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“Where do you want these?” Gil, Haven’s husband, came through the front door carrying five covered baking dishes.
“Oh, Mama, these are for your freezer. Put them in the kitchen, Gil.”
“Haven,” Mama said. “I don’t need meals. I’m cooking every night now.”
“Nonsense,” Haven said. “You can always use something from the freezer.” She pasted a smile on her face, because it was always Haven-knows-best.
Jill gave Gil a terse smile as he passed, wondering for at least the hundredth time how he put up with her sister. Somehow, they’d made things work, and Jill suspected it was because Gil just did whatever he was told. He had no opinions of his own.Naturally, he thought the same thing Haven did. He had no plans for his own hobbies and spare time.Of coursehe wanted to spend his weekends shopping or picking out new rocks for the garden.
Haven continued to babble about this and that, and then she sent her children off to change out of their school uniforms. She approached Jill with the largest, most fake smile Jill had ever seen.
“Jilly,” she said, scanning her. “Ilovethose…boots.” She returned her gaze to Jill’s and it held even more falseness than before. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting Mama and Daddy,” she said, giving herself mental energy points for being right about the boots. “We didn’t know you were coming. I’m sure Mama would’ve made a dessert.”
“I’ve got some frozen tarts in the freezer in the basement,” Mama said, heading for the door that led down there.
“Mama,” Haven said. “You can’t go down those steps.”
“Of course I can,” Mama said, moving that way without a hitch in her steps. “Who do you think put the tarts down there?” She opened the door just as Haven caught up to her.
“I’ll do it.” She glanced at Jill, who hadn’t moved from her position just inside the doorway leading from the kitchen. “Or Jill will.”
“Sure,” Jill said. “I will.” She took a few steps and joined the crowd in front of the basement door.
“I can do it,” Mama said, that stubborn tone entering her voice.
Jill backed off immediately, because Mama had always been a fiercely independent woman. The cancer and treatments had slowed her down, sure, but they had not knocked her out. She glared at Haven, who frowned at her.
“I don’t understand why you can’t accept help.”
“I accept plenty of help,” Mama said. “I’m fine, Haven. I can go downstairs and get tarts.”
“Let her do it,” Jill said.
Haven swung her attention to Jill, her displeasure like a scent on the air. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one here when she can’t even get off the couch.”
Jill swallowed and folded her arms. She rarely engaged with Haven, because every argument was a loser when it came to her older sister. “I was here when that happened, actually,” Jill said. “I sat with Mama after several of her treatments too, Haven. You don’t own the market on that.” She noticed her mother slipping through the door and going down into the basement.
“In fact,” Jill said, feeling sure of herself and brave in a way she hadn’t before. “You were so busy in the kitchen, or doing laundry, or making sure the sheets on the bed were just right, that you missed just being with Mama. I did that. Me and Kenna.”
“Someone has to do all of that,” Haven said, her voice haughty.
“No, they don’t,” Jill said. “Mama doesn’t need five pans of food, Haven. She didn’t need you to change her sheets—she had done it the day before. Daddy knows how to run a washing machine.”
“Girls,” Daddy said, and Jill turned toward him. She’d forgotten he was even there. “Don’t do this.”
Jill held up both hands. “Sorry, Daddy.” She took a deep breath and faced Haven. “Sorry, Haven.”
Her sister did not apologize to her, and Jill rolled her eyes and stepped past her to go into the basement. “I’m going to go see if Mama has any ice cream down there.”
“Bring up the rocky road,” Daddy called after her, and Jill made her escape. The steps leading into the basement were sturdy and strong, made of thick wood. Her boots plunked against the steps, and she slowed as she reached the bottom and heard sniffling.
“Mama?” she asked.
Her mother turned from a built-in desk, a picture frame clutched in her hand. Her tears ran down her cheeks in fat threads, and Jill’s whole world narrowed to that image. She’d only seen her mom cry a few times in her life, and both had been terrible events. The first time was when her daddy had died. Mama had adored her daddy, and Jill had loved her grandfather too.
Mama had cried when she’d spent eight hours making a wedding cake only to have one of the feral cats get into the house and eat through the top tier. She’d stayed up almost all night to recreate it, and Jill had helped as she’d been living at home during that time.
