In my experience, the young moms tended to view us teachers as “other.” Granted, I did know embarrassing truths about many of them. Kids overshare in the cutest ways. But soon I’d be invited into that circle of women, or at least I hoped so. I could use the support as I waded into motherhood, because my two best friends from high school both relocated to other states after college and we’d fallen out of touch. As something of an introvert, I enjoyed cordial relationships with my coworkers, but we never shared intimacies. My sister was still single and childless—unless you counted her cute little dog, Mo—so she couldn’t commiserate with the ups and downs of marriage and pregnancy. Besides, Erin had never had much patience for the things that worried me.
Barb placed a palm to her cheek. “I don’t know how you handle all those toddlers at once. I’d go crazy.”
“Well, it’s only three mornings each week, so I get plenty of time to recharge.” I smiled, accustomed to these types of comments, though they always surprised me. Kids’ brutal honesty beat any comic’s jokes, and who could ever get enough sticky-fingered hugs?
When Barb didn’t invite me to join them, I said, “Don’t let me keep you. Order up. I can vouch for the cookies.” I waved the remains of mine and then took a seat at the smallest café table—my favorite despite its wobbly leg. Shellacked postcards from exotic destinations like Tanzania, Brazil, and Alaska decorated its buttercup-yellow tabletop. I’d yet to ask Hannah if she’d been to these places or if she’d merely bought the table from someone else—I didn’t believe in prying into people’s personal lives without invitation. In today’s social media–driven society, privacy was a treasured currency.
I scrolled through my phone. Nothing from Lyle since his late-night text. He’d asked me not to interrupt him during business hours, but we’d never gone a whole day without speaking. As soon as I got home, I’d call to make sure everything was okay.
The overhead speakers pumped out the twangy sound of Iron & Wine’s “What Hurts Worse,” a song I recognized only because my dad and Erin were music aficionados. One of many interests they’d shared. For my first four years of life, I’d been my dad’s “little star.” But then Erin was born, and by the time she turned three, she’d become his sun.
I traced the lumpy edge of the postcard from Brazil, one of many countries I hoped to visit. I’d almost spent a semester in London during my junior year of college, but then Erin had wrapped our dad around her finger, like always. After she’d graduated from high school—with no plans to attend college—she convinced him to underwrite her backpacking adventure through Europe to get a “real world” education.
Poof . . . another of my plans upended by her.
She hadn’t meant to screw up my dream. She wasn’t mean-spirited, just high-spirited. And it had been only fair of Dad to give her that money when he’d been helping with my and our brother Kevin’s tuition. But if Erin had shared her intentions sooner, I would’ve worked a second summer job to save enough money to afford the semester abroad.
Then again, expecting Erin to plan anything in advance was pointless. She woke up every day and made random decisions, then strung those days together one by one and called it a life. I spent more time worrying for her future than she did, but the only person from whom she’d ever tolerated any advice is our father. Was . . . was our father.
Laughter caught my attention. Hannah was being folksy with Barb and Sandy, completely comfortable in her own skin. I could envy her for that, but for some reason it didn’t niggle me as much with her as it did with my sister.
On her way out of the store, Barb called to me, “See you at drop-off tomorrow!”
I smiled and waved, while Hannah busied herself with the coffee maker.
After savoring my final swig of coffee, I took the empty plate and cup to the counter. “Have a great day, Hannah.”
“You too.” She waved before shuffling to the far end of her display case to straighten a tray of popovers.
And then, because Lyle’s hypocrisy irked me, I added, “See you soon.”
Outside, the brisk air fended off a food coma. I inhaled deeply and turned right to finish my walk home. Unlike the east end of town—where I’d grown up—the west side boasted herringbone brickwork sidewalks and iron lampposts with ivy-stuffed hanging baskets. The recent upgrades were part of an expansion due to increased tourism. Lyle and I loved the trendy shops and restaurants, but traffic on Saturdays wasn’t ideal.
As I left the commercial district and meandered onto Nukquit Lane, the uniformity of the new residential development relaxed me. We lived on Naeez Court. Each of the five streets that made up our little neighborhood came from the Nanticoke words for one through five. Better yet, the homes, while not identical, were all roughly the same size and style, each set in the center of a well-manicured half-acre lot.
Logic and structure made life easier to navigate.
The older areas where my mom and Erin still lived were populated with 1940s ranch-, cape-, and cottage-style homes, and weak zoning restrictions. Not that I’d noticed when I was young. When I hadn’t been at one of Kevin’s Little League games or helping my mom bake cookies, I’d been reading books in the hammock or running through the neighborhood on warm summer evenings. But as I grew up, my preference for order over chaos solidified. I’d worked hard and made smart choices to help afford a home on this side of town.
In contrast to my place, Erin’s antiquated brick apartment building resembled a crumbling fort, but even that looked more impressive than her cramped apartment. Some nights I’d sit straight up in bed, concerned about how she’d escape that mousetrap in a fire. But anytime I offered to reorganize the clutter or suggested she brighten it up with fresh paint, she’d smile and dismiss me. The pretty Pottery Barn drapes I’d picked up for her this past Christmas remained in a box buried somewhere in that mess.
Despite my best intentions, I never quite did the right thing where she was concerned.
I entered my home through the garage. We’d bought it almost five months ago, yet hadn’t nearly finished decorating. Lyle had suggested we get rid of the mishmash of his old-condo furnishings and the things I’d kept from my apartment once we’d married. But our fiscally responsible nature restricted us to purchasing only the essentials to date—a kitchen table and chairs, a Restoration Hardware sofa set from the Maddox Collection and the flat-screen TV that hung above the fireplace, bedroom furniture from Lillian August, and two area rugs to help muffle the echo of the hardwood, tile, and glass throughout the home. We’d selected crisp, clean lines and colors—white, gray, navy. Soothing.
Usually. Today it seemed a little cold and empty.
I twisted my neck from side to side, then sat at the kitchen table and dialed Lyle’s number. Straight to voice mail, like it had earlier this morning. I glanced through the french doors that led to the deck and firepit. The night before he’d left, we’d sat by the blaze, discussing baby names.
I’d lobbied for “Willa” in honor of my late father, William Turner. It broke my heart that, thanks to an unexpected heart attack last summer, he wouldn’t be part of my growing family. And aside from Willa also being an adorable name, it’d be unique. As a teacher, I’d met more than my fair share of Caitlins, Katies, and Ellies.