What Family Means

by Geri Krotow

“Angie? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Mom. He still wasn’t ready to discuss it before he left. That’s why I didn’t tell him.”

  Debra’s intake of breath echoed through the receiver. “What were you thinking?” The old judgmental Mom was back.

  “I didn’t want him to feel trapped.”

  “You wanted him on your terms. Period.”

  “What’s so wrong with that? That I want the father of my child to stay with me and be part of our family?”

  “There’s never been any question in my mind that Jesse loves you and wants to be with you, Angie. He had such a rough time as a kid, from what you’ve told me, that it’s no wonder he wasn’t prepared to commit to children. Not right away.”

  Angie didn’t say anything.

  She heard rhythmic clicking over the phone. Mom must have resumed her knitting. “You didn’t have any problem with this before.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t knocked up before.” Angie knew Debra hated harsh talk.

  “Excuse me, but you’re carrying my grandchild. Don’t refer to yourself as ‘knocked up.’”

  “Sorry I bothered you, Mom. I just needed to vent, I suppose.”

  “You’re not bothering me.” The clicking ceased. “I’m here for you, Angie. But I also respect that this is your life.”

  Angie couldn’t find words to respond. Her mother had never said anything remotely akin to suggesting any of the kids were capable of leading their own lives. Since when had Debra Bradley learned about emotional boundaries?

  “Uh, thanks, Mom.”

  “Anytime, sugar. Just try to stay off the pity pot, okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When do you go back to work?”

  “Later this evening.”

  “You’re not used to having extra time on your hands. You haven’t had a chance to make friends yet, and what have you done besides work?”

  “Not much.” She enjoyed her own knitting and crocheting, but hadn’t found much incentive to pick it up again.

  “Do something nice for yourself. Tell you what, why don’t I book us in at La Spa and we’ll spend an afternoon together?”

  “I don’t know how much of it I could enjoy right now, Mom.”

  “I get it. We don’t want you to throw up during a massage.” Debra’s husky laugh made Angie smile. “Okay, honey. Just get out of that apartment and do something.”

  “All right. Thanks, Mom. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Angie set the portable phone down and sipped her tea. It was lukewarm now but still soothed her gag-prone throat. She ran her finger around the rim of the hand-thrown mug.

  It wasn’t fair to drag Mom into all her life’s snarls. She’d tied her own knots; she’d untie them, too.

  Present Day

  Buffalo, New York

  Debra

  THE OLD BROWN SWEATER felt rough against my fingers. I’d made two of them for the boys when they were six and playing soccer.

  I’d only managed to save this one. I didn’t know where the other one went.

  The acrylic-wool blend wasn’t anything I’d use today, but it served its purpose for two boys in the Buffalo winter. The soccer ball motif on the front had been difficult but “anything for the kids” had been my motto.

  Will wasn’t wrong about that.

  I brought the sweater to my face and breathed in its scent. Past the lavender oil I used to protect the sweaters from moths, I caught a whiff of Blair and Brian when I was the only woman in their lives, other than their grandmas. I remembered slush dragged into the house on rubber boots, cold skin after soccer practice in the rain.

  The constant observation of the other kids’ parents, especially the mothers.

  At times I missed having young boys in the house but I didn’t miss the intrusion of other people’s opinions….

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Present Day

  Buffalo, New York

  Debra

  I PUT THE BROWN sweater to the side, into the pile of items I might use in my exhibit. I certainly had enough to fill an entire showroom. But I wanted this to be more than another open-portfolio type of show. I wanted to tie my work and art in with history.

  I recalled Shirley’s words. “You of all people have something to scrapbook about.”

  The thought of displaying personal things I’d made, not just the public weavings and tapestries, in the art exhibit, made me feel vulnerable to the criticism of others. What if the reviewers and the public didn’t understand my motives? I wanted to show how real life, ordinary life, continues even when national and international situations are globe-altering.

  The baby and toddler clothes I knitted for Angie during the Watergate hearings.

  The things I knitted for Will when we were in high school and college, when the civil rights movement brought racial violence I’d never known about. When I understood that civil rights wasn’t just about some black people on television. It was about Will and me and all of us.

  I’d loved Will since I first saw him on the bus. Since he took me under his arm and watched out for me, all through elementary and middle school. Even after we stopped seeing each other in high school I still loved him.

  The pain of losing my best friend, Will, was almost worse than thinking I’d lost his love completely.

  It was not that I’d always been colorblind, either. Sure, as kids, I knew we had different skin. As we grew up and closer together, Will’s blackness was attractive to me because it was part of who he was.

  It was part of us.

  I sat in my studio at the desk where I’d laid out all the photographs I’d been gathering for the past few months. Starting with the late 1950s until the present day, I’d collected world, national and local news headlines.

  My original plan had been to display the news items on boards behind each piece of artwork I’d done at that particular time.

  The museum wanted a retrospective of my art, how I’d gotten where I was today. So although I thought it a bit frivolous, I was going to include some small weavings I’d done as a child in elementary art class. Before I ever knew fiber arts could yield a career for me.

