The Seventh Mother (18 page)

I
stared at the soggy mess of dough on the kitchen counter. It certainly didn’t look like the picture in the recipe book. The bread dough in the picture was round and firm. Mine was a wet, shaggy mess. I’d grown up watching my mother bake bread, but I’d never tried it myself. So far, it was turning out to be a disaster.

I sighed and shifted weight from one foot to the other. My feet hurt, my back ached, and I felt the beginnings of a headache in my temples.

I looked at the clock. Only noon. How could time pass so quickly at the diner and so slowly here at home?

A soft rapping on the front door startled me. When I opened it, Resa stood there, holding a plastic pitcher.

“Brrr,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s plenty cold out there.”

“Come in, Resa. What are you doing here?”

“I came to check on your progress with the bread,” she said, smiling.

“How did you know I was making bread?”

I stared at her, wondering if she was psychic or something.

“Jenny told me yesterday when she stopped in at the restaurant. I brought you some real homemade ginger ale. It’s good for what ails you.”

“Thank you!” I smiled at her as I took the pitcher. Then I looked back at the dough on the counter and sighed.

“Well, so far all I’ve made is a big mess.”

“Bread’s tricky at first,” she said, patting my hand. “It takes a little while to get the hang of it. But after that, it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

She walked into my kitchen and stared at the lumpy mass on the counter.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “That ain’t good.”

She picked up the entire mass of dough and dropped it into the trash can. It landed with a heavy thud.

“Okay then, let’s start over.”

“Oh, Resa,” I began. “That’s okay. You don’t have to . . .”

“Nonsense,” she said firmly. “I been baking bread my whole life. I taught my girls how to do it. I can surely teach you.”

And so I started pulling out the flour and yeast and salt. Then I washed down the countertop and scrubbed my biggest bowl clean.

“First thing is, you got to proof your yeast.”

She poured warm water into a measuring cup and stirred in the yeast and some sugar.

“The book said to do that, but I wasn’t sure what it meant.”

“You’ve got to let it set a few minutes and see if it bubbles up. If it doesn’t, that means your yeast is old.”

I stared at the liquid and watched as tiny brown bubbles began forming on the surface of the water.

“Good,” she said. “The first mistake lots of folks make is using old yeast. Your bread won’t rise at all without good yeast.”

I reached for the flour and sifter, and she put her hand on my arm.

“Oh no, honey. You don’t sift flour for bread. Let me show you.”

I watched her measure a cup, chopping and scraping the excess from the top. Then she watched as I measured another cup and stirred in some salt.

“Now, put in some water and stir it hard.”

I poured and stirred, watching a soggy mass form, while she sprinkled a heavy coating of flour on the counter.

She poured in the yeast mixture, then added more flour. I stirred as best I could, but it was hard work.

“Okay,” she said. “Here we go.”

She took the bowl from me and dumped the dough onto the flour she had sprinkled on the counter.

“Now here’s the important part,” she said. “You got to knead the dough till it feels right. See how I do this?”

I watched for a minute as she folded and pounded the dough, turning it and adding more flour. Then she stood aside and watched me knead until my arms were tired. After what felt like an hour, she touched my arm.

“Now, we test it.”

She poked two fingers into the ball of dough, and the indentations bounced back immediately.

“That’s how you know you’re done kneading,” she said. “See how it feels? See how it comes right back after you poke it?”

The ball of dough on the counter looked just like the picture in the cookbook, and nothing like the mess I had made before.

I buttered a bowl and dropped the dough into it. Then I covered it with a towel and put it on top of the fridge to rise.

“Thank you, Resa,” I said, watching as she washed first her hands and then the mixing bowl and wooden spoon.

“It’s no trouble at all. I love to bake. I can teach you all kinds of things, if you want.”

“I’d like that.”

“I hate that you left the diner. It’s lonely there without you.”

I nodded. “I know, but with the baby coming, Brannon thought . . . that is, we thought it would be better for me to stay home.”

