by Ellie Wade
“It would’ve been worth the fifty cents.” Quinn shakes her head.
“Fifty cents per balloon, and I ordered sixty balloons,” I offer in my defense.
“You’re a millionaire, Alma. You can swing an additional thirty bucks,” Quinn scoffs
“Well, I grew up saving pennies. Being frugal is in my nature. I hate wasting money.”
Quinn tips her head back and finishes her glass of wine. “Well, when I find my Prince Charming, he will not be frugal.”
“Right. Because he’s going to buy you a library of shoes,” Amos states, the side of his mouth tilting up.
“Exactly!” Quinn points her empty glass toward Amos. “I’m going to go get more wine. Does anyone want a refill? You know what? Never mind. I’ll just bring out the bottle.”
2
Alma
A little body squirms beside me, waking me from my slumber.
“Momma,” her sweet little voice calls my name.
“Lovie.” I smile, my eyes refusing to open.
“Momma.”
“Lovie.”
“Momma,” she says, this time squeezing my cheeks between her hands.
“Lovie.”I reach out and tickle her belly, causing an eruption of giggles.
Love has a queen-sized bed in her sweet pink, gray, and white room. I transitioned her from the crib right into a big girl’s bed. Admittedly, there may have been a slight ulterior motive behind such a large bed, given that each night I crawl into bed beside her. Most days, I’m a stage-five clinger when it comes to this perfect little human. I can’t deny it. She’s my lifeline in this unsettling world.
I open my eyes to find Love’s face a mere inch from my own. “How does it feel to be three?”
“Good.” She giggles.
“Did you like your party yesterday?” I ask.
She nods her head enthusiastically.
“What was your favorite part?”
“My dess.” She grins. The letter ‘r’ continues to evade her.
“It was a perfect dress for my perfect little princess.” I run my fingers through her hair. An odd scent fills the room. “Do you smell something?” I ask Love. “Uh-oh,” I say dramatically. “Let’s hope Gigi isn’t cooking us something. Do you think she is?”
Love nods with a giggle.
“Oh no! What do you think it is?”
“Mud pie!” Love laughs.
“Not mud pie!” I scrunch my nose, and Love giggles.
“With bugs!” she adds, always with a flair for the dramatic.
I stick out my tongue and fall to the side of the bed in mock death. Love bursts into a fit of laughter.
She jumps on me, checking me for life. “Momma!”
I open my eyes. “I’m okay! But I think we better go check on Gigi.”
“’Kay!” she jumps off the bed, her long hair flying up as she falls. Her bare feet pitter-patter down the hallway before I’m out of her room.
In the kitchen, I find Lee-Anne in front of the stove, exactly where she shouldn’t be. One thing that hasn’t changed since her call me mom now rebirth is her ability to make edible food. She couldn’t cook when I was growing up, and she can’t cook now.
“Good morning, Mom. What are you making?” I ask as I fill the coffee pot, side-eyeing the object in the frying pan.
“Pancakes.” She gleams proudly.
“What’s in them?” I’ve learned not to accept simple answers at face value when it comes to my mother.
“Well, I created my own recipe. Taking some tofu, I blended it up and mixed it with some almond milk, quinoa, and spices.”
“Oh.”
She chuckles. “Just give them a chance, Alma.”
“I always do,” I remind her. I’ve put more gross things in my mouth since she’s been sober than I have in my entire life.
“Sit. Sit,” she says excitedly. “I’ll bring everything over.”
I get Love situated at the table and take a seat. Lee-Anne sets a plate in front of each of us. The pancakes are thin, tortilla-like in appearance, and an unsettling shade of greenish-brown.
“Try it,” she urges eagerly, her eyes gleaming.
I take a bite of the flat patties. They’re extremely dense, chewy, and taste like a mix between chalk and paint. At least, I imagine that’s what a fried chalk and paint mixture would taste like.
Looking toward Love, I see her chewing slowly, her lips turned into a frown.
I choke down my bite. “What do you think? Do you like them?”