  An entire vocation, for that matter.

  I sighed and sipped my tea. My chipped mug was the only warm thing in my studio. The news images stared blankly at me. Even my knitting didn’t seem as inviting as I’d hoped it would be.

  “Nonsense.” I spoke to myself and Rose, who merely thumped her tail as she lay curled up in her bed. I was letting all that talk about journaling and scrapbooking get to me.

  Not every life could be captured on a heartwarming scrapbook page.

  Especially mine.

  April 1985

  Buffalo, New York

  “BRIAN, PUT YOUR SHIRT ON. Blair, are your shin guards in place?”

  Debra twisted around in the station wagon and surveyed the backseat. Both boys were in a state of undress as they rushed to get ready for the soccer game.

  Angie was at ballet—Debra had to pick her up in thirty minutes—and her main focus was getting the boys to their field. She’d get Angie and be back before the game ended.

  “Mom!”

  They protested in unison. She knew she could be repetitive, but they needed the prodding. It’d been all she could do to get them into the car after school.

  They’d chased each other around the parking lot, oblivious to Debra’s words of caution.

  One old wives’ tale about twins that Debra had found to be true for Blair and Brian was that they lived in their own world. Not only did they have their own language, she swore they communicated telepathically with each other at times.

  “Take your water bottles.”

  A tap on the window startled Debra. She rolled it down and Doug Bartholomew’s handsome face obstructed her view of the pitch.

  “Need a hand?”

  His wide smile crinkled the tanned skin around his eyes just a little too perfectly. People in Buffalo didn’t have tans like
that unless they wintered in the tropics or went to a tanning salon. She was pretty sure Doug fell into the latter category.

  “Nope, we’re ready, boys, aren’t we?” She looked back into the car, avoiding the forced intimacy the rain and his presence created.

  “See ya, Mom.” Brian opened his door and slipped out. Blair slid across the car seat and let himself out the same door.

  “They sure do everything together, don’t they?”

  Debra turned to face Doug.

  His blue eyes revealed the loneliness that lurked behind the bravado.

  “Yes, they do. I’m getting out, too.”

  She pulled on her door handle and Doug stepped back. She decided to leave the umbrella in the car and zipped up her parka, pulling the hood over her head, although it was impossible to keep all the red curls inside it.

  She fell into step beside Doug, who showed up at all the soccer games. His wife, Mina, was a real estate agent, one of the most successful in Western New York.

  Doug was an optometrist, so he arranged his patients around his son’s after-school schedule. It was easier for him than for Mina, he always said.

  Debra often thought that maybe Doug and Mina didn’t really like each other and welcomed the break. One of those in-name-only marriages.

  “How’s your project coming along?” He never forgot to ask about her fiber arts.

  “Great, thanks. I wish I had more time with it, or at least bigger chunks of solid time, but, well, you know how it is with the kids.”

  “I’ve told you, Debra, whenever you want me to take the twins for an afternoon, just give me a call. Sam loves them and they get along well.”

  “Thanks, but they’re not the problem. It’s my time-management skills, which leave a bit to be desired.”

  Doug was correct; the boys all got along wonderfully. But she didn’t want a man other than Will spending that much time with them. Due to Will’s long hours, if she took Doug up on his offer, he’d see more of the twins than their own father did.

  It didn’t sit right with her.

  “How’s your work going?” She wanted to get him talking about himself. Maybe he’d lay off the personal questions.

  “Not bad. I could use a few more clients but they’ll come.”

  “How about Mina?”

  “She’s always doing great. You know her, never a slow day.”

  Actually, Debra didn’t know Mina very well. They’d only met a handful of times. Doug often had a gaggle of other soccer moms around him, laughing and flirting.

  Mina didn’t seem to mind that Doug received so much attention from other women. She’d once commented that she was relieved Doug had other women to “joke” with. Debra heard the undertone of hard knowing in Mina’s voice. She knew her husband played around.

  Debra figured Mina had confided in her because in Mina’s eyes she was “different” from the other moms. She wasn’t a threat because no white man would be interested in a white woman who’d married a black man.

  Even though none of these thoughts were spoken aloud, Debra knew they existed. It was in the stares of the other moms as they noted the twins, often the only dark-skinned boys on the suburban teams. Then they’d search for the parents, and someone would have to point Debra out.

  She wondered if they knew how stupid they looked with their open mouths when they saw her fair skin and red hair.

  Doug had always been nice to her, but she didn’t trust him, either. Debra knew she’d never approve of Will having a close friendship with another woman unless she was a friend of hers, too. Even then it was a questionable proposition.

  They reached the field and the game started. Debra enjoyed laughing in the cold wet mess of a Buffalo autumn as she watched Blair and Brian chase the ball across the field.

  It was similar to the joy she felt when she watched Angie at ballet. But with the boys it always seemed to involve some type of infectious fun. Even the other parents laughed at the boys’ knack for getting each other out of tough spots.

  “It’s good to see you laugh.” Doug stood a little too close for Debra’s comfort.

