The Sweetest Thing

by Christina Mandelski

I smell lilacs, see the tiny green buds waking up on the trees.

  “Sheridan!” Nanny calls me from the dock. I look toward her and smile. She’s got a nine-inch round cake in her hands, and there’s a “Sweet 16” candle on top. Mr. Roz is with her, and so are Jack, Lori, and Dad. They walk toward me and sing, “Happy birthday, dear Sheridan.”

  There’s a woman with Dad. She’s holding his hand, wearing a flowing yellow dress, her wavy golden hair hanging loose on her shoulders. My mom. She is so pretty.

  When we meet, Nanny hands me the cake and topples into the water. One by one, they all fall off the dock and into the water. They flail, they can’t swim, they scream for help.

  But I’m holding the cake. I can’t help them.

  My mother, she’s the only one left. She stands in front of me with her arms crossed; a sweet smile flashes across her mouth. “Come on, Sheridan. Al you have to do is let go.”

  I wake up in a cold sweat, in the back of an ambulance.

  Everything is fuzzy, and sounds are muffled.

  “Sheridan! I’m here, I’m here.” It’s Dad. I feel his hand in mine, but I can’t talk.

  When I wake up again, I am in an emergency room. There’s something on my finger, and a machine counts off the ticks of my heart. My head throbs and my legs feel heavy.

  “Sheridan.” It’s Dad again.

  “What happened?” I ask, trying to adjust my eyes to the light.

  “You slipped, on the ice. You have a concussion. Just relax, sweetheart.” I feel his hand, gentle on my hand. “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

  A man comes in—the doctor, I guess. “Hello.” He doesn’t sound very friendly. I force my eyes open and see that he is looking at a clipboard.

  “The scans look good. It’s not the worst concussion I’ve ever seen.” He lowers the chart to his side, walks over to me.

  “Do you remember what happened prior to the accident?”

  I look down at the blanket on top of me. “I don’t remember slipping.” My brain works hard, thinking back.

  The image of a butterfly in the sky. My mother.

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  My eyes dart to Dad.

  “I remember some.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign.”

  No, it’s really not.

  “I’ll be back,” the doctor says, and walks through the split in the curtain.

  Dad scoots up on the stool. “You really scared us.”

  “I talked to Mom.”

  His head drops. “Why?” The word comes out as a breath.

  “Because she is my mother.”

  “Sheridan. Did she call you? She promised me she wouldn’t call you. What did she tell you?”

  “She told me that she has a husband who doesn’t know about me. And a baby.”

  I don’t take my eyes off of him, even though the light in this room is too bright and I just want to sleep.

  “Sheridan. I wish she hadn’t spoken to you.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed. My whole body hurts. “So you know?”

  He looks at me like he’s the one in pain. “I’m sorry, Sheridan.”

  “Stop!” I shout, the word echoing painfully in my head.

  I lower my voice. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Just tell me the truth.”

  Dad nods.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He’s still nodding. I would beg him to stop the nodding 303

  and answer me if my head didn’t feel like a ticking time bomb.

  “Can we talk about this later?” he pleads.

  “No,” I whisper. “Just tell me.”

  Then my father, Mr. Super-cool Reality TV Celebrity Chef, cries.

  “Stop it. Stop crying. Tell me.”

  He looks up, breathes deep. I watch as he pulls himself together, his look of sorrow replaced by the serious, down-to-business face that I know so well. He looks at me, and his eyes are just like mine. Brown, wide, honest, scared.

  “All right . . . Okay.” He sits up straight on the stool, wipes his eyes again, crosses his arms, and lowers his head.

  “A few years ago, she called; told me she was having a baby and getting married.”

  My head is pounding, but I am determined to find out the truth. “You didn’t tell me.” I flinch. My head hurts.

  “Sheridan, just listen.”

  I look at him and sigh.

  “No. I didn’t tell you. Things were going so well. I thought we were okay.”

  “That why I didn’t get my card?”

