Written on My Heart by Morgan Callan Rogers Page A

face.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I asked.
    â€œDad’s not doing good. I should go and see him.”
    About two hours after Bud had driven me to the hospital, Ida had called an ambulance down to The Point for Sam, who had taken a turn for the worse. He was waiting out the last stages of his life, only one floor below us.
    â€œTell him we love him,” I said to Bud. He nodded. I wanted to take the sadness from his eyes. I said, “Bud, when the time comes, we’ll move for sure, and I’ll be glad to do it.”
    He kissed us and left to go visit Sam. Arlee fussed and my breasts went heavy. She bumped and bobbed for a minute or so and then she grabbed onto a nipple. “Yowza!” I said. “If you’re this strong now, what’s this going to feel like when you’re older?” Arlee drifted into a milk-drenched stupor about ten minutes later. A nurse moved her to the little crib beside me, and I fell asleep beside her.
    Some time later, I heard an “Oh my god.” My eyes shot open and I sat up before I was even awake.
    Stella stood over Arlee’s crib. I could smell booze from across the room.
    â€œAre you drunk?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “Well, what a nice greeting,” she said. “No, I’m not drunk. I don’t drink nearly as much as you think I do. I wanted to see Leeman’s grandchild. I was hoping that she might look like him. But I can see you’ve got your mother back.”
    â€œShe looks like herself, mostly,” I said.
    â€œWell, of course she does,” Stella said. “But she’s definitely Carlie’s granddaughter.”
    â€œAnd she’s my daughter,” I said, “and we’re both tired, Stella.”
    Stella put her hand down to touch Arlee’s cheek. I held my breath.
    â€œSoft,” Stella murmured. “Well, I won’t take up any more time. I just wanted to see the baby. Are you feeling okay?”
    â€œRipped from stem to stern. But otherwise, fine.”
    Stella raised an eyebrow. “You’ll heal. You always do,” she said, and she left.
    Stella and I had such a strained relationship. We would never be friends, but there were things to be admired about her. The way she loved Daddy, for instance. The way she went after what she wanted. The way she kept a secret between us, instead of telling him.
    When I was fourteen, I’d snuck into Daddy’s house one day while he and Stella were out. I hadn’t been there for a long time. When I saw that Stella had completely redecorated it, I went into a rage. I broke glass and threw things around before I ran off. When my conscience got the best of me, I hurried back to fix it before they got home. But Stella was there, and she caught me. She told me to get out, but she never told Daddy what I had done. He never knew. For that, I was grateful. Still, our relationship was built on unsteady ground, and things could go wrong with a misread look, or the tone of a voice. I was temperamental and she drank too much.

    That night, Bud wheeled me and Arlee down to Sam’s room. His skin was the color of a buttered moon, and his breath rattled in his throat, but he smiled when he saw his granddaughter.
    â€œBeautiful,” he whispered. Bud held Arlee so Sam could stroke her hair and her face. We stayed only five minutes, and then Bud pushed us back to the elevator and pressed the up button. We rose to a higher floor filled with light and new babies.

5
    N o time for my aching back. No time for knitting, reading, baking bread, or goofing off. No time to finish dishes, housekeeping, laundry, cooking, or going to the bathroom. No time to brood and mourn over those no longer in my world. My tiny infant girl held the clock hostage with demands that ranged from feedings to diaper changes to sleeping and back again. And although she had been quiet in the hospital, almost from the minute we stepped over the threshold that