Finding Balance

by B. E. Baker

  “I’m aware.”

  “But she’s more than a few funny quirks that you can trot out like a party anecdote,” Anica says. “And it’s like the other stuff.” She chokes. “It’s like the stuff that made her who she is. . .it’s like it’s evaporating.” She looks at the ceiling. “When she first died, I could hear her voice in my mind. I knew just what she’d say, but now, it’s like I don’t know anymore, like I’m forgetting who she really was.”

  Anica drove out here without calling her parents. She drove, not flew, like she’s not planning to go back any time soon. Instead of yelling at her, instead of picking the fight I desperately want to pick, I stuff down my anger. I do it for the little sister who doggedly loved and supported my wife. I do it for the woman Elizabeth admired—not for the broken woman stirring up trouble in my living room. In memory of who she really can be, I shove my rage down and force myself to be kind when I say, “Why are you here?”

  She wrings her hands in her lap, staring intently at her fingers. “I can’t write. Not a single word.”

  “What does that mean?” How can that be? I thought she just put out a book?

  “I wrote a book the year after Lizzie died. I thought it was my best work—and my publisher dutifully released it.”

  “And?”

  “That was four and a half years ago, Luke.”

  “Wait.” Could it have been that long? I guess I wasn’t paying much attention to anything, and then I was so in love. . . Have I really failed to take care of Anica this epically?

  “That book I vomited out bombed, as it should have. It’s terrible. I didn’t even earn back my advance. My publisher dropped me, and when I didn’t write anything else in two years, my agent did too.” When she finally meets my eyes, I notice that hers are shattered, haunted, broken.

  How was I so self-absorbed that I missed her flailing? After Elizabeth died, I was drowning myself, that’s how. “How have you been paying your bills?”

  She laughs. “You’re assuming I have been paying them.”

  “If you need money—”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve been lucky enough to get a substantial royalty check twice a year still, but it’s smaller each time. It wasn’t enough to cover all my expenses, so I started waitressing. At first I thought it might inspire me, you know? Give me something to do, force me to get out of bed, the whole starving artist thing was almost romantic as a bump in the road.” She picks at her nails. “But then I sort of just fell into this routine.”

  “You should have told me,” I say.

  “People who need help can’t ask,” she says. “Isn’t that the irony of it?”

  It may be the truest thing she’s ever said. She may not be writing, but she still commands language adeptly. “So what brought you here?”

  “The restaurant I worked at closed. After it went under, I was getting ready to apply for jobs at other restaurants and when I looked at my resume, it hit me. I had been an author—a two time New York Times bestselling author. My career was going somewhere—all my dreams were coming true.”

  She closes her eyes.

  “But I realized that I’m not an author anymore. Waitressing is perfectly respectable, but it wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t my goal, or my dream, or my calling. Nevertheless, it had become my life. Suddenly I could only think about my life as what I wasn’t. I’m not a novelist. I’m not a wife, or a mother, or a girlfriend. I’m not even a writer anymore. And I haven’t been for a long time.” Her voice drops to a barely audible whisper. “Nothing has made any sense without Lizzie in the world.” She presses her hands against her chest. “And then I thought, I’m not even a sister anymore. It was like losing her changed everything about me that mattered. All the things that I was that added value to the world were gone, and I am nothing.” She drags in a tortured breath. “I had this burning desire to see Mom and Dad, but not just to visit them for a few days. I looked up my lease and it was up in five weeks. It felt like a sign. I sold off all my furniture to pay my last month’s rent and shipped a dozen boxes to Mom and Dad’s, and then I got in my car. Somehow, in my brain, it seemed like this big, trepidatious step toward reclaiming—” She shakes her head. “I don’t even know what.”

  “And then you got here and they weren’t home.”

  Her huge golden-brown eyes meet mine and she blinks. And blinks again. “I didn’t know what to do when my first grand plan just to do something. . . didn’t work.”

