and stared at the door in the ceiling. I wasn’t tall enough to reach the handle.

“Will you open the door for me?” I called to Emma.

“Hang on,” she said.

After a minute, she limped into the hallway and pulled open the door. Then she yanked the cord that brought down the ladder.

“Be careful,” she said as I climbed the ladder, broom in hand.

“I will.”

She handed me the dustpan and hobbled back to the living room. I stood in the funny little room. It looked smaller now that all of Daddy’s boxes were stacked there. Still, there was a nice spot just under the window where I could make a reading nest.

I swept the floor under the window, carried the dustpan carefully down to the kitchen, and dumped it in the trash. Then I grabbed two blankets from the closet in the hallway and carried them up the ladder. Finally, I took the pillow from my bed and picked up the copy of
Little Women
I was reading, and I carried them up the ladder, too.

I piled the blankets and pillow under the window and curled up to read. I was just to the part where Mr. Laurence had given Beth the piano. But the room was so warm and the blankets so cozy, that I felt my eyelids drooping closed.

I shook my head and rose. This was my first snow day ever. I didn’t want to waste it sleeping. I yawned and stretched and looked out the window at the snow that was still falling fast. It wasn’t even lunchtime, and I was bored.

I sat down on one of Daddy’s boxes, wondering what I should do next. I ran my hand along the packing tape holding the box closed, and then I started picking at it. Before long, I had torn all the tape off. I hesitated for a minute. Daddy had told me not to go digging around in the boxes. He had them organized, he said, and didn’t want me to mess with them. But now the untaped box seemed to call out to me.

I pulled the top open and stood, just looking, at first. The box was full of folders and envelopes, neatly stacked. And then I saw the spine of a photo album, blue and gray, wedged between the stacks of folders and the side of the box. Surely Daddy wouldn’t mind if I just looked at the pictures in the album.

I pulled the album from the box and sat back down in my nest of blankets and pillows. I took a deep breath, opened the album, and stared open-mouthed at a picture of my mother. I don’t even know how I knew it was her. I had never seen a picture of her before. But I was certain the woman in the photo was my mother.

She sat in the wooden rocking chair that was in the living room downstairs now, her hands folded over her hugely pregnant belly, smiling at the camera. I touched the picture with one finger. My mother . . . she was beautiful. Straight blond hair fell just past her shoulders. Her eyes were a brilliant deep blue. Her smile revealed even, white teeth. Other than her belly, she was tiny. She didn’t look much bigger than me.

I turned pages of the album, staring at images of my mother standing in a small kitchen holding a spatula, sitting on a porch swing with an open book in her lap, posed before an easel with a blank canvas. There were pictures of her with Daddy, his arm draped around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest.

And then there were a bunch of pictures of her holding a tiny, dark-haired baby, smiling proudly. That baby must have been me. More pictures showed her cradling me in the rocking chair, spooning baby food into my mouth, holding my hands as I took steps across the floor, brushing my hair, kissing me good night—all the things a mother does.

I felt my throat tighten, and then I was crying. My mother had loved me. My mother was beautiful. My mother was dead.

Why hadn’t I ever seen this photo album before? Why had Daddy never shown me the pictures? All my life I had wondered what my mother was like, what she looked like, what she did, who she was. But Daddy had never wanted to talk about her.

I remembered asking him once if he had any pictures of her. He’d shaken his head and looked really sad.

“No,” he’d said. “I wish I did, but we didn’t have a camera. That was before cell phones. I always meant to get a camera, but we never had the money. And then she died.”

And I had believed him.

“Jenny?”

Emma stood at the bottom of the ladder.

“Are you okay up there?”

“Yes,” I called back.

“Well, it’s time for lunch. Do you want some tomato soup?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got some chocolate chip cookies, too,” she said.

I closed the photo album and rose, still holding it. I knew I should put it back in the box, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave it there, now that I knew about it.

I closed the box and smoothed down the packing tape I had pulled up. Then I carried the album down the ladder and into my room. I put it in a dresser drawer under some sweaters.

“Hey,” Emma said when I walked into the kitchen. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”

“I’m okay. My nose is kind of runny. I think it’s because of the dust.”

We sat at the table to eat soup and crackers, and then cookies still warm from the oven.

“So, what do you want to do this afternoon?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe read some more.”

“Why don’t you put on your coat and mittens and play outside for a while?”

“It’s too cold.”

“The fresh air would be good for you.”

I sat for a minute thinking about it.

“Can I go see Mrs. Figg?” I asked. “Maybe she’ll let me play music on the piano.”

She smiled at me.

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” she said. “I’m sure Mrs. Figg would enjoy some company.”

