by Darien Gee
Frances scoops up the boys’ laundry and heads to their bedroom. “Reed, Goodwill is here,” she calls out. She quickly puts the clothes away and hurries to the office where all of Mei Ling’s things have been packed in boxes, ready to be donated.
Reed is there, sitting at his desk, staring at the oversized dollhouse. Frances cringes every time she sees it, and it’ll be a relief when it’s gone.
“I still can’t believe you bought this,” he says. There’s a sad smile on his face. “I mean, it’s huge. It’s completely too big for this house. I don’t know what you were thinking.”
“I know, I know,” Frances says. She reaches into one of the boxes and picks out a small crocheted croissant from the tea set she bought from Avalon Gifts ’N More. She considered saving them to see if Brady was interested in any imaginative play, but his response was to throw one of the petit fours into the toilet.
“Just look at this thing,” Reed continues. He gets up and starts opening and closing the doors and windows, peering into the small closets. “There’s even an ironing board, for God’s sake!”
“OKAY.” Frances picks up a box of clothes. “I get it. I know I got carried away, but I couldn’t help myself.” She heads to the door, put out that he’s still nitpicking over the dollhouse. “Grab that box there, will you? I think it’s her puzzles and books.”
“I can’t do it,” Reed says suddenly. He looks up and his face is stricken. “I can’t do it, Fran.” His voice breaks.
For a second Frances is caught off guard, and then she’s quick to put the box down, to go to him. She crouches down, taking his hands in hers. She hadn’t realized that this had taken a toll on him, too—Reed seemed so settled and definite in his decision, so clear even if there was a tinge of regret. To see the look of misery on his face now makes her sad at what could have been, and at the same time, she loves him all the more for it. “You don’t have to do anything,” she says. “I’ll take everything out, or have them come in and help.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think we should give her things away.” He runs his hand along the roofline of the dollhouse. “She would have loved this, Frances. You were right to have bought it.”
“Reed,” she says. She’s unsure of what to make of this. “We can’t keep these things. You were right—we need to let it go, we need to let Mei Ling go.” Her voice trembles, but that doesn’t change the way she feels. Frances has struggled to accept their decision for the sake of Reed and the boys, and she’s managed. Barely. She’s still unable to sleep at night, tossing and turning as she pictures Mei Ling waiting for a family that most likely will never come. A child with such an intimidating medical history makes it difficult, both financially and emotionally, for anyone to say yes.
But still, anything is possible, and Frances still hopes for her, still prays that there is enough room in somebody’s life to include this little girl.
“Somebody will be grateful for these things,” she tells Reed, hoping this will make it easier.
But that seems to agitate him more. “But these are her things,” he says again, running a hand through his hair. “They belong to Mei Ling.” He turns to look at Frances. “You know how you’ve been making those scrapbooking albums for the boys? It kills me to think that she won’t have one. Like that birthday book you’ve been making for each of them. I want to see her blowing out the candles on her cake, Fran. Opening presents. Just like the boys.”
Is Reed having a nervous breakdown? Frances doesn’t know what to do.
“Mom?”
Frances turns, startled. Nick is staring at them, his brothers behind him, oddly quiet for once. “Those guys are waiting outside.”
“I know,” Frances says as Reed turns away. “Tell them a couple more minutes, okay? Offer them some water?”
Nick pokes through the box by the door. He lifts out a small pink jumper. “Didn’t Grandma send this?”
Oh, this isn’t helping. She sees Reed’s shoulders heave, and she can sense that something is about to happen, that whatever fragile peace Reed has made with their decision is about to shatter.
“Go outside, boys,” she says, a little desperately, just as Reed is overcome with large, racking sobs.
The boys don’t move, frozen in place at the sight of their father crying.
“Why Daddy crying?” Brady asks.
“Because he’s sad, dummy,” Noah tells him.
“Don’t call him dummy, dummy,” Nick scowls. He gives Noah a small push.
“Don’t push me!” Noah pushes Nick back, a much harder push despite his five years and significantly shorter stature.
“Cut it out!” Nick hollers as Noah readies another push.
Brady starts to cry, overwhelmed by the turn of emotions. Frances knows they’re unnerved at the sight of Reed so upset—it’s disconcerting to see a grown man cry, especially your father. She pulls Brady into her lap, then puts her hand between Noah and Nick, resting the palm of her hand on Noah’s chest. It’s the only thing that will calm him down when he’s riled up, and she can feel his heart racing, his small, angry breaths.
“It’s okay, boys,” she says. She’s decided that she’s not going to hide what’s transpiring between her and Reed, because it’s such a big thing. It’s a big thing that’s affected their family in a profound way, and the boys have a right to know what’s going on. “You know how we said that the adoption with Mei Ling didn’t work out? Well, your father is still sad about it. Me too.”