“Well, I reckon you’re lucky to have a husband who loves you so much he wants to take care of you.”

She smiled at me as I took her place at the sink to wash my hands.

“Yes, I’m pretty lucky.”

We sat down at the table and I poured two glasses of ginger ale. Then I rose and walked to the cupboard.

“I have some oatmeal cookies,” I said. “They’re not homemade, but they’re pretty good.”

I put some cookies on a plate and set it on the table in front of her.

“Next time, I’ll teach you to make your own oatmeal cookies,” she said, staring doubtfully at the plate. “Cookies are the easiest thing in the world.”

After we’d had our ginger ale and cookies, she pulled her coat on and gathered her purse and gloves.

“Check that dough in an hour,” she said. “When it’s about doubled in size, you’re going to punch it down and knead it again. Then put it in the pan and let it rise again for a while. When it’s up over the top of the pan, put it in the oven at three hundred and fifty degrees.”

“Thank you, Resa,” I said, holding the door open for her. “Honestly, thank you so much.”

“Well, you’re welcome, honey.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “You call me if you need anything, you hear? And come see me at the diner sometime soon.”

I watched her pick her way down the snowy sidewalk to her car, then turn and wave back at me. She was so kind. I felt so lucky to have friends like Resa and Angel.

When Brannon came home from work that night, the whole house smelled wonderfully of fresh bread. Jenny had already eaten a huge slice with butter and honey.

“Did you make this?” he asked, his eyes wide as he stared at the loaf on the counter.

“Yes,” I said. “But I had some help.”

“Good girl!” He turned and smiled at Jenny.

“Not me, Daddy,” she said. “Resa helped.”

“She came by to bring me some homemade ginger ale,” I said. “And I had made a huge mess of the first batch of dough.”

I opened the trash can and pointed to the glob of dough.

“What is that?” Brannon stared at it cautiously.

“That’s my first attempt.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Anyway, Resa saw it and said she’d help me make a new batch. And that’s what happened.”

“Well, thank God for Resa.” He grinned and wrapped his arms around me.

I relaxed into his embrace.

“So how was your day? Did you enjoy just being at home?”

“It was nice,” I said.

I didn’t mention how lonely I’d been, how the day had dragged by before Resa came to the rescue.

“I told you,” he said, smiling. “It’s better for you to be at home, taking care of yourself and Jenny and me, like the good mother you are.”

I hoped Brannon was right, but I wasn’t sure I was cut out to be a homemaker. I’d worked too hard for too long to stand on my own two feet.

Then I looked over his shoulder and saw Jenny grinning at us, and I let my shoulders relax again. She needed me. Brannon needed me. The baby needed me. And that was enough.

I
didn’t go back up into the attic for a long time. I wanted to. I wanted to go through more boxes and see what else I could find out about my mother and about Daddy’s sister. But I didn’t. I couldn’t risk getting Emma in trouble again. Not now, when things were going so well. Daddy seemed happier than I’d ever seen him. Emma was learning to bake, and she seemed a lot less tired than before. She was also starting to show now, her belly rounding out beneath her T-shirts and sweaters.

But I still had the photo album, tucked safely away in my sweater drawer. And every day I pulled it out at least once, just to look at the pictures of my mother.

On a sunny, almost warm afternoon in mid-April, I was sitting in the kitchen after school, drinking orange juice and working on algebra problems, when the phone rang. Emma answered it.

“Hello, Shirley. How are you?”

I sat quietly, just listening.

“Oh my,” Emma said. “Is he all right?”

I set my pencil down on the table, listening.

“Sure, I can do that,” Emma said. “No, really, it’s no problem at all.... Okay, I can be there in half an hour. . . . I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up and turned to look at me.

“Jasper Rigby had an accident on his bike last night,” she said. “He’s home from school with a broken leg.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t even noticed his absence.

