“In what way, do you think?”
I open my mouth to say I don’t know, but it isn’t that I don’t know. It’s that there are too many ways to count. If they had known with any kind of certainty that they’d be gone, they would have raised us to be more self-sufficient. But at the same time, they would have wanted us to be able to rely on each other. They would have taught us practical things. How to cook. Manage our money. And they would have wanted us to be whole. To comfort ourselves. To believe in ourselves.
But they would have made time for fun, too. And the making of memories. So, in the end, maybe it wouldn’t have been all that different from the life my parents had given us, unwittingly trusting that the future was theirs. Not so different, maybe just more concentrated. More deliberate.
Survival. Adaptation. Fun. Memories.
Is that what I’ve been offering?
We’re surviving, sure. And we’re adapting because what other choice is there? I don’t know how much fun we’re having. And I’m not sure the memories we’re making are the kind we’ll treasure later on.
I heave another sigh. “In ways that would have focused on the most important things,” I say, feeling like an idiot for not realizing this sooner. I mean, I’ve picked my battles, but I haven’t picked my parties, so to speak. “Is it really going to be the end of the world if Harry eats junk food after school instead of an apple and peanut butter?”
“I doubt it,” Kath says, chuckling. “But there’s probably room for compromise there too. Maybe take the kids grocery shopping and let them each pick a mix of healthy and crappy snacks for the week. When the crap is gone, they have to eat the good stuff until you go back to the store again.”
I sit bolt upright. “Kath, that’s a great idea,” I practically shout. “Because then I won’t be the bad guy. They’ll have to self-regulate.”
“It gives them ownership. We do the same thing with Daniel, except it’s with bath versus skip nights. He gets two skips a week, and the rest of the nights, he has to take a bath.”
“Does he ever skip two in a row?” I wrinkle my nose at this, hoping I never have to go here with Emmett.
She laughs at this. “He did the first week we tried it. He hasn’t since. He doesn’t want to have to take a bath five straight nights.”
“I like it. I—” But I stop mid-sentence when Mattie charges outside, looking as mad as a wasp. “Hang on, Kath.” I quickly glance at the dash to check the time and make sure Emmett’s bus isn’t about to pull up.
2:55. I’ve still got a good five minutes.
I roll down the window just as a pissed off Mattie approaches. “What’s wrong, sis?”
“They’re ripping out the stove. Do you know how noisy that is?” she fumes. “I can’t practice with noise like that.”
“Kath, I gotta go,” I say, knowing she just heard all of that. Mattie wasn’t going for subtle.
“I hear ya, ma love. Hang in there. You’re doing great.”
“Thanks, Kath. Thanks for everything.”
“Anytime, love.”
I disconnect the call and give Mattie my full attention. “Maybe it won’t take that long. You’re not practicing yet, are you?” She usually doesn’t start for another hour.
Mattie’s shoulders sag, but her eyes widen with worry. “No, not yet, but what am I going to do if I can’t practice?”
Ladies and gentleman, my sister The Fretter.
“Mattie, honey, this isn’t a problem yet. We don’t even know if it will be a problem.” I try to keep my voice from betraying any frustration. Maybe I should have kept Kath on the phone. She might have been able to help me with this one too. “How about we try to solve itifit becomes a problem.”
Mattie’s jaw drops and she looks at me like I’ve just confessed to a pastime of smothering puppies. “But I can see itbeinga problem. Why not be proactive and help me find a solutionnow?”
And there it goes. The last vestige of my patience. “Because, Mattie, I can only deal with the problems that actually do exist—and then not even all of those.” I’m not yelling. I don’t yell at them. But I do sound a bit like a teakettle. “If I have to find solutions for all the things thatcouldturn into problems, I’m gonna lose it!”
Her eyes grow even wider, but I’m pretty sure it’s because of my outburst, and I’m about to apologize when her eyes cut to the right.
Emmett’s bus!
In a panic, I turn back to grab the golf umbrella, but that’s when I see through the back windshield it isn’t the bus, but Luc Valencia’s dark shape cutting through the downpour at a dead run.
And I have to admit, it’s quite a sight. Both him running through the deluge and Luc standing outside my car, black hair slick with rain, gray T-shirt plastered to his sculpted chest.