  So she drove here, the only other place with a connection to Elizabeth, and she heard Amy calling Mary ‘Mom.’ It finally makes sense. Maybe Mary’s right. People who are being awful are usually hurting badly themselves. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re welcome here.”

  Anica’s smile is nearly identical to Elizabeth’s. But instead of gutting me like it would have a few years ago, the similarity warms my heart. It feels like Elizabeth’s still with me, her effervescent joy warming the entire room. “Thanks.”

  Perhaps Anica feels like she’s the one letting her sister down, not me. It wouldn’t be the first time someone projected their own insecurities onto innocent bystanders. I’d like to help her if I can, but I have other priorities that come first. I hop to my feet. “Alright.”

  She looks up at me. “Alright, what?”

  “Your sister would be the first one to chastise you for mistreating the woman who is bringing joy back to her family.”

  Her mouth drops open.

  “You have been miserable since she died, and believe me when I say that I understand that. You have no idea how well I understand. But you don’t love Elizabeth more than I do because you’re still suffering. The degree to which you wallow is not an indication of the depth of your pain.”

  “You’ve replaced her already.” Her mouth hardens. “Pardon me if I question the depth of your suffering.”

  “She’d want you to find joy too.”

  “I can’t replace a sister,” she says.

  “I don’t think replace is the right word, and I’m not sure your assumption that you can’t find someone to take the position she held in your life is true either,” I say. “But I know this for an absolute fact. Being happy is a choice, and it’s one your sister would want you to make. You really are welcome here, but if I hear that you’re making Mary unhappy, I’ll toss you out myself. Your sister would never forgive me if I didn’t.”

  Anica doesn’t respond, and I hope it means she’s processing my words.

  Either way, when I hear the grinding of the garage door opener, it’s time for me to check on my wife and daughter—and our new pet.

  Lucy the chicken lady is just leaving, and Amy waves goodbye briefly and then hunches over the chicken box, stroking Hope’s back.

  “So what’s the verdict?”

  “Well, the first injection has been administered,” Mary says. “And tomorrow morning, I’ll give her the second. But for now, all we can really do is wait and see whether it works.”

  “And hope,” Amy says.

  “Which is why that name you chose is brilliant,” I say.

  “Lucy said I wasted my time picking out those maggots,” Amy says.

  Huh?

  Mary cough-laughs. “Lucy explained that maggots only eat dead flesh, so they might have actually been helping as long as they didn’t spread the infection, which likely came from Andy’s mouth in any case.”

  “You’re saying I didn’t wash the wound well enough?” I pretend to be offended, but I’ll gladly shoulder the responsibility for it if Amy feels better as a result. I’d do most anything to spare her guilt.

  My darling wife rolls her eyes with forced playfulness. “You Mannings are all desperate to take the blame, aren’t you?”

  “You’re no better,” I say.

  Mary brushes her fingers across the top of Amy’s head. “I know you’re worried, but it’s time for bed, little one. Just as Hope needs her rest, so do you.”

  “Can you show me tomorrow?” She looks up at Mary, pleadi
ng with her eyes. “Can you show me how to feed her?”

  “It’s hard, Amy. You have to hold the food and the chicken just so.”

  “I can do it.” Her lip juts out and I wish Anica was in here watching the interchange. Amy’s polite resolve is classic Elizabeth, and I can finally enjoy the echoes of it without being pained by the memories.

  “Sure,” Mary says. “Yes, I’ll let you help me tomorrow after school.” She’s exhausted and I want to do something about it, but I’m not quite sure what to do.

  After Amy’s asleep, Mary finally takes a bath and climbs into bed herself.

  “You alright?”

  Mary covers her face with a hand. “It’s been a very long day.” She explains about her ultimatum to Peter.

  “Bravo,” I say. “Finally.”

  “I get it,” she says doggedly. “Why he wants to protect him, I mean. I would never be able to fire Amy.”