“Anyway, his mother doesn’t want to leave him alone because he can’t get around. So I’m going to run to the store and pick up a few things to take over there. Do you want to come with me?”

I stared at her for a minute.

“Why did she ask you?”

“Well, she tried a couple other people but no one else is available.”

“Daddy won’t like it,” I said. I remembered what he’d said about Mrs. Rigby and Jasper.

Emma frowned slightly.

“It’s just a neighborly thing to do,” she said. “And if I go now, I can be back before your dad gets home.”

My eyes widened.

“What if he finds out?” I whispered.

“Don’t worry. It will be fine. I’ll only be gone an hour.”

I nodded, but my heart was pounding hard.

“So, do you want to come with me?”

“Can I stay here?” I asked, looking down at my algebra book. “I’ve got a lot of homework.”

She hesitated just a minute, then nodded and kissed my head.

“Okay,” she said. “Finish your homework. And if you need anything just call me.”

“Okay.”

Emma pulled on a jacket, picked up her purse, and paused again at the door.

“You sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m just going to do these stupid problems.”

She smiled again and left, locking the back door behind her.

I watched through the window as she pulled her car out of the driveway, and then sat back down and surveyed the kitchen. I’d never been alone in the house before. Daddy wouldn’t be home until later. Emma would be gone for an hour, she said.

I should do my algebra.

I bent over the book and stared at the problems, but all I could see was the box in the attic, a box full of things that might tell me more about my mother.

After a few minutes, I gave up trying to work on my algebra. I rose and walked into the hallway, staring up at the door to the attic. Then I returned to the kitchen and dragged a chair into the hall. Standing on it, I could reach the cord that released the ladder.

I went back to the kitchen and got a knife from one drawer and packing tape from another. Then I climbed the ladder, listening carefully for the sounds of Emma returning, or worse, Daddy. But the house was quiet.

The box I’d already been through was taped securely shut. I was so glad I’d done that before Daddy caught Lashaundra and me up there. But several more boxes were stacked around the room.

I took a deep breath, listened again, and walked to a box in the back. It was big and had a lot of tape holding it closed.

I slit the tape, set the knife down on the windowsill, and pulled the box open.

Daddy’s summer clothes were folded neatly inside. I sighed and started to fold the lid shut. Then I saw the corner of another box peeking out from under the clothes.

I started pulling clothes out of the box, stacking them on the floor, praying they wouldn’t pick up too much dust. Then I reached in and pulled out the other box, which had even more tape on it.

I sat down on the floor and held the box for a long minute. Daddy would be furious at me, and at Emma, if he caught me going through his things. I knew I should put the box back and go downstairs to do my homework. But I thought about the letters from the adoption agency and the pictures of my mother, and I slit through the layers of tape and pulled the smaller box open.

A glint of silver caught my eye. I reached in and pulled out a locket like the one Daddy had given Emma for Christmas. Turning it over, I read,
Brannon and Jackie
. I felt tears sting my eyes, remembering how excited Jackie had been when Daddy gave her the locket. She wore it all the time after that, even in the shower. She must have given it back when she left Daddy for that other man.

Another glint of silver, another locket, this one’s chain tangled with yet another’s.
Brannon and Trish
.
Brannon and Ami
. Then another—
Brannon and Laura
. I didn’t even remember a Laura. A couple more lockets lay in the box, but I was pulling out a big envelope now.

I opened the envelope and found several smaller envelopes inside, each holding a letter. The one on top was addressed to Mrs. Hailey Bohner on Pippin Road in Cincinnati—my mother! The return address listed Mrs. Imogene Wright on North Layman Street in Indianapolis, Indiana. I pulled the letter from the envelope and stared at the date: February 2, 2006. My hands shook so hard I had to lay the letter down on the floor and bend over to read it.

I read the letter twice. Then I read it again. My hands shook, my stomach knotted so that I thought I might throw up. A letter to my mother from her mother. My mother had a mother, a mother named Imogene Wright. I had a grandmother.

