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“Well, maybe a little gentler would be good. Maybe I’ll do the next—”
It was too late. Jesse was already battering egg number two against the rim.
“Ahhhhhhh!” Joe was reaching toward the sprinkles and howling.
“Joe, I know you want another sprinkle. But I don’t think Mommy—”
Babies were flailing and incompetent most of the time, but then once in a while, they blew your mind with pure precision. Carmen watched in disbelief as Joe leaned forward, shot out his hand, connected with the small tub of sprinkles two feet away, closed in on a handful, and knocked the tub so dramatically off the counter that sprinkles rained down.
“Oh, my God,” Carmen muttered.
“Stir, right?” Jesse asked excitedly, satisfied that the eggs had been crushed to oblivion.
“Well, maybe we should try to—”
She put Joe down on the floor so she could fish some of the shells out of the dough. But Joe tried to pull himself up to standing with the help of a kitchen chair, and the sprinkles rotated under his feet like a hundred ball bearings. His fall was fast and loud.
“Oh, Joe,” Carmen groaned. She swept him up and hopped around the room to avoid the sprinkles. “Want to play with my cell phone?” she offered. She didn’t care if he called Singapore.
“Here.” She stuffed him into his high chair, grabbed the broom from its hook, and began sweeping up the sprinkles.
“Stir, right?” Jesse called again from his perch on the counter.
“Um … yes,” Carmen said wearily. They wore you down so fast. She’d only been here for fifteen minutes.
She heard Mrs. Morgan coming down the stairs. Carmen leaped toward Joe, attempting to wipe all evidence of sprinkles from his mouth and hands.
Mrs. Morgan appeared at the door to the kitchen in a suit. Carmen was amazed at how elegant she looked. “Wow,” she said. “You look fantastic.”
“Thanks,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I have a meeting at the bank.”
“Mama! Mama!” Joe screamed. He threw Carmen’s cell phone across the room and put his arms out toward his mother.
Don’t do it, Carmen warned in her head. But inevitably, the forces of the universe sucked Mrs. Morgan toward her baby. She picked him up.
“Mommy! Look at this!” Jesse shouted.
“Are you making cookies?” Mrs. Morgan asked, with as much enthusiasm as if he had won the Nobel Peace Prize.
“Yes!” Jesse shouted delightedly. “Taste it! Taste it!”
Mrs. Morgan peered into the bowl.
“Please, Mommy? I made it.”
As Mrs. Morgan hesitated, Carmen watched Joe bury his head in his mother’s armpit. Carmen had seen this coming. A thin trail of snot stretched right across the lapel of Mrs. Morgan’s black suit, exactly as though a slug had slid across the fabric. Mrs. Morgan didn’t notice, and Carmen didn’t have the heart to tell her.
Carmen’s memory suddenly supplied images of her own mother’s work clothes—the gabardine skirt on which Carmen had gotten a bloody nose, the tweed blazer on which she had spilled blue nail polish.
“Mommy, it’s yummy!” Jesse urged the spoon toward his mother’s mouth.
Mrs. Morgan kept her eager smile intact as she examined the bits of shell slithering through the yolk. “It will be even more delicious after it’s cooked,” she remarked.
“Please?” Jesse wheedled. “I made it!”
Mrs. Morgan leaned forward and took the tiniest taste. She nodded encouragingly. “Oh, Jesse, it’s wonderful. I can’t wait to taste the cookies!”
Carmen watched Mrs. Morgan in disbelief. Would she, Carmen, have been willing to taste that mess? Would her mother? As quickly as the question had flashed into Carmen’s mind, the answer followed it. Yes, Christina would have tried the dough. She would, and she had.
In that moment, Carmen understood how it was for mothers. Mrs. Morgan didn’t taste it because she wanted to. She did it because she loved him. And for some reason, Carmen found this thought mysteriously comforting.
Lennyk162: Carmen! Where are you! What’s up with your cell phone? I’ve been trying to call you all day! I want to talk to you SO MUCH.
Carmabelle: Cell out of order. Be right over.
Tibby called Brian at home. She almost never did that. The answering machine picked up. It was one of those unpersonalized computer-generated messages that came with the machine. It reminded her of buying a picture frame and leaving in the picture that came from the store instead of supplying your own.
She cleared her throat. “Uh, I hope this is the right number…. Brian, it’s Tibby. Will you call me at Williamston? I really want to talk to you.”
