things at home. I just want a couple minutes of your time to find out what’s going on there.” My voice trembles at the end, but I harden myself against it. There’s no room for a breakdown right now, but there’s a part of me that wants him to pick up on the emotion and ask what’s wrong. I want to tell him everything—the 911 call, Emily’s mother, the wasted minutes . . . everything.
That little girl on the news, I want to say. I took the call. I made assumptions. I botched it.
“If you’re going to leave me in charge, Elizabeth, then let me handle it,” he snaps, and I’m stung.
I stand there gritting my teeth, my lips tightening against the swell of emotion—anger, irritation, disappointment, sadness. Loneliness. When did we get to this point, always brushing by each other in a rush or taking our frustrations out on each other?
He hates his job. I hate what our lives have become. We’re both stretched so thin that neither one of us has a soft place to fall. I wonder again if he’s seeking solace somewhere else. He wouldn’t . . . would he? Robert is one of the most honest people I know, which is why some of the things going on at work drive him crazy. There’s a lot of cutting corners in the auto industry during these times of economic pressure.
“I’m sorry.” He sighs into the phone. “It’s just been a bad day here, and I wasn’t planning on being out of town next week. I’ll miss the homecoming game.”
“Homecoming,” I mutter. “I’d forgotten about homecoming. . . .”
“Are you okay?” This time he seems like he’s really asking. I realize I’ve been wiping my eyes and sniffling.
“Yes . . . yeah . . . fine.” He doesn’t need any extra pressure today. I know how he is when things aren’t going well at work. “I’d better sign off. I’m trying to help Aunt Sandy get the shop closed up before the storm. She’s hoping the water won’t come in this time.”
“Listen, keep in touch.” His note of concern gives me comfort. Then I tell him what Aunt Sandy said—communications could be spotty.
We finish the conversation, and I call into work, explain that I may be off a couple more days than I’d planned. Fortunately, no one else is on vacation right now, so it’s not a problem.
All the bases are covered by the time I go inside to help Aunt Sandy finish up. I do as I’ve been asked. It feels good to have something to occupy my hands, a manageable task. I can save these little glass hummingbirds. They are beautiful things, my aunt’s creations—hummingbirds and flower vines, captured in colored glass and leaded metal.
“There’s one extra.” I hold it up after I’ve filled the box of twenty-four. The straggler dangles from its green ribbon, suspended in flight.
Aunt Sandy smiles at me as she crosses the room. “Must be that one’s for you. We’ll take it home with us, and you can tuck it in your suitcase. Then when you hang him in your window, he’ll be a reminder of an ocean of possibilities.” She spreads her arms like she’s Vanna White offering up a prize package, then looks at the pile of goods in the center of the room and adds, “Although my ocean’s a little bit of a mess right now, sorry. I wish you could see this place on a regular day.”
“Me too.” I’m one half inch from saying, I’ll come visit again, maybe bring the kids after graduation, but I stop myself. We’re supposed to be persuading her to give this place up, after all.
So I follow her from the shop instead.
I help her work the hurricane shutter onto the front door and tap the sliding latches into the brackets with a small hammer. By the time it’s done, we’re both sweating and Aunt Sandy has called her husband an ugly name or two. Uncle George designed and built this special door covering after the last hurricane flooded and decimated the shop. He calls it the floodgate. It is weather-stripped to death around the lower edges, in hopes of preventing
That little girl on the news, I want to say. I took the call. I made assumptions. I botched it.
“If you’re going to leave me in charge, Elizabeth, then let me handle it,” he snaps, and I’m stung.
I stand there gritting my teeth, my lips tightening against the swell of emotion—anger, irritation, disappointment, sadness. Loneliness. When did we get to this point, always brushing by each other in a rush or taking our frustrations out on each other?
He hates his job. I hate what our lives have become. We’re both stretched so thin that neither one of us has a soft place to fall. I wonder again if he’s seeking solace somewhere else. He wouldn’t . . . would he? Robert is one of the most honest people I know, which is why some of the things going on at work drive him crazy. There’s a lot of cutting corners in the auto industry during these times of economic pressure.
“I’m sorry.” He sighs into the phone. “It’s just been a bad day here, and I wasn’t planning on being out of town next week. I’ll miss the homecoming game.”
“Homecoming,” I mutter. “I’d forgotten about homecoming. . . .”
“Are you okay?” This time he seems like he’s really asking. I realize I’ve been wiping my eyes and sniffling.
“Yes . . . yeah . . . fine.” He doesn’t need any extra pressure today. I know how he is when things aren’t going well at work. “I’d better sign off. I’m trying to help Aunt Sandy get the shop closed up before the storm. She’s hoping the water won’t come in this time.”
“Listen, keep in touch.” His note of concern gives me comfort. Then I tell him what Aunt Sandy said—communications could be spotty.
We finish the conversation, and I call into work, explain that I may be off a couple more days than I’d planned. Fortunately, no one else is on vacation right now, so it’s not a problem.
All the bases are covered by the time I go inside to help Aunt Sandy finish up. I do as I’ve been asked. It feels good to have something to occupy my hands, a manageable task. I can save these little glass hummingbirds. They are beautiful things, my aunt’s creations—hummingbirds and flower vines, captured in colored glass and leaded metal.
“There’s one extra.” I hold it up after I’ve filled the box of twenty-four. The straggler dangles from its green ribbon, suspended in flight.
Aunt Sandy smiles at me as she crosses the room. “Must be that one’s for you. We’ll take it home with us, and you can tuck it in your suitcase. Then when you hang him in your window, he’ll be a reminder of an ocean of possibilities.” She spreads her arms like she’s Vanna White offering up a prize package, then looks at the pile of goods in the center of the room and adds, “Although my ocean’s a little bit of a mess right now, sorry. I wish you could see this place on a regular day.”
“Me too.” I’m one half inch from saying, I’ll come visit again, maybe bring the kids after graduation, but I stop myself. We’re supposed to be persuading her to give this place up, after all.
So I follow her from the shop instead.
I help her work the hurricane shutter onto the front door and tap the sliding latches into the brackets with a small hammer. By the time it’s done, we’re both sweating and Aunt Sandy has called her husband an ugly name or two. Uncle George designed and built this special door covering after the last hurricane flooded and decimated the shop. He calls it the floodgate. It is weather-stripped to death around the lower edges, in hopes of preventing
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