  I shake my head. “You would.”

  Her eyes widen like I slapped her. “How can you say that?”

  She bristles when I wrap my arms around her, but I ignore it. “You love her enough to do what’s best for her. When your kid messes up, you need to tell them. Your job is to teach them how to make things right. You’d do that for Amy because you care more about her than you do about avoiding uncomfortable situations. Your boss is a coward. You did the right thing today.”

  “What if I lose my job?”

  I laugh. “You’re the only one who would be sad about that.”

  “I’m not the kind of woman to sit around the house and arrange flowers or clip coupons.” Her voice could cut glass.

  “Don’t I know it.” I chuckle. “Mary, if you lose your job, it was for all the right reasons, and you’ll call any of the other accounting firms in town and get a new one immediately. Or you’ll start your own firm, and LitUp will be your first client.”

  “But—”

  I press one finger to her mouth. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to Frank & Meacham, and they’re smart enough to realize that. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay.”

  “Besides. A few weeks off when you’re about to have a new baby wouldn’t be a terrible thing.”

  “I guess not.” She leans back against me, and I know I’m forgiven.

  “So what are we thinking about this chicken business?”

  Mary’s laugh is half cry. “I spent over a hundred dollars on chicken junk at the feed store, and I doubt she’ll survive the night.”

  “Maybe we named her wrong,” I say.

  “What?”

  “We should have named her Million Dollar Chicky.”

  She slaps at my arm. “Stop.”

  “But seriously, what does Lucy think?”

  “I wish she knew. I feel sick knowing that I might have circumvented this whole mess by simply putting my foot down when Amy asked to bring it home.”

  “That’s not who you are, and it’s not who you want Amy to be either. You fight for things, always, even when it’s something small, like a chicken. You do it even when you’re already exhausted, and I love that. But please tell me you aren’t going to work at four a.m. tomorrow.”

  Mary’s nostrils flare. “I finished my reports, and my official maternity leave starts next week anyway. It would serve them right if I didn’t go in at all.”

  “But you will.”

  “I will.”

  I groan, but I set my clock for three-forty-five a.m. without mentioning it to my lovely wife. Because if that chicken isn’t doing better, I’ll be darned if Mary’s going to face it alone or be stuck disposing of its body. I’ll do that myself.

  5

  Amy

  Dad made fun of me last Christmas when I asked for Santa to bring me a clock that would wake me up. But I know Mary gets up really, really early, and if Hope. . .

  I don’t want to wake up and find out that she’s just gone. So after Mary puts me to bed, I set my alarm for really, really early. I’ve never gotten up at five in the morning before, but that has to be earlier than Mary leaves because Mattie at school says it’s still dark at five in the morning. I never wake up until seven, but I figure she’s probably right.

  The next morning, when a loud beeping sound wakes me up, I almost turn off my alarm and go back to sleep. But then I remember why I turned it on last night.

  Hope!

  I jump out of bed and run down the hall toward the garage.

  The kitchen lights are already on.

  Is that bad? Maybe Dad leaves them on all night. Or does it mean that I’m too late? My hands shake as they turn the doorknob that opens the door into the garage.

  That light is on, too. I expect Mary, but it’s not Mary sitting on a stool next to Hope’s box.

  It’s Dad. And he’s murmuring something.

  “Uh, hey.”

  He yanks his hand out of the box, and when he looks at me, his face looks weird. Like when I caught him actually laughing at a joke while watching Dinosaur Train with Chase. “Kiddo, what are you doing up so early?”

  “Is Hope alive?”

  His smile is the best thing I’ve seen. “She is. She actually looks much better.”

  “Is she eating?”

  He shakes his head. “Not on her own, but Mary showed me how to feed her. She said you want to learn.”

  “I do.” I walk over to the box.

  “It’s a little tricky.” He snorts. “Or maybe a lot tricky. And it’s frustrating. And also pretty messy.”