She looks at my mother apologetically and back at me, shaking her head slightly. She wants to please her Gigi but is smart enough to know that eating a plate of this won’t end well. We make a game out of Gigi’s crazy food by naming it based on what it tastes like. A flax and raisin combo that Lee-Anne made for us a couple of days ago was fittingly nicknamed “mud with bugs.”
“What should we call this one?” I ask her, raising my brows with a grin.
“Steet,” she answers in a soft voice.
“Street?” I clarify. Love nods, and I burst out in laughter, shaking my head. It’s not as if I have anything against healthy meals. I’m all about feeding my daughter nutritious food, but my mother simply has an inability to grasp ingredients that work well together versus those that don’t. “Mom, you know it’s okay to use the Jiffy mix once in a while.”
“But these are healthier than Jiffy mix,” she argues, dishing a pancake onto her plate.
“Mom.” I take a swig of water to wash the flavor from my mouth. “They taste like pavement. I love you for trying, and we appreciate your hard work, right, Love?” Love nods. “But we’re going to have to say no thank you to these pancakes.”
“Well, I think they’re good,” Lee-Anne says before inserting a forkful into her mouth. I study her face for signs of disgust, but she holds strong. I’m sure she’s dying a little with each bite, but who knows? She’s been eating like this my whole life, so there’s a slight chance she could’ve acquired a taste for the inedible.
“Do I smell food?” Amos asks, entering the kitchen. He’s rubbing his hand along the back of his neck.
He and Quinn stayed over last night after some heavy wine consumption. I only had two glasses. I’ve never been one for hangovers, and now that I get up and run around with a toddler all day, I definitely don’t have time for one.
“Yeah, my mom made street pancakes,” I say. Lifting my gaze to his, I press my lips in a line.
“Are they related to street tacos?” He raises a brow.
“No, they are more of the pavement variety,” I tease. He looks confused. “Love said they taste like you’re eating the street, so we’re going with it. Mom, tell him what’s in them.”
Lee-Anne fills Amos in on the ingredients.
He nods with interest and gives my mother an appreciative smile before saying, “I see.” He directs his next question to me. “Can I make you something else?”
Amos is one of the best chefs I know. “Yes, please. No offense, Mom.”
“None taken. I like ’em,” she says with a shrug before taking another bite.
I get up to get some juice for Love and a cup of coffee for me. “Did you see Quinn?” I ask Amos. He’s pulling items out of the refrigerator and placing them on the granite countertop—eggs, salsa, garlic, cilantro, cheese, and tortillas.
“No, her door was shut when I came down here. I’m sure she’ll be out for a while.”
Amos whips us up some breakfast burritos. I consider myself a decent cook. Growing up, I was the one in our household who made anything resembling a meal. Yet Amos takes food to the next level. His food always has an extra ingredient that makes it delicious.
The burritos he’s made today are a Mexican variety complete with eggs, beans, rice, and spices, and I love that he added extra cilantro, which is one of my favorite flavors. They are so good that I almost moan when I take my first bite.
“Do you like them, Lovebug?” Amos asks, sitting in the chair
beside me with his own burrito.
She nods, her mouth full.
“What do they taste like?” I inquire.
“Yummy,” she replies, shoving the burrito into her mouth.
I look at Amos. “Your yummy burritos are a hit.” I turn toward Lee-Anne. “Still no offense, Mom.”
Rolling her eyes, she tilts her mouth up into a smile as she waves her hand through the space between us.
We’re quiet as we eat, all clearly famished, and it’s then I realize that I’m not sure how much either Love or myself ate yesterday. The day was packed with games, fun, and cake. There was pizza, and I believe Love ate some, though I don’t recall how much. She crashed after her party, and neither of us had dinner.
“I’m a horrible mother,” I say aloud. Amos and Lee-Anne both look toward me. “Love fell asleep after her party. I didn’t even feed her dinner. How could I forget to feed my child dinner?”
Lee-Anne shakes her head and waves her hand once more. “That happens. It’s fine. She ate her weight in cake yesterday, so there’s that.”
