bothering her, but it was equally obvious that she wasn’t going to tell me. So I left.
• • •
By the time Cookie’s funeral was over, I was thoroughly upset, just as Marina and Lois had predicted. Funerals wrung me inside out and I’d hated every single one I’d attended. But the mere fact of disliking a task didn’t mean I could avoid doing it. If that were the case, my windows would never get washed.
Of course, if I was going to be honest with myself, the primary reason I was so upset over Cookie’s death was pure, unadulterated guilt. I should have done more. I should have taken her to the urgent care clinic the night of the PTA in Review. If I had, maybe they would have caught what was wrong in time to save her.
When I walked back into Marina’s kitchen, postfuneral, she took one look at me and gave me a big hug. “You silly girl,” she murmured. “Repeat after me: ‘I was wrong and you were right.’ Go on, say it.”
“I was wrong and you were right,” I said. She gave me an extra-hard squeeze and released me. I wiped my eyes, saying, “But I had to go. I just had to.”
“Yes, yes. We need to work on that overdeveloped sense of right and wrong that you have.”
“And my guilt complex?”
“Well, duh.”
We smiled at each other. We’d been friends for a very long time.
“And now,” Marina said, “you go home. Take a nap. I’ll bring the kids over in a couple of hours and you will not need to worry about dinner.”
“I won’t?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “Now away with you.” She gave me a light shove. “As my grandmother used to say, ‘Shoo! Shoo!’”
I zipped up my coat. “You know, for a redhead, you’re not so bad.”
“That’s what all my best friends say. Now go.”
So I was smiling as I went.
• • •
Two hours later, I heard the kids stomping into the house. Oliver ran up the stairs on all fours and Jenna called for me. “Mom?”
“In here.” Yawning, I sat up. The couch springs creaked underneath me.
Jenna appeared in the doorway of the family room. “I’m making dinner, okay?”
Visions of blackened pans, sticky messes, and spattered walls danced through my head. “Oh. That sounds . . . very nice, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, Mrs. Neff helped us plan the menu.” She gave me a smile full of confidence. “It’ll be easy.”
“Tell me the kitchen rules,” I said.
“Um, make sure nothing boils over, check that there’s nothing in the oven before turning it on, clean up spills when they happen, and . . .” Her lower lip stuck out in her effort to remember. Suddenly, her face brightened. “And no using the big knife without you there.”
“Maybe I should come in and supervise.” I started to get out from underneath the fleece blanket.
“But you’re supposed to be taking it easy,” Jenna said as Oliver thundered down the stairs and ran into the room.
“Here, Mom.” He dropped an armload of books onto my legs. “I couldn’t pick, so I brought all of them.”
He’d brought down the entire pile that I had on my nightstand. “Oh, honey. That’s . . . so thoughtful of you.”
My son smiled, a wide happy smile that lit up the room. “Mrs. Neff said we needed to take care of you tonight, and I know how much you like to read, so I thought you could do that while we make dinner.”
Fear stabbed at me. My nine-year-old baby boy was capable of many things, but he was still only nine years old.
“I’m making dinner,” Jenna interjected. “You get to set the table.”
“Yeah, and that’s part of making dinner, right?”
Smiling, I lay back against the couch pillows and listened to them wrangle on their way to the kitchen. My children, my loves, my heart, my life. Even if I had to spend half the day tomorrow cleaning up the kitchen, it would be worth it. Tears stung at my eyes for the second time that day, but for a completely different reason.
• • •
We had a
• • •
By the time Cookie’s funeral was over, I was thoroughly upset, just as Marina and Lois had predicted. Funerals wrung me inside out and I’d hated every single one I’d attended. But the mere fact of disliking a task didn’t mean I could avoid doing it. If that were the case, my windows would never get washed.
Of course, if I was going to be honest with myself, the primary reason I was so upset over Cookie’s death was pure, unadulterated guilt. I should have done more. I should have taken her to the urgent care clinic the night of the PTA in Review. If I had, maybe they would have caught what was wrong in time to save her.
When I walked back into Marina’s kitchen, postfuneral, she took one look at me and gave me a big hug. “You silly girl,” she murmured. “Repeat after me: ‘I was wrong and you were right.’ Go on, say it.”
“I was wrong and you were right,” I said. She gave me an extra-hard squeeze and released me. I wiped my eyes, saying, “But I had to go. I just had to.”
“Yes, yes. We need to work on that overdeveloped sense of right and wrong that you have.”
“And my guilt complex?”
“Well, duh.”
We smiled at each other. We’d been friends for a very long time.
“And now,” Marina said, “you go home. Take a nap. I’ll bring the kids over in a couple of hours and you will not need to worry about dinner.”
“I won’t?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “Now away with you.” She gave me a light shove. “As my grandmother used to say, ‘Shoo! Shoo!’”
I zipped up my coat. “You know, for a redhead, you’re not so bad.”
“That’s what all my best friends say. Now go.”
So I was smiling as I went.
• • •
Two hours later, I heard the kids stomping into the house. Oliver ran up the stairs on all fours and Jenna called for me. “Mom?”
“In here.” Yawning, I sat up. The couch springs creaked underneath me.
Jenna appeared in the doorway of the family room. “I’m making dinner, okay?”
Visions of blackened pans, sticky messes, and spattered walls danced through my head. “Oh. That sounds . . . very nice, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, Mrs. Neff helped us plan the menu.” She gave me a smile full of confidence. “It’ll be easy.”
“Tell me the kitchen rules,” I said.
“Um, make sure nothing boils over, check that there’s nothing in the oven before turning it on, clean up spills when they happen, and . . .” Her lower lip stuck out in her effort to remember. Suddenly, her face brightened. “And no using the big knife without you there.”
“Maybe I should come in and supervise.” I started to get out from underneath the fleece blanket.
“But you’re supposed to be taking it easy,” Jenna said as Oliver thundered down the stairs and ran into the room.
“Here, Mom.” He dropped an armload of books onto my legs. “I couldn’t pick, so I brought all of them.”
He’d brought down the entire pile that I had on my nightstand. “Oh, honey. That’s . . . so thoughtful of you.”
My son smiled, a wide happy smile that lit up the room. “Mrs. Neff said we needed to take care of you tonight, and I know how much you like to read, so I thought you could do that while we make dinner.”
Fear stabbed at me. My nine-year-old baby boy was capable of many things, but he was still only nine years old.
“I’m making dinner,” Jenna interjected. “You get to set the table.”
“Yeah, and that’s part of making dinner, right?”
Smiling, I lay back against the couch pillows and listened to them wrangle on their way to the kitchen. My children, my loves, my heart, my life. Even if I had to spend half the day tomorrow cleaning up the kitchen, it would be worth it. Tears stung at my eyes for the second time that day, but for a completely different reason.
• • •
We had a
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