  “She hadn’t told the guy about you or me. She was afraid.”

  “So she wrote me off?”

  “Sheridan. Let’s talk later. You need to rest.”

  “No. Not later. Now!” I practically hiss at him.

  He leans closer to me. I want to move away. “Not until 304

  you hear me. Are you listening?”

  I don’t respond.

  “Sheridan?”

  He reaches over, and his hand surrounds mine in a firm, unyielding grasp. Like when he used to help me onto the boat. I was never afraid that his grip would fail me.

  “Before I tell you, you have to hear me.”

  “I’m listening.” I feel tears ready to fall, drops of heart-ache building in the corners of my eyes.

  “I will never leave you,” he says, his gaze intense. “I know my job has been hard on you. And this show”—he shakes his head—“has been crazy. But no matter what happens, I will not leave you. Ever.”

  Oh, he’s making my head pound. I clench my teeth.

  “Just tell me.”

  He sighs. “She told me she was going to stop the cards; she couldn’t communicate with you. He doesn’t know, and she thinks he’ll leave her if he finds out.” I can tell he’s furious with her. “Look, I know this is bad. But I do believe she still loves you, somewhere in her heart.” No. I’m pretty sure denying my existence means she doesn’t love me, anywhere in her heart.

  I look away. “She doesn’t love me. I could tell.”

  “Well.” He grabs my hand tight again. I’d pull it away if I could. But it hurts to move. “I do. I do love you. Believe that.”

  I don’t know what to believe. As I close my eyes, I think 305

  of God and the plan for my life. The plan sucks.

  I spend the night in the hospital, for “observation.” I’m in and out of sleep. At one point I wake up and Dad is there.

  “Have some water,” he says, and puts a straw in my mouth.

  The water is icy, and I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good. “Jell-O?” he asks, but I shake my head and drift back off to sleep.

  When I wake up later, I hear a voice: “. . . like to scare me half to death. And I’ve already been half dead once this year.” It’s Nanny.

  I open my eyes. A nurse stands above me, laughing. “You have a visitor.”

  I turn my head an inch, try to smile.

  “Hey, sugar pants, it’s me.” She’s in a wheelchair; the color is back in her face.

  “Are you okay?” My voice sounds far away, out of focus.

  “Am I okay? What about you?”

  “I’m fine. But you should be resting.”

  “Nah. Goin’ home tomorrow. You, too.”

  I blink. Now I’m crying. The realization has hit me head-on: I don’t have a mother. She gave me up, like an old car or a cake she made. How could she?

  “Oh baby,” Nanny says.

  I want to crawl into her lap, like I did when I was little.

  Instead, the nurse wheels her closer, and Nanny grabs my hand, tight.

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  “You let it out, girl. I know you’re hurtin’. You cry all you want, baby doll. You just let it out. But”—her tone changes, to her strong voice, the one that can convince me of anything—“you never forget who loves you. You are God’s child, a blessing to me, a blessing to your daddy. You are the doggone apple of his eye. He would die for you. Don’t you ever doubt that, Sheridan. Not ever.”

&nbs
p; I cry and cry and cry, and Nanny doesn’t say another word. She doesn’t have to. Even after I fall asleep, I know she’s there.

  It’s Sunday morning. I’m feeling better—physically, anyway.

  They tell me my ankle is badly sprained, but my brain is fine. Which is good, I guess.

  I hear a knock at the door. Jack steps in, a white bakery bag in one hand, a bouquet of tulips in the other.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi,” he says. “You feel like having a visitor?”

  “Be quiet,” I murmur. “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever come.”

  He hands me what I assume is a lemon poppy seed muffin, puts the tulips on the bedside table. “Steal those from Growly?”

  Jack raises his eyebrows and pulls a chair close to the bed. “Maybe.” He leans forward and puts his hand on the blanket. I dig my hand out from under the covers and grab onto him. His bracelet still hangs on my wrist.

