“Oh, Annell, I’m sorry to be so long. It took forever to get a tow truck and then . . .” She looks around. One of the twins comes running toward her. “Mommy! I thought you forgotted me and Lacy!”
“Oh, Stacy, honey. That could never happen.” The woman bends down and lifts her daughter in her arms. “But where’s your sister?” She swivels, eyes searching the empty store.
Annell takes Stacy’s hand and leads her toward the children’s section. A gentle smile suffuses her face. “Shh . . . she’s just over here. Slept through all three stories.”
Curious, I follow them. Annell stops in front of Dorothy. Who is sitting still as a statue. The other twin is curled in her lap, her head resting on Dorothy’s bosom, her thumb planted in her mouth.
The twins’ mother steps closer, then peers down. “Goodness,” she whispers in what might be awe. “I’ve never seen her get so close to a stranger before. Ever. She’s never been one to go to just anybody.”
Dorothy’s face suffuses with pleasure. There’s a serenity about her I’ve never seen before. “I hope you don’t mind. She didn’t ask. She just climbed up and made herself at home.” Her voice, though hushed, is gruff. But her eyes gleam.
The mother lifts the little girl gently out of Dorothy’s lap. “Mind? I can’t thank you enough for taking such care with her.”
Dorothy doesn’t move as the woman bids her goodbye and leaves, with one daughter still sleeping in her arms and the other at her side.
“Are you okay?” I ask Dorothy as the front door swings shut.
“Of course,” she says, straightening. The serenity evaporates. “The child climbed up without invitation. I couldn’t toss her onto the floor, now could I?”
Twenty-One
Erin
Jazmine comes in on Monday morning in a really different kind of mood. She’s not rude or unusually demanding or anything. But she’s definitely strung more tightly than usual.
“Do we have the scouting information on the wide receiver I . . .”
I hand her the file on Isaiah Booker before she finishes.
“And what about the contracts from Sony for . . .”
Ditto for the file on Tyrone Browning’s endorsement deal. “Ready to be signed.”
This gets me a smile and the nod of surprised approval that I’m always working for.
“You’re set for lunch at South City Kitchen and a three o’clock coffee at Seven Lamps,” I say. “And your father called and said that he’d take Maya to practice and have her home in time for dinner.”
She sighs, which is not her usual response to a mention of her father or her daughter. She doesn’t dismiss me or give me anything else to do, so I stay where I am.
“Did you play sports at all?” she asks.
This is not a question I’m expecting, and I have no idea why she’s asking it. I take a second to consider how to explain the role that sports played in my family. “I’m kind of athletic, and I’ve got good hand-eye coordination—my whole family does. But I’m short and I’m a girl. I started gymnastics when I was in kindergarten, and I’m practically built for the top of the pyramid—so I went with cheerleading. I enjoyed the competition, and it wasn’t like I didn’t know how to cheer others on—I’d been watching my older brothers play one sport or another since I was in the womb, you know?”
I don’t mention how much I’ve always envied my brothers’ size and athletic ability. I think it kind of goes without saying.
But Jazmine says, “Mother Nature can be a hard lady sometimes. The gifts she bestows on us aren’t always the ones we want or even know what to do with.”
She studies me long enough to make me brace for whatever’s coming. “Did you talk back to your mother when you were thirteen?”
I almost laugh before I realize that she’s serious. It’s a little bit world rocking to see Jazmine, who’s always so strong and opinionated, seeming unsure. Not to mention speaking to me as if I’m an adult or a peer. “Absolutely. I think it’s a requirement, isn’t it? I mean, I can do a mean eye roll and a pretty withering death stare. I’ve even refused to speak to my mother a couple of times. But most of the time my mother and I were so glad to have another female in the house that we were more of a team.”
Jazmine nods in understanding because of course she and Maya must feel the same. “What did your mother do when your behavior wasn’t up to par when you were a teenager? How did she punish you?” She’s staring past me, to something I can’t see, thinking about something she’s uncomfortable expressing.
Wanting to lighten the mood, I say, “She locked me in a cage and refused to feed me until I begged for forgiveness.”
Jazmine’s head jerks up.
“Sorry. I was just trying to pull you back from wherever you were.”
One eyebrow goes up, and I know I need to offer a real answer. “Let’s see. Usually, I got grounded. Or assigned extra chores. Or I had something I cared about taken away for a while. You know, like my phone. Or driving privileges. Once, I wasn’t allowed to go to a sleepover.”
“And did those punishments help you to change the behavior?”
“Well, I was always upset that I had so many rules that my brothers didn’t—there was a total double standard in our family. I used to get pissed off that I had a curfew when my brothers, and a lot of my girlfriends, didn’t. And I hated always having to finish my homework before I could go out or meet up with friends. But, honestly, I’m glad my parents didn’t let me get away with stuff.
“They’ve been there for me during this whole thing with Josh, and even when we’ve argued, I’ve never doubted how much they love me. So, although I wouldn’t have said so when I was thirteen, I appreciate that they set rules and boundaries. I think discipline and consequences are important.”
She’s studying me now, and I get how much this matters to her, so I try to pick my words with care.
“If I ever get married and have kids—and that’s not looking like a slam dunk anymore—I’m going to be a tough-love mom like mine.” I meet her eyes. “And like I think you are.”
Her smile is kind of sad at first, but the way she looks at me is different than in the past. I hope that’s a good thing. I’m never going to be Louise. But maybe, just maybe, there will be other kinds of things that I can bring to the table.
Jazmine
It’s a beautiful mid-March evening, but it is possible that hell has, in fact, frozen over. Because at this very moment, Rich Hanson and I are in my BMW—together—on the way to the home of Yvonne Booker and her nephew, Isaiah.