  “It feels good to laugh.” She took a step to the side, and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Go, Brian! Go, Blair!”

  Doug shook his head. “I hope your husband appreciates everything you do.”

  Debra heard the insinuation in his tone.

  “Oh, he does, believe me.” She set a stern boundary with her words, and this time Doug seemed to have heard her. He focused on the game again and refrained from any more personal comments or questions.

  Deb sighed. She occasionally resented Will’s long hours, and the fact that he missed so much of this time with the boys. But mostly she felt sad for him. He didn’t have a choice at this point in their lives.

  Besides, they needed her to stay home and be available for the children. And her fiber arts work was more flexible, although it often meant she was up past midnight or awake before the birds. But at least she had the option of working her own hours.

  Will was following the classic claw-your-way-to-the-top career path. It took more than talent to be a successful architect. He had to be there, attend meetings, socialize with clients.

  Big dreams were part of Will’s being. He wanted his firm to be the number-one firm for their specialty in the country.

  Debra smiled to herself as she watched the twins compete, with their unique fierceness, on the field. She knew where that trait had come from.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Present Day

  Buffalo, New York

  Debra

  I CHECKED ON THE EGGS I was poaching for Violet and pulled out the coffee to make a pot. Will was still in the shower. He’d decided to work out before he left for the office, in the little gym he’d made for us two years ago.

  I preferred the elliptical trainer and stationary bike, while Will usually put time in on the treadmill. Will was happiest running outside, but the weather was hopeless this morning. The three inches of snow that fell two days ago had turned into slush due to a warm front. The temperature was going to drop to below zero after nightfall, guaranteeing an icy mess.

  The phone rang and I picked it up while I took the eggs off the stovetop.

  Caller ID said it was Angie.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  “Mom, have you seen the news?”

  “No, I’m making breakfast for your father and grandmother. Do you mean the weather report? I saw that it predicts lower temperatures later. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m at work already. There’s a storm front coming in from the plains, and an arctic current dipping south from Canada. The last time those conditions converged we had four feet of snow in twelve hours.”

  I heard the stress in Angie’s voice as I looked through the kitchen window to the pale sunrise over the backyard. Dim shafts of light were just starting to appear in the woods.

  “It’s not snowing yet.”

  “No, but it will be by this afternoon. Make sure you and Daddy are stocked up on everything and tell him to work at home today.”

  “Too late. He’s getting ready for a big conference call with Seattle and Toronto.”

  “He needs to get home right after lunch, then. City hall’s going to shut down offices at noon.”

  “You know your dad, honey. He’s got his four-wheel drive, and he does what he pleases.”

  “Mom.” She was thirty-five but in some ways still the high-strung adolescent.

  “Okay, okay.” I shifted the phone to my other shoulder as I grabbed the salt and pepper shakers. “What about you? Are you going home early?”

  “I’m hoping to stay over. This is a huge news event and the local stations are relying on us for the latest. I’m running home right now to get a few things. I was in such a hurry to leave this morning I forgot to pack an overnight bag.”

  I heard the excitement, but also fatigue, in her voice.

  “How are you feeling today, Angie?”


  “Better. Kind of. It’s almost fourteen weeks, so I feel more like my old self.”

  “Call me when you get home, or at least check in so I know you’re safe.”

  “Okay, bye, Mom.”

  “Bye.”

  I was proud of myself. I didn’t remind Angie that she’d never be back to her “old self,” not really. Angie would figure it out soon enough. Motherhood was forever.

  The back door slid open and Violet walked in. Despite her eighty-five years and her cane, she still walked with the certainty of a confident woman.

  “Good morning, Violet.” I let the practiced chipper greeting flow off my tongue.

  “Not going to be good for long if my arthritis is anything to judge by.”

  “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Vi.”

  “Yes, yes.” She waved her hands as if fending me off. “Before you ask, I started a double dose last night when the bones woke me up.”

  Besides heart disease, Violet had arthritis. Most days she did fine with her maintenance medication plan, but every now and then she needed more to ease the aches. A major weather front was enough to trigger a painful few days.

  Her congestive heart failure had been managed so far with a pacemaker, defibrillator and regular medical attention. But it was always in the back of my mind that one day we wouldn’t be able to stop its progression.

  I poured Violet her special blend of coffee—half caffeinated, half decaf.

  “Thanks.” Her crooked fingers wrapped around the steaming mug.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I took a private moment to appreciate the small exchange of pleasantries. It wasn’t always this comfortable between us.

  As I slid out a kitchen chair for her, I noticed that her face looked a little more drawn than usual. Rather than ask about it, I made a mental note to keep an even closer eye on her.

  “According to Angie there’s a big weather system headed over the lake today. Your bones are right.”

  “She went through how many years of college to figure out what I already know?” Violet laughed and patted the table.

  Violet’s white hair, what was left of it, wisped around her fine-boned face. Her skin, once almost as mocha as Will’s, had faded to a pale tan. But her eyes remained bright, alert and didn’t miss a trick. Not for the first time I hoped Will had inherited his mother’s genes instead of his father’s. I wanted him around for many years to come.