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  For a long minute, we stare at each other without a word.

  I love that about Jack. I can kind of read his mind. “My mother doesn’t want me. Hasn’t for a while.”

  He closes his eyes and nods his head. “Your dad told me.”

  “Sucks, huh?”

  “Totally.”

  “I’ve got a half sibling, too. My mom had a baby.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  We stare at each other, reading each other’s minds. I know he understands how I feel. I don’t have to describe how my heart is not only broken, but ripped apart and stomped on.

  He breathes in syncopation with me. I squeeze his hand.

  “I love you.” I say the words without measuring what they mean first. I just say them.

  He leans toward me. “I love you, too.”

  “Jack.” He tilts his head. “What happened with the show?”

  “Nothing. When we saw you in the parking lot, everything kinda shut down.”

  “Great. He must hate me.”

  Jack leans on the bed, kisses my hand. “He doesn’t hate you. But I think he’s pretty pissed at your mom.”

  I shake my head and cough out a laugh. “Feel free to run away now. Your family is so nice and normal. And mine is totally screwed up.”

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  He smiles. “It is kind of like watching a soap opera. But if anything had been different, you wouldn’t be the same.

  And that would suck. ’Cause you are pretty incredible. And you’ve met my brothers. If you think it’s normal to live in the midst of a fart cloud, you really are crazy.”

  I laugh out loud now, and my head only hurts a little. A nurse comes in to check my vital signs. She says my broken heart is beating just fine. Apparently, I’m going to survive.

  My ankle throbs under the tight bandage. Before I am re-leased, a nurse comes in and gives me a pair of crutches. She shows me how to walk with them.

  Dad pulls the car around front and meets me where they’ve wheeled me out. He’s overdoing it, treating me like a little kid. Trying to make up for what’s happened with my mother. He hasn’t said a word about the show. He grabs Jack’s flowers from my lap and helps me out of the wheelchair and into the car, all smiles.

  Nanny said he would do anything for me. But I ruined his big chance, so I doubt that’s still true. We drive away. His eyes are on the road. He’s still smiling, but it seems awfully forced.

  “You mad?”

  “Not at you.”

  “At Mom?”

  His mouth tightens. “Yes. And at myself.” He stops at a red light and looks at me. “I should have been there for you 309

  more. I should have been honest with you. But I was scared.”

  Right. How do you tell your child that her mother doesn’t want her? I look straight ahead.

  “I’m sorry.” He says the words and they fill up the empty space in the car, each syllable surrounding me with sadness.

  Mom said she was sorry, too, though. Who do I believe?

  At home, the parking lot is empty. No limos, no trucks. I look toward the bakery, where Mr. Roz is most likely holding down the fort, again. Dad helps me out of the car and up the front steps. He opens the door to the house, and I limp over the threshold. I look around the front room and see no signs of the Suits or Frank, of hibiscus flowers or Hawaiian shirts. Almost like it was all a dream.

  “Well, you’ll want to be in your room. So I’m gonna have to carry you.”

  “Dad, really. I weigh like a thousand pounds.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Give or take.” He holds out his arms.

  “Okay, but if you get a hernia, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  He lifts me off the ground and makes his way onto the first step. A memory flickers in my mind, of him doing this when I was little, carrying me up to my bed in his arms. I look at him sideways. His face is getting red; I am no light-weight.

  Then I remember how he’d go away for business and 310

  send postcards. I still have them stashed away, somewhere.

  He always called to say good-night. And he made me special dinners at the restaurant; let me sit in his office and eat behind his desk.

  By the time we get to the top step, my mind is washed in a steady stream of memories that I had left buried somewhere, like the box in my closet. I recall those first weeks after Mom left, going into his room and sleeping next to him in their big bed, wondering where she had gone. He must have been so mad. But he never showed it. He just threw back the covers when I came in all scared and restless.

  “Come on,” he’d say, “you need your rest.” When he was next to me, I could sleep. I felt safe.