  I look at the smears on his pants. One is kind of brownish and one is white. Maybe that one’s yogurt. “I don’t care,” I say. “I want to help.”

  “Well, I just dosed her with her aspirin water, right after Mary fed her. But if we don’t overdo it, we can feed her again before you go to school.”

  “Good.”

  “You should go back to sleep.”

  I put one hand on my hip. “Why aren’t you sleeping? It’s dark outside.” Mattie was totally right.

  Dad glances down at the box. “I didn’t get it before, you know. Not at all.”

  “Huh?”

  “When you and Mary came back with this half dead bag of feathers and told me we were going to put her in a box in our garage, I was confused.”

  “Oh.” I squat down next to the box and pet Hope’s head. She closes her eyes like she likes it, and she’s sitting up again. Dad’s right—she looks way better.

  “After helping care for her today, I think maybe I do. It’s comforting somehow, doing something for a critter that can’t care for itself. She’s sweet and she’s in trouble, and even if it’s messy, taking care of her is oddly rewarding.”

  “You like her.” I smile.

  “I do.” Dad strokes her wing. “Much more than I expected to.”

  “Oh good. Then if she lives, can we keep her?”

  Dad laughs, and Hope actually jolts a little. Then she fluffs up and settles back down.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s a maybe.”

  “I’ll take it,” I say.

  Dad smacks my leg. “That’s because you know that if I say maybe after spending half an hour with her, I’ll never kick her out.”

  “Maybe.” It’s nice to smile after being afraid all night. I whisper, “You’re going to be alright, little girl.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Amy.”

  “Why?” I scrunch my nose. “Why do people say that? Isn’t it good to get ahead?”

  He groans as he stands up. “You ask too many questions.”

  “You only get crabby when you don’t know the answer.”

  He picks me up under the armpits and spins me around. “And you’re too smart for your own good. Now go wash your hands and go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up in an hour so you can try and feed this mite-bitten bag of feathers.” He puts me down.

  “What are mites?”

  “Tiny bugs that live on birds underneath their feathers,” Dad says. “It’s like lice for b
irds—but I would strongly recommend you avoid googling it. Some of the images online are downright horrifying.” He shudders.

  “Hope doesn’t have mites.” Or at least, I hope she doesn’t. “Right?”

  He laughs. “No. Now go to bed.”

  I can’t sleep, of course. So when Dad comes to my room in an hour, I’m dressed and my teeth are brushed. “I’m ready.”

  “You didn’t go back to sleep, did you?”

  I shrug like Mary does sometimes when he already knows the answer, and then I walk past him.

  Feeding Hope is hard. And it’s messy. And I get frustrated. But I do manage to get a few bites of pellets and a little yogurt down her throat. Dad makes her drink a little and we call it good.

  “I’ll get better,” I say.

  “I believe you.”

  “Okay.”

  To show Dad that I appreciate him, I make Chase’s lunch and mine. “I even put fruit in there.” I smile. “A banana.” They’re always all nasty and brown at lunchtime, but Mary makes us take a fruit and a vegetable in each lunch.

  “What about the veggie?” Dad lifts one eyebrow.

  “I put carrots in mine.”

  He checks anyway. “Three carrots? That’s it?”

  “That’s how many we have to eat at dinner.”

  He laughs. “Oh fine.”

  On the way to school, something occurs to me. “Hey you’re going to work today, right?”

  Dad grunts, which I think means yes.

  “So, who’s going to feed Hope?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  Oh, no.

  “I bet your Aunt Anica can do it.”

  “Dad!”

  “What?”

  “She doesn’t care about the chicken, and it’s hard to feed her and no one has showed her how. Or how much.”

  “Mary’s going to be home early today, so even if Anica doesn’t help, it’ll be fine.” Dad stops at a light and turns around. “Have you ever known Mary to be irresponsible or forget to line things up?”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “This is no different. She said she would help Hope, so she’ll take care of it.”