The Seventh Mother

by Sherri Wood Emmons

  The thought made my stomach ache. What if someday Emma got tired of doing things to make Daddy happy? What if she wanted to go back to work after the baby was born?

  Please, God, I began my silent and constant mantra. Please let Emma stay. Please.

  “Are you okay?” Lashaundra was looking at me, her head tilted.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Just thinking.”

  “Do you want to come to my house after school? Mama’s making corn casserole. She said you could come for dinner, if you want.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I better go home.”

  She tilted her head to look at me again.

  “I want to make sure Daddy’s really not mad,” I said.

  “But you said he was okay at dinner.”

  “I know.” I paused, trying to think of the right words. “But I just need to make sure he’s not mad at Emma. You know . . .”

  She nodded. “Like with Jackie?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And all of them.”

  I was waiting in front of the school for Emma. Lashaundra had already gone with Mrs. Johnson. They’d offered me a ride, but I told them Emma was coming to pick me up. Now she was late.

  “Hey.”

  I turned to see Jasper Rigby standing beside me.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Are you waiting for your mom?”

  I nodded.

  We stood in silence. I wondered why he was standing there with me. He hadn’t said a word to me or to Lashaundra since his father died. Frankly, it had been a welcome silence.

  “My mom got a job,” he said finally. “At the flower shop with Mrs. O’Hearn. She said your mom and Resa helped her get it.”

  “Oh.”

  “And she likes it, I guess.”

  I stood still, wondering what he wanted me to say.

  “Anyway, thanks, I guess.” He didn’t meet my eyes. “I mean, thanks to your mom and Resa.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I stared up the street, willing Emma to arrive in her Chevy Tahoe and get me away from Jasper. Just standing next to him felt weird, like maybe I was being disloyal to Lashaundra.

  “Um, so . . .” He paused, staring hard at the ground. “So . . . I heard you talking to your friend at lunch.”

  “Lashaundra?” I asked, waiting, just waiting for him to call her a jungle monkey or a nigger or something else hateful. My fists were clenched, and so were my teeth.

  “Yeah, Lashaundra,” he said. “And I thought . . . I mean, what she said about your dad.”

  He raised his eyes to mine and then dropped them again.

  “Does your dad hit you?”

  He blurted it out quickly, never looking up from the ground.

  “What?” I stared at him.

  “It just sounded, I mean from what Lashaundra was saying, it sounded like maybe he . . . did. Hit you, I mean.”

  “No!” I yelled it at him, my face flushed. “My dad doesn’t hit me!”

  “Okay,” he said quickly, stepping away from me. “Geez, I just thought . . . never mind.”

  He turned and stalked away and I stared at his back. He seemed to get taller as he walked.

  I sat down on the step and leaned my face into my hands, feeling tired and antsy and afraid. After what seemed like a very long time, Emma pulled up in front of the school and honked. I ran to the car and climbed in.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I fell asleep in the rocker.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “I’m making smoked sausage and scalloped potatoes for dinner tonight. Does that sound good?”

  I nodded, still thinking about Jasper Rigby and what he’d said, what he’d asked me. Why would he ask me that?

  “Hey, Jenny?” Emma’s voice was low. I turned and looked into her wide green eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we not tell your dad I was late picking you up? I mean, I don’t want him to worry and . . .”

  “Sure,” I said. I knew exactly what she meant. “There’s no point telling him. It’s okay.”

  I smiled at her, and she smiled back. She looked relieved.

  I thought about Jasper Rigby’s question again. I’d answered it honestly. My father had never hit me, not even once.

  “I love you, Emma.”

  She turned and looked at me in surprise.

  “Thank you, Jenny. I love you, too.”

  She squeezed my hand and her shoulders seemed to relax.

  “Can we make some biscuits to go with the sausage and potatoes?” I asked.

  Daddy loved biscuits.

  “Sure,” she said. “That’s a good idea.”

  She smiled again.

  “I love you, too, Jenny,” she said again. “I love you, too.”

  38

  Emma

  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 spri
nkled 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.

  39

  Jenny

  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 sh
ould 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.