  I think of us singing in the kitchen, and bear pancakes.

  And our weekly dinners, and his stupid rules. It’s like I’ve spent the last eight years working so hard to remember my mother that I forgot my father.

  We finally make it to the landing, and something comes over me. I grab around his neck, just like when I was little, and hug him tight.

  He puts me down gently, on my good foot. Without a word, he goes into my room and turns down the covers.

  “Come on, you need your rest,” he says quietly, without looking up.

  He takes off my shoe, and I slide into bed, which feels like heaven. “Okay,” he says. “Get settled. I’ll come check on you. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

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  He pulls the quilt up to my chin and then brushes the hair off my forehead.

  “Thank you,” I say. And I think I mean it.

  When he leaves I pick up my cell phone. There are texts from Lori, Jack, and Ethan.

  Hope u r good, Ethan says.

  Doing good. Home, I text back. In a few seconds, he replies.

  Come c u?

  Not 2day. Rest only.

  Soon?

  Sure.

  I know I need to tell him it’s over. I’m such a chicken.

  I’m staying home from school the entire week, and by Wednesday, I am officially stir-crazy. Dad pokes his head into my room in the morning and asks if he can go to the farmer’s market in Grand Rapids.

  “You don’t have to ask me, Dad. Just go.”

  “All right. Well, Mr. Roz is at the bakery. And Nanny’s at home. Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

  “Dad. Go.” I look at him. All his attention is starting to get on my nerves. “Please.”

  “I’ll only be gone for an hour, hour and a half max.”

  “Go!” I yell so loud that my head hurts.

  As soon as he leaves, I get up. I am so out of here. The sun is shining. All the snow and ice from the weekend are 312

  gone. Hopefully, we can have a spring now, before summer gets here. I sit on the top stair and then descend on my butt, dragging my crutches along with me.

  I step out onto the front porch and do the same butt-slide down the front steps. No one is around and I feel free. The pain pills they gave me at the hospital have taken the edge
off my headache, and my ankle isn’t throbbing anymore.

  I suck in the fresh air, wobbling along on the crutches, across the parking lot toward the front of the restaurant. I know exactly where I want to go. I head to the rectory at the end of the street and the brick wall surrounding the garden.

  I want to see the flowers; see if they survived the freeze.

  By the time I make it to the gate, I’m exhausted, but I hobble inside, work my way around to the little bench, and sit down, out of breath from the effort. I really need to get serious about running again, once my ankle heals.

  I see the tulips, which are in full bloom now. The daffodils, white and yellow, sway back and forth in the breeze.

  But my grape hyacinths, they are fading and dying.

  I hear footsteps on the path again. Oh crap.

  “We meet again.”

  I start to rise. “I’m just leaving, Father. Sorry.”

  “Why must you leave? I have a feeling it took you a good while to get here.” He nods toward my crutches.

  “May I sit?”

  Double crap.

  “Sure.”

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  I scoot over to make some room. He sits. “Have you been admiring the tulips?” he asks.

  “Yes, and the daffodils.”

  “And if your crutches allow, go to the lilac bushes; they’re about to spring forth.”

  “Maybe, I’ll try.”

  “And so, how is your recovery going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Praise the Lord.”

  “Right.”

  “Ah.” He turns to me. “Do I detect a bit of sarcasm?”

  I actually think before I answer him. “No.” A breeze sweeps across the garden, creating a beautiful, fragrant wave of color. “I just don’t get it. I mean, I just wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “If God is so into us, how can he let a mom leave her kid?”

  “Ah. That’s a loaded question.” He sits forward again, crosses his arms. “You want to know what I think?”

  I shrug.

  “It’s just free will. The ultimate blessing and curse. God might lead you one way, but if you choose a different path, what can He do? Nothing, of course; that’s why it’s called free will. But I also think if someone makes a choice that hurts us, that’s when we need to notice what’s left—the blessings that have always been there, right in front of our eyes. I think we almost always will find a few.”