Why was my mother afraid? And why didn’t she want her own mother to write to her?

I put the letter back into the envelope and pulled out another, this one addressed from Mrs. Hailey Bohner to Mrs. Imogene Wright. It was dated February 7, 2006.

The letter ended there. There was no signature, even; it just ended. I stared at the paper. My mother wrote that letter. But why was it here in the box? Why hadn’t she ever mailed it? Or even signed it?

I looked back into the box and saw another box, even smaller, like the ones Daddy got from the bank with his checks in them. Setting the letters aside, I pulled the check box out and opened it. Inside, right on top, Jackie’s face smiled at me from a small plastic rectangle. It was her driver’s license. Beneath it were more licenses—Trish’s and Ami’s and Cara’s. There were two more, women I didn’t know, or at least didn’t remember. Why did Daddy have Jackie’s driver’s license? Surely she would have taken that with her when she left.

I held the licenses in my hand, staring at them, willing my mind to come up with an explanation.

“Jenny!”

I shoved the licenses into my pocket as I spun to see Emma’s head in the doorway to the attic.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing up here?”

I closed the check box quickly and shoved it back into the box with the lockets and letters.

“I just . . . I wanted . . .” I stammered, but no words would come. I had no idea what I could even begin to say.

“Put that stuff back right now!” She emerged through the door and frowned at me. “Quick,” she said. “I don’t want your dad to know you were up here again.”

I stuffed things back into the box and taped it. Then I put the box into the larger box and began putting Daddy’s clothes back inside. Finally, I taped the big box shut and turned to face Emma. Her face was pale, her eyes wide.

“How could you do this?” she asked. “You know how mad your dad would be if he found out!”

I picked up the knife and tape, still saying nothing.

“Get yourself downstairs, right now!”

She followed me down the ladder, then pushed it back up into the trap door.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

She looked at me for a long minute, and I waited for her to start yelling. Instead, she took the knife and tape from me and sighed.

“Go change your clothes and take a shower,” she said. “You’re a mess.”

She was right. I was covered in dust. Before I undressed, I took the driver’s licenses from my pocket and shoved them into my underwear drawer. Then I showered and washed my hair.

When I padded back to my room, my dirty clothes were gone and I heard the washing machine start in the basement.

I dressed and toweled my hair, then sat down on the futon. My hands were still shaking; my stomach was in knots. I had so many things I wanted to know, and no one to ask. No one except Daddy, of course. But I couldn’t do that. That much I knew.

“Hey.”

Emma stood in the doorway. She’d changed her clothes, too.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I just . . . I just wanted to see what was up there.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you’re curious. I get that, I really do. But you promised your dad, and I promised your dad. And you have to promise me now that you will not go up there again.”

I sat not looking at her for a long time. I wanted to promise her, to make her happy. But what about the letters and the lockets and the driver’s licenses? What if there was more stuff up there about my mother?

“Jenny?”

At last, I raised my eyes to meet hers.

“I promise,” I whispered.

“Okay, then.” She nodded and held her hand out to me. “Come on and help me get dinner started.”

“Did you get the stuff for Mrs. Rigby?” I asked, following her into the kitchen.

“Yes,” she said. “And I saw Jasper, poor thing. He’s in a cast up to his hip, and he’ll be out of school for a while.”

I never thought of Jasper as poor anything, but I did feel bad about his leg.

“I’ll tell you what.” Emma turned to me and tilted her head. “Both of us did something today we probably shouldn’t have done. And neither of us wants your dad to know. So for this one time, we’ll keep our secrets, okay?”

I nodded and smiled at her.

“But just this one time,” she said firmly. “No more sneaking, no more lies. Okay?”

I nodded again.

She smiled at me and pulled me into a hug.

“I know you’re curious,” she repeated. “But your dad just wants what’s best for you . . . what’s best for both of us. He loves us, that’s all.”

I nodded. I hoped against hope that she was right.