She hung up. She tapped her thumb against the edge of her desk. Why should he call her after the way she’d treated him? If she were him, she wouldn’t call herself. Or if she did, it would only be to tell herself that she was an asshole.
She dialed the number again. The message played again. “Brian? It’s Tibby again. Uh … one thing … well, really the main thing I wanted to say is that I’m really sorry. More than sorry. I am ashamed. I …” Tibby looked out the window and suddenly realized that she was laying her guts out to an answering machine that didn’t even have a personalized message. She was crazy. She hadn’t been sleeping enough. What if she was dialing the wrong number? What if Brian’s mom and his stepdad picked up the messages? She slammed the phone down.
But wait a minute. What was she thinking? Was she too cowardly to see her apology through, after the way she’d treated Brian? She was just going to hang up in the middle of it? Did she really care more about what his mom and stepdad thought than about being a decent friend?
Tibby looked down at her feet. She was wearing elephant slippers. She was also wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a bathing suit because all her clothes were dirty. She was also wearing a towel tied around her middle because they’d turned up the air-conditioning too strong in the dorm. She hadn’t showered or gone outside in several days. What dignity, exactly, was she trying to preserve here?
Tibby dialed the number again. “Brian? It’s, uh, Tibby again. What I wanted to say is that I am sorry. I’m so sorry I can’t find any words that could cover it. I want to get the chance to apologize to you in person. And also I wanted to tell you that I am, um, screening a movie—a new one, not the old one—on Saturday at three at the auditorium here. I know you won’t want to come.” She stopped to catch her breath. She was running her mouth like a lunatic. “I probably wouldn’t if I were you. But just in case you do, it would mean a lot to me.” She hung up. Was this too weird? Was she going to earn herself a restraining order from the whole family?
She dialed the number again. “And sorry to call so many times,” she said in a rush, and quickly put down the phone.
There is no remedy for love but to love more.
—Henry David Thoreau
Friday night Bridget ran almost seven miles, all the way to the bend in the river where Billy’s old house sat. Maybe he still lived there.
Her body was changing, she could feel it. She wasn’t totally back to normal, but she was most of the way there. Her legs and her stomach were getting muscular and strong again. Her hair was blond again. Running by herself, she took off her baseball cap, which felt like a relief. She let her hair breathe in the warm evening air.
She stopped by Greta’s to pick up her ball and went straight to the soccer field. It had become a ritual for her, kicking around by herself at night in the three patches of light.
“Gilda!”
She turned around and saw Billy coming toward her. He was probably on his way to a party where all the girls enjoyed crushes from all the boys.
“Hi,” she said, out of breath, glad she’d remembered to put her baseball cap back on her head.
“I thought you didn’t play anymore.”
“I started again.”
“Oh.” He looked at her. He looked at the ball. He loved soccer as mu
ch as she did. “You want to play?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
There was nothing like a handsome opponent to get Bridget’s adrenaline pumping. She found her pace, keeping the ball in front of her. She zagged left, one-touched it, then shot. She heard Billy’s moan of disbelief behind her. “Lucky shot,” he said, and they started again.
It was as though she were back on the Honey Bees again. Bridget had always had an exploding capacity to be as good as she wanted to be, and tonight it enabled her to get around Billy five times in a row.
Panting, he sat down in the middle of the field. He put his hands over his face. “What the hell!” he bellowed into the night air.
Bridget tried not to look smug. She sat down next to him. “You’re wearing jeans. Don’t take it too hard.”
He lowered his hands and stared at her. He had the spooked look back from a few weeks ago. He squinted at her. “Who are you?”
She shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“Are you, like, Mia Hamm in disguise or something?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“I’m the best guy on our team!” he shouted at her in frustration.
She shrugged again. What could she say? She had a long career of pruning boys’ egos on the soccer field.
“You remind me of this girl I used to know,” he mused, more to the grass than to her.
“Yeah?”
“Her name was Bee, and she was my best friend till I was seven. She used to kick my ass also. So I should be okay with this.”
His eyes were animated and sweet. She liked that he was a good sport under his pride. She wanted to tell him who she was. She was sick of the whole game. She was sick of stuffing her hair into a baseball cap.
She noticed he was looking at her legs. She might not be a beauty, but she knew her legs were getting nice again. They were toned and tan from running for five weeks straight, not to mention her nightly soccer workout. He didn’t look spooked and he didn’t look grateful. In fact, he looked a bit awkward. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, better get going. You’ll be there tomorrow at five, right? It’s the second-to-last game before the tournament, you know.”