I put on my parka and mittens.

“Why don’t you take her some cookies?”

Emma put some cookies on a paper plate and covered them with plastic wrap. I took the plate and walked next door, then pounded on Mrs. Figg’s door. I could hear the dogs baying inside, but Mrs. Figg didn’t answer. I pounded again, then turned and trudged back home through the snow.

“Back so soon?” Emma looked up from the couch where she was laying with her foot propped up on pillows.

“She’s not home.” I took off my jacket and hung it in the closet.

“Are you sure?” she asked, sitting up. “I can’t imagine her going out in this weather.”

“I knocked twice,” I said. “The dogs were barking like crazy, but she didn’t answer the door.”

“Do me a favor,” she said. “Go look out the back window and see if her car is in the driveway.”

I ran to the kitchen and looked out the window. Mrs. Figg’s old car sat behind her house, just like it always did.

“It’s there,” I yelled.

“I hope she’s okay.” Emma stood behind me, leaning against the doorframe.

“Maybe she’s visiting that man who wants to marry her.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“I’ll go back later,” I said.

“Thanks, honey.”

She limped back to the living room and dropped onto the couch heavily.

“I don’t know about you,” she said. “But I think I’m ready for a nap.”

“I’m going to read some more,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, flopping onto her back. “Will you wake me in an hour? I don’t want to sleep the whole afternoon away.”

Within minutes, I heard her breathing settle into a soft, regular snore.

I pulled the photo album from the drawer I’d hidden it in, and lay on the futon in my bedroom, staring at pictures of my mother. My beautiful, dead mother whose blue eyes I had inherited.

I
woke with a start from a dream, a bad dream about Micah and Andrew. A dream about losing my baby.

Judging by the angle of the sun in the window, it was late afternoon. How long had I been asleep?

“Jenny?” I called.

She emerged from her bedroom.

“What time is it?”

“Four,” she said.

“God, I can’t believe I slept so long. I thought you were going to wake me up.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was . . . reading.”

“Oh, well.” I sat up and rubbed sleep from my eyes. “So much for getting anything done today.”

“Can I have another cookie?”

“Sure.” I rose from the couch and hobbled into the kitchen, where the plate I’d made for Mrs. Figg still sat on the table.

“Why don’t you take those over to Mrs. Figg’s first?”

Jenny pulled on her jacket and boots, took the plate, and slogged through the snow while I watched from our front porch. She banged on the door and waited. I could hear the beagles baying from inside the house, but no one answered.

“She’s not here,” Jenny called.

“Look in the window,” I called back, worried now. Where was Mrs. Figg?

Jenny looked through the front window and then turned and yelled, “She’s on the floor at the bottom of the stairs!”

“Try the door!” I yelled, then stepped inside to pull on my own coat.

I limped across the yard, praying that I wouldn’t slip and fall again, while Jenny jiggled the handle to Mrs. Figg’s door. It swung open as I reached her front porch.

“Wait,” I said to Jenny. “Stay here.”

I stepped past her as one of the beagles bolted out the door.

“Catch the dog!” I yelled to Jenny. I walked into the house and the other beagle jumped up on me, whining piteously. Mrs. Figg lay on the floor, not moving.

“Mrs. Figg?” I knelt beside her and touched her shoulder, but she didn’t respond.

“Is she okay?” Jenny stood behind me, staring.

“Call nine-one-one,” I said. Mrs. Figg’s face was cold and ashen-looking. I felt for a pulse while Jenny dialed the phone.

“We’re at our next-door neighbor’s house,” she said. “I think she fell down the stairs. She’s not moving.... I don’t know, I came over after lunch but she didn’t answer the door then.”

She stood staring down at Mrs. Figg’s lifeless body, her eyes wide.

“Here,” I said, “let me talk to them.”

I took the phone, gave the dispatcher the address, and slapped Mrs. Figg’s cheek lightly. But I could see she was already gone.

The beagle beside me was licking Mrs. Figg’s face, whimpering.

“Why don’t you put this one on a leash and take him out to find the other one,” I said. I didn’t want Jenny just standing there staring at a dead body.

“Is she okay?” Jenny made no move to leave.

“No, honey,” I said, my voice soft. “I think she’s gone.”

Jenny sank to the floor beside me, wrapped her arm around the beagle, and touched Mrs. Figg’s face with one finger. A tear slid down her cheek.

“She must have fallen down the stairs,” I said, putting my arm around Jenny.

“Do you think if I had checked earlier we could have saved her?”

Her voice shook.

“I don’t know, honey. Probably not. We don’t know how long she’s been laying here.”

