fingers on her black jeans, leaving a faint orange smear. “Why?” Then she closes her eyes for two or three seconds, and her face goes from her usual annoyed expression to one that is so sad. “Shit.” The first time she says it is tired. The second time, her eyes now open, is mad. “Shit!” She slams the lid onto the pot.
“What’s wrong?”
And the way she stares at me, defiant, it’s like she doesn’t want to say. She folds her arms in front of her, clutching each elbow with the opposite hand. “Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years they would have been married, today. Thirty-three years if you count when they met and the years they lived together. Can you imagine seeing someone basically every day for thirty-three years and then one of those days…” She shakes her head and pinches her mouth together.
There’s so much anger in her eyes. I want to remind her that only a few hours ago Dylan was holding her like she was the most special thing in the world. Maybe that would make her feel better. I step back toward the dishwasher and close the door. The chances of me saying the right thing are not good. Still, I have to try, because I can’t pretend she didn’t just tell me about something important and awful.
“At least they had those thirty-three years.” It’s the wrong thing; Jill’s eyes go hard. “A lot of people never find real love,” I say to explain what I mean. “Or they find it, and it gets away before they experience any happiness.” I only want her to understand how lucky she and Robin are to have ever had Mac. Lucky that she had a father like that as long as she did.
She takes two quick steps toward me. Her face is inches from mine; I can smell the cheese sauce on her breath. “You don’t get to talk about this.”
My mother says that when another girl steps up to you, just smile and let her have the last word. My mother says it’s usually jealousy or her wanting something you have. But I can’t think of one thing I have that Jill, who has everything, could want. And I can’t smile when we’re talking about a tragedy.
“I only meant—”
“What did I just say?”
I put my hands on my belly.
“You,” she continues, “aren’t family.” She lets go of her elbows. Her hands shake. “To me you’re just an incubator for the one thing that might possibly make my mom happy.”
She turns, her boots squeaking on the tile. As she leaves the kitchen, I think about what I could say. Those aren’t last words I want her to have. I’m sorry , I could say. Or, Why are you so mad at me when I didn’t do anything? It doesn’t matter. She’s already up the stairs.
It was July.
The cornfields outside of town had come up green and tall like always, oceans of them. You would drive into the farmlands and think that the whole earth was made of these fields. I rode in the back of Kent’s pickup because my mother liked to be alone with him in the cab. I didn’t mind. The warm, moist air flowed over and around me as I watched the road unfurl behind us.
We’d left the city to go to the Riverbrook County Fair. Kent had an idea to maybe buy a horse. I don’t know why, and I don’t know where in Council Bluffs you’d put a horse, but Kent had a lot of ideas he didn’t think through. My mother said not to contradict your man. “Men are fragile,” she said. “They need a cheerleader, not a negative Nelly.”
When we got to the fair, Kent and my mother looked at the brochure and went off to the livestock show. Kent gave me twenty dollars and said to meet them back at the truck by sundown. They didn’t want me to come with them. I mean, they didn’t say that in so many words, but it was obvious, so I went in the opposite direction.
I saw him on the midway. I was looking for a booth where I could get roasted corn and lemonade, and I saw him.
He walked slow, wearing sandals, his shirt off and tucked into the back of the waistband of his jeans, a string of blue beads around
“What’s wrong?”
And the way she stares at me, defiant, it’s like she doesn’t want to say. She folds her arms in front of her, clutching each elbow with the opposite hand. “Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years they would have been married, today. Thirty-three years if you count when they met and the years they lived together. Can you imagine seeing someone basically every day for thirty-three years and then one of those days…” She shakes her head and pinches her mouth together.
There’s so much anger in her eyes. I want to remind her that only a few hours ago Dylan was holding her like she was the most special thing in the world. Maybe that would make her feel better. I step back toward the dishwasher and close the door. The chances of me saying the right thing are not good. Still, I have to try, because I can’t pretend she didn’t just tell me about something important and awful.
“At least they had those thirty-three years.” It’s the wrong thing; Jill’s eyes go hard. “A lot of people never find real love,” I say to explain what I mean. “Or they find it, and it gets away before they experience any happiness.” I only want her to understand how lucky she and Robin are to have ever had Mac. Lucky that she had a father like that as long as she did.
She takes two quick steps toward me. Her face is inches from mine; I can smell the cheese sauce on her breath. “You don’t get to talk about this.”
My mother says that when another girl steps up to you, just smile and let her have the last word. My mother says it’s usually jealousy or her wanting something you have. But I can’t think of one thing I have that Jill, who has everything, could want. And I can’t smile when we’re talking about a tragedy.
“I only meant—”
“What did I just say?”
I put my hands on my belly.
“You,” she continues, “aren’t family.” She lets go of her elbows. Her hands shake. “To me you’re just an incubator for the one thing that might possibly make my mom happy.”
She turns, her boots squeaking on the tile. As she leaves the kitchen, I think about what I could say. Those aren’t last words I want her to have. I’m sorry , I could say. Or, Why are you so mad at me when I didn’t do anything? It doesn’t matter. She’s already up the stairs.
It was July.
The cornfields outside of town had come up green and tall like always, oceans of them. You would drive into the farmlands and think that the whole earth was made of these fields. I rode in the back of Kent’s pickup because my mother liked to be alone with him in the cab. I didn’t mind. The warm, moist air flowed over and around me as I watched the road unfurl behind us.
We’d left the city to go to the Riverbrook County Fair. Kent had an idea to maybe buy a horse. I don’t know why, and I don’t know where in Council Bluffs you’d put a horse, but Kent had a lot of ideas he didn’t think through. My mother said not to contradict your man. “Men are fragile,” she said. “They need a cheerleader, not a negative Nelly.”
When we got to the fair, Kent and my mother looked at the brochure and went off to the livestock show. Kent gave me twenty dollars and said to meet them back at the truck by sundown. They didn’t want me to come with them. I mean, they didn’t say that in so many words, but it was obvious, so I went in the opposite direction.
I saw him on the midway. I was looking for a booth where I could get roasted corn and lemonade, and I saw him.
He walked slow, wearing sandals, his shirt off and tucked into the back of the waistband of his jeans, a string of blue beads around
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