“You know you’re an incredible mother.” Amos grins, picking up a piece of cilantro that’s fallen from his burrito onto the plate. He places it in his mouth. “Stop it. She’s perfectly healthy and clearly needed sleep more than dinner after such an exciting day yesterday.”
“I guess. I’ll have to remember this for next year, though, so it doesn’t happen again.”
“Why is everyone yelling?” Quinn whines as she stumbles into the dining room, looking worse for wear. Her long blond hair is matted on one side where she slept on it, and her mascara has left a trail from her eyes to her cheeks.
“No one is yelling.” I chuckle. “Are you hungry? We have street pancakes or yummy burritos.”
“Am I supposed to know what street pancakes are?” she grumbles, holding her fingers to her temples.
“Ibuprofen is in the cabinet by the window, and there’s coffee.” I raise my arm, pointing toward the cabinet.
“Now you’re speaking my language.” She sighs.
Quinn joins us at the table, and we finish our breakfast, sipping her coffee with her eyes closed.
“What’s everyone’s plans for today?” I ask.
“I’m going to go grocery shopping and then to one of those paint classes,” Lee-Anne says. “I found a Groupon for one. It’s in the basement of one of the restaurants downtown, and we’re going to paint this pretty tree with flowers.”
“Oh, that sounds so fun, Mom. You’ll love that.”
“I’m excited. Am I still watching Love all week?” she asks.
“If that still works for you? I can’t take her to work this week. My days are jam-packed with meetings. It wouldn’t be very fun for her.”
“Of course it still works. You know Gigi loves her days with her favorite girl.” She smiles toward Love, who grins right back. I’m so grateful that my daughter has her Gigi.
I clear the plates and start to load the dishwasher.
“I think I’m going to go home and take a nap.” Quinn scrunches her nose and supplies a guilty smirk, her bright blue eyes barely visible through her squint. “Thanks for last night. It was so great to catch up. We need to get together more often.”
“Definitely, at least until you find your prince with a library of shoes. You’ll be too busy for us then.”
“Well, obviously. Being a shoe princess will be very taxing.” She puckers her lips with a nod. She takes a final sip of coffee before making her way around the table to give us all hugs.
Mom follows Quinn out, eager to get to her grocery shopping so she’s finished well before her painting class.
“Are you leaving us, too?” I ask Amos.
He leans back in his chair. “No, I thought I’d stay and hang out.”
“Yay! Cookie is staying with us.” I say to Love, clapping my hands together. She starts clapping along with me.
“Plus, God knows what your mother is going to bring back from the store. I need to stay to make sure you two eat today.” He chuckles.
“Yes, we need to eat. After all, we both skipped dinner last night.” I grin. “Lovebug, what do you want to do? Do you want to watch a movie and relax a little?”
She nods. “Belle!”
I hold my hands out to the side, palms up. “Beauty and the Beast, it is! No take backs, Cookie.” I smirk toward Amos.
“Yay.” Amos feigns excitement. “At least I know all of the words to the songs, now.”
“Yes, and singing along is expected.” I wink.
Love runs off to grab her plush Belle doll to watch the movie with us.
“I’m just so glad that we’ve moved on from Snow White,” I tell Amos as I set up the movie. “Snow White’s not nearly as good.”
“I’d have to agree with you there.”
I plop down on the sofa next to Amos and lean up against his side. Love sits next to me and snuggles up against me while clutching Belle against her. Her face lights up as the movie begins to play. It’s my favorite part—experiencing life through her eyes. For a moment, grief tugs on my heart as I wish Leo was here with us. I say a prayer for strength, then I let those thoughts go. By the time Belle starts singing about her neighbors’ boring lives, all I feel is happiness.
3
Alma
Seventy-eight emails, twenty-three voicemails, and a stack of files taller than Love await me when I get to my office Monday morning. I set my coffee down beside the towering pile of paperwork and plop in my chair with a sigh. I’m exhausted, and my day has barely begun.