The beagle that had bolted out the front door was now scratching to get back inside. I rose and opened the door and the dog ran to Mrs. Figg and lay down beside her. Both dogs whimpered softly.

“Poor Daisy,” Jenny said, stroking one of the dogs. “You miss her, don’t you?”

The ambulance arrived within minutes. The paramedics asked some questions, then gently covered Mrs. Figg’s body with a sheet.

“Looks like an accident,” one of them said. “The sheriff’s on his way.”

Sheriff Wylie arrived minutes later.

“Oh, Lilah,” he said, his voice gentle. “Poor old girl. I told her years ago she shouldn’t be living here all by herself.”

He turned to me. “You found her like this?”

I nodded. “Jenny brought a plate of cookies for her.” I pointed to the plate she had dropped on the front porch. “She came right after lunch, and Mrs. Figg didn’t answer the door. Then she came again, and when she still didn’t answer I got worried.”

“How did you get in the house?” He had his notebook open now and was writing in it.

“The front door was unlocked,” I said.

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

“That’s not like Lilah.”

I shrugged.

“Did you see anyone around here today? Anyone on her porch?”

“No,” I said. “But I wasn’t watching or anything.”

“Do you think someone killed her?” Jenny’s voice came in a whisper.

“No, honey.” Wylie smiled at her. “I’m just covering all the bases. It looks like she fell down the stairs. I’ll have the medical examiner look at her, of course. But it looks like an accident.”

“What’s going to happen to her pets?” Jenny’s arm was still around the beagle.

“I’ll call animal control,” he said. “They’ll find homes for them, don’t worry.” He smiled at Jenny again.

“You-all can go home now. We’ll take it from here.”

Jenny rose and took my hand. We paused at the front door and she looked back into the house.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Figg,” she whispered.

We walked back to our house and left our coats and boots by the door.

“Do you want some cocoa?” I asked.

She shook her head and sat down by the front window, staring across the yard to Mrs. Figg’s house.

“It’s sad, honey. I know it makes you sad, but she lived a long life.”

“I hate that she died all by herself,” she said.

I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her.

“Daisy and Beauregard were with her,” I said. “I’m sure they never left her side.”

“Poor Daisy,” she repeated.

We sat for a while just watching the house next door. We watched as they wheeled Mrs. Figg’s body out to the ambulance, put her inside, and drove her away. Then a big white van pulled up in front of the house, and two men got out and began unloading pet carriers.

“That must be animal control,” I said.

“I hope they find good homes.” Jenny was crying again.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Brannon walked in from the kitchen. We hadn’t even heard him come in through the back door.

“Mrs. Figg died,” Jenny said. “Now they’re taking all her animals away.”

Brannon looked out the front window and shook his head. “What happened to her?”

“They think she fell down the stairs,” I said. “I sent Jenny over with some cookies and she didn’t answer the door. So we got worried and went inside.”

“You went in her house?”

“Yes,” I said. “She was lying on the floor by the stairs. We called nine-one-one, but she was already dead.”

“You took Jenny into a house with a dead person?” Brannon’s voice rose. “You let my daughter see that?”

“I was worried about Mrs. Figg,” I said. “We could hear the dogs barking and her car was in the driveway, but she didn’t answer the door.”

“So instead of doing what a normal, sane person would do, you took an eleven-year-old into the house to see a dead body?”

I stared at his angry face and felt a rush of anger myself.

“A woman died, Brannon. I did what I had to do.”

He returned my stare for a long, tense minute, then wrapped his arms around Jenny.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said softly.

“They’re taking the dogs away,” she said, staring over his shoulder out the window.

A man walked from Mrs. Figg’s house with the beagles on leashes.

“Please, Daddy,” Jenny said. “Can we take Daisy?”

“What?” Brannon stepped back to look at her. “No, honey, we can’t take any of the old lady’s animals. Hell, she probably tripped on one of them and that’s how she fell down the stairs.”

I stared at him, and a small shiver ran up my spine. First Damon Rigby and now Mrs. Figg . . . Death seemed to be following us somehow.

I wrapped my arms across my belly and shook my head.
Accidents happen,
I thought.
You’re pregnant and hormonal and letting your imagination run wild
.

Brannon rose and wrapped his arms around me.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “I took a long nap this afternoon.”

He smiled and kissed my forehead.

“How about we order pizza for dinner?” he said. “That way you don’t have to cook.”

“That sounds good.”

He dialed his cell phone and walked into the kitchen. I sat in the rocking chair and closed my eyes, trying to erase the image of Mrs. Figg’s lifeless body on the floor. Jenny cried softly, watching out the window until long after the animal control truck had driven away.