Liar's Bench by Kim Michele Richardson

that cradled her to sleep? Did Mrs. Whitlock know that she was quirky with mashed potatoes, but always fancied sweet potatoes? And what about her favorite lullaby I’d made up for her . . . ? Would she sing to her?
    â€œI’ve already called Mrs. Whitlock. Genevieve is doing fine. We’ll run over there soon,” he said, pricking through my silent worries. “You sure you don’t feel up to seeing Pastor, for a few minutes? Maybe try an’ eat something?”
    â€œNo, thanks, I need to sleep.”
    â€œAll right, then, Muddy. . . . Oh, by the way, a boy named Bobby called. Is this one of your school friends?”
    â€œHuh? When did he call?” I straightened up.
    â€œFifteen minutes ago. Told him you were resting and he said he’d try back tomorrow. You get some rest.” He shut the door.
    I hope he will call back.
    I took an old gown of Mama’s from my dresser drawer and managed to slip into her thread-worn flannel and climb into bed, pressing the folds of the nightgown close.
    When I was five years old and feeling scared, Mama’d let me choose from her many gowns to chase away the nightmares. I’d always reach for the one with the hyacinth blooms, trimmed with cotton lace. It was so huge on my body way back then that Mama would have me sweep up the bottom and knot it so I wouldn’t trip when walking. Once in bed, it had felt like I was wrapped in Mama’s soft hug, sheltered and safe. When she left us for Tommy, she’d left the flannel gown in Daddy’s dresser.
    I lay in bed watching the silhouettes of branches flicker across my walls, their shadows growing larger as the sun set. I closed my eyes and drifted off. Soon, images of lemons filled my dreams. I found myself surrounded by them. Smothering. I kept knocking them off onto the floor, but they kept piling back on, only to have me knock them off again, and again. The thumps of fruit echoed and grew louder.
    I awoke with a start, thinking about Mama fixing my birthday dinner, yesterday. She’d accidentally knocked a bowl of lemons off the counter and the fruit had scattered everywhere. I’d jumped up to help her gather them, but she’d shooed me away and pointed to my ice pack.
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    I put the ice pack back to my forehead. The smell of stale yeast from the bread bag assaulted my nostrils. I winced. The bump that McGee had given me was starting to swell. “You knew about the birthday pony, didn’t you, Mama?” I tried to smile.
    Mama placed the last fallen lemon back into the bowl and set it down on the table. “Uh-huh, Adam told me about it as soon as he bought it. You got yourself a powerful pony there. Just be careful not to let it get away from you. And always wear your lap belt, sugar.” She lit the pilot light on the stove. “Hey, Mudas, do you remember the day you helped with the red cabbage casserole?”
    I did indeed, and answered with a giggle. The last time I tried to make the dish, we’d waited hours for the casserole to cook only to pull it out and find raw cabbage. I’d forgotten to put in the apples and to turn on the oven.
    â€œWell, how ’bout today you just watch me cook and then I’ll write the recipe down for you after?”
    Red cabbage casserole really was my favorite dish. Daddy’s too.
    â€œAnd, oh my,” Mama chatted on, “remember the Thanksgiving dinner when I asked you to wash the turkey before I stuffed it? I stepped out for a minute, only to come back and find the sink overflowing with bubbles! Joy dishwashing soap bubbled up from that turkey’s cavity like The Lawrence Welk Show !” She chuckled, wiping away a happy tear.
    Caught up in Mama’s mood, I leaned in close. “Without a doubt, that year the Summers had the cleanest and most joyous Thanksgiving in all of Peckinpaw!”
    Mama laughed, but her eyes took on a distance.
    I studied my sneakers.
    I’m sure she was remembering,