Not a Sparrow Falls by Linda Nichols Page B

agreement, and began to gather up their coats and purses. An old method of controlling her and as effective as always.
    “I’ll stay until evening service,” Lorna said, feeling miserable and guilty.
    “I’ve got to arrange for the nursery,” Winifred protested, as if Lorna had shamed her. Her sister hated being bested in the competition of who could help the most.
    “That’s fine. You go,” Lorna soothed. “I’ll just be here when the babies wake, and I’ll keep an eye on Samantha.”
    “That sounds fine.” Fiona checked her watch and pulled her coat closed, buttoned it with a firm hand that allowed no slipping and sliding. “Come along, Winifred. I’ve papers to grade.”
    Winifred reluctantly agreed, the two sisters made their exit, and Lorna felt the flood of relief that she always did when they left her. There was something about their mere presence that made her feel ignorant and inept. She poured Alasdair’s coffee into the carafe, put the teakettle on for herself, then went upstairs to check on Samantha.
    Her door was open a crack, and a thin slice of light shonealong the dark hall carpet. Lorna pushed it open quietly so as not to disturb her niece at her studies, but Samantha wasn’t at her desk. Her schoolbooks looked untouched, still in a pristine stack. She pushed the door open all the way. Samantha wasn’t there at all. She must have slipped out again.
    Lorna sighed and wondered if she should alert Alasdair. She looked around at the room before closing the door. There were new posters on the wall—of rock bands—some of them ominous-looking. The vanity was covered with lipstick and eye makeup, the sparkly kind that sold for a dollar in the pharmacy. She’d noticed Samantha’s attempts in that direction lately and wished she could help. She was such a pretty child. Brown hair, pink cheeks, and those fine, even features she’d gotten from her mother. Lorna wished she felt more capable of helping her niece with the practical matters of womanhood, but her own adolescence seemd light-years away. Besides, Samantha didn’t seem to be listening to anyone’s advice these days. It was as if the sweet child who had been her niece was gone. Lorna felt the loss as sharply as another death. The strangeness of her role with these children assaulted her again. She lived in that gray region between mother and aunt. For the first year of the twins’ lives, she had been the one who cared for them. She had stayed at night for a while and then begun arriving before they arose each morning. They were her treasures, especially the babies. They were like her own. In fact, she often imagined they were. She rocked them, fed them, worried over them. The cruelty of her situation cut her again. Michael’s unfaithfulness and financial debacle had rocked more then her little world. Her small share of the debts not discharged in bankruptcy had put an end to her surrogate mothering. Now she spent days at one job and nights at another instead of being here, caring for the children who felt so much like her own. She took a moment to release her anger, to forgive him again.
    Lorna closed Samantha’s door, then paused outside the twins’ room. She didn’t hear a sound. She crept back downthe stairs, not really breathing again until she reached the kitchen, and just caught the kettle before it began to whistle.
    She took down the teapot, ran the water until it was finally hot, then filled it and took out the tin of tea. She emptied the pot, added the tea, and poured the boiling water over the leaves. While she waited for it to brew, she made the usual telephone calls. She located Samantha on the second one—the home of that poor boy with all the earrings who never looked anyone in the eye. What kind of radar did these unhappy children have that allowed them to find each other?
    “Come home, please,” she said pleasantly, but was rewarded by a sullen reply. “Shall I call your father to the telephone?” she was