I love it here. Lion’s Lair was our dream, mine and Leo’s, and it’s more than I could’ve ever hoped for. We’re making a difference in people’s lives by keeping kids off the streets, away from drugs, and in school, and I’m humbled by that. Yet I’m tired. It wasn’t always this overwhelming. There’s so much to do, and I feel like I’m failing.
Halfway through my fourth email, a knock sounds on the office door.
“Alma, there’s someone here to see you, a Nate Jackson,” Jen, our greeter, tells me.
I stand from my chair, “Nate? Oh my gosh, send him in.”
Nate was one of the first teens that Leo and I helped relocate from his abusive home, put into a good foster home, and finally adopted. He, like so many others, is the reason this place was created.
Nate steps into my office, all seven feet of him. “Nate!” I squeal and wrap my arms around his middle.
He hugs me tight. “Hi, Alma. I was passing through town, and I just had to stop in.”
I release him from my embrace. “I’m so glad you did. Sit.” I motion toward the sofa. “I want to hear everything. You’ve grown like eighteen feet since I saw you last.”
Nate chuckles. “Nah, not that much. But I’ve grown some.”
I take a seat beside him and put my hand on his. “You look great, Nate. You’re good?”
“I am.” He smiles, a real genuine one, and I’m filled with gratitude.
I press a hand to my chest, tears coming to my eyes. “I’m so glad.”
This is just what I needed today, a success story to remind me why our work here is so important.
“Is Leo around? I’d love to see him, too.”
My heart plummets into my stomach, and the air leaves my lungs. For a moment, I’m completely immobile—frozen in this alternate reality where Leo’s name is spoken in the present tense.
“Alma?” Nate questions, and his voice carries concern.
I shake my head, pulling myself back to the present. “Um.” I swallow the lump in my throat, releasing a sigh. “Leo passed away, Nate, over three years ago.”
I should have realized he didn’t know. How would he? He was adopted by a family in Florida well before Leo’s passing. It’s so strange to be with someone who, until just now, thought of Leo as a living, breathing person.
“No! Really? What happened?” His face is one of shock.
“I know. It’s a lot, and I’m sorry.” I p
ull in a breath. “He…overdosed. He had been clean for five years, and he slipped once, and unfortunately, the drug was laced with fentanyl, and it killed him.”
I haven’t had to deal with this type of encounter for a while now, but after Leo’s death, I decided that I was simply going to tell the truth when the topic came up. I’m not ashamed of my husband. He was a good man. Addiction doesn’t affect the worst of us. It doesn’t discriminate. Sometimes, it pulls down the best of us, and people need to know that. If Leo’s story can save even one person or stop one teen from turning to drugs, then his death was not in vain.
Nate raises his arm and clutches the back of his neck. “Alma, I’m so sorry.”
“I know.” A single tear rolls down my cheek. “Me, too. He would’ve loved to see you. Who knows? Maybe he can see us. I hope he can, anyway.”
“I was looking forward to kicking his ass in a game of one-on-one.” Nate chuckles sadly.
“Ooh, if anything would bring him back, it would be a basketball challenge.” I smile. “He could never resist competition.”
“He thought he was all that.”
“That he did.” I nod, laughing under my breath.
“You know he wasn’t that good.”
I grab a tissue and blot beneath my eyes. “Oh, I know.” I smile at the memory of Leo on the courts playfully trash-talking the kids like he was an NBA superstar. The teens ate it up and loved the competition, especially since nine times out of ten, they’d kick Leo’s butt.
“Remember that game that went on for hours? It was Ollie and Leo against Wiley and me. Every time Wiley and I would get within a point of winning, Leo would raise the ending score so the game would continue, making it go on forever. You finally showed up with pizza to get us to stop playing.”
More tears come at the memory, and I wipe my face. “I remember. Gosh, no one ever talks about him. I think it makes them feel uncomfortable, or maybe they don’t want to make me sad.” I hold up the tissues in my hand. “But it’s so nice to remember him.”