“So why don’t we adopt her then?” Nick asks. He’s still holding on to the jumper, and Frances can almost picture him holding Mei Ling as she wears it. She feels her own tears coming.
“She has serious heart problems,” Frances says. “Among other things. She’s a child who has a good chance of getting very, very sick someday.” She doesn’t add that there’s the very real possibility of Mei Ling getting so sick that she could die as a result. “She may need medical care that your father and I can’t give her.”
“So if we got sick, you couldn’t take care of us?” Noah asks, an uncertain look on his face.
“No, of course we would,” Frances assures him quickly.
“But what if we were really, really sick?” Noah persists. “Like her? Could you still take care of us then?”
“Yes,” Frances says firmly. “Yes, Noah. You don’t have to worry, okay?”
Nick looks perturbed. “So if you can do it for us, why can’t you do it for her? It’s not her fault she’s this way.”
Frances stares at her oldest son, at the unexpected wisdom that came from his eight-year-old lips. She feels something click into place, the missing piece that’s been causing her heartache since they made the difficult decision to turn down Mei Ling’s referral. She knows she and Reed have already agreed, have already looked at the numbers, at the overwhelming impossibility of it all. But if it were any of the boys, they would find a way. Of that Frances has no doubt.
“Yes,” she says slowly. “You’re right. It’s not her fault she was born with these challenges.” Because that’s all they are: challenges. Everyone has something, and while some are bigger than others, you never know what the next day will bring. It could go either way—anything is possible.
Frances holds her breath and turns to look at Reed, who is looking at Nick with shiny eyes. His face is ragged but Frances sees a glimmer of relief, of joy. “You’re right, son,” Reed says, echoing her words. “You’re absolutely right.”
What does this mean? Frances clutches his hands, wants to burst out in laughter and tears. “Reed?” she says.
“Yes, Fran,” Reed says, and he stands up, brushing his hands on his jeans, wiping his eyes. “We’re going to do it. I’m going to call the agency and get our daughter back.”
Herb “Buster” McMillan, 57
Truck Driver
At 3:00 a.m., Herb “Buster” McMillan’s alarm clock goes off.
Brrnng! Brrnng!
; It’s an obnoxious, jarring sound but it gets him out of bed, rouses him from the four or five hours of sleep he’s been lucky enough to get. It’ll still be dark out, the same as when he went to bed, but he’ll flick on the light and let himself drop to the floor. He’ll count out fifty sit-ups, then an equal amount of push-ups. He’ll get up and grab his clothes from the wooden valet, already clean and laid out from the night before. He’ll dress on the way to the bathroom, from the top down, so that by the time he reaches the sink, he can toss his pajamas into the wicker hamper before he does a quick shave and brushes his teeth.
At first glance Buster looks like any other tanker yanker, slightly paunchy with a weathered face from years of being on the road. He’ll be out three hundred days of the year, sometimes for two or three days in a row with no sleep, no exercise, the sun blazing through the windshield during the day and the nights long and dark. He’s careful, though, and he’ll sneak a nap if he needs to because there’s nothing worse than hauling a loaded fuel tank and closing your eyes one second too long. Everyone has a horror story, but fortunately Buster’s learned from everyone else’s mistakes. He’s never had a fire, has never rolled his cab or tanker, has never dropped at the wrong station. He has a few golden rules that he follows: never hurry, always trace your lines, and get it right the first time.
Buster has albums filled with places he’s visited, but the ones he carries with him at all times are filled with pictures of Avalon. The small two bedroom house that’s his, free and clear. Avalon at Christmas, his favorite time of the year. Avalon Park, where he’ll go to feed the birds after grabbing a cup of coffee. Summer barbecues in his backyard with his neighbors and a few buddies he went to Avalon High with, back in the day. Buster’s found that people are just as interested in him as he is in them, and sharing these pictures is the best way to let them know who he is and where he’s from.
His home is his sanctuary, so whenever he’s on the road he brings a little bit of Avalon with him. The albums keep him grounded and he likes sharing them with people, even if it is a little goofy and sentimental. You never know when someone might want to see them. Like this past spring, when he was driving from Dayton to Miami. He decided to stop for coffee a few hours out of Ohio. He fell out of the cab like a klutz and sprained his ankle. It was the first time anything like that had ever happened to him.
In the emergency room the nurse had passed him his duffel bag when one of the albums fell out. She picked it up and they started talking. He showed her the pictures, embarrassed at first and then with pride. She laughed at his stories while his ankle was being wrapped and then she told some of her own, staying a couple hours past her shift.
“A dog trainer,” she confided in him. “I love being a nurse but I’m good with animals, too. Dogs especially. I think it would be fun to do that, you know?”
“You should do it,” he told her. “Try it, at least. Maybe in your spare time and see what happens.”
She blushed. “Oh, I don’t know. It seems more like a hobby, not a real job.”
“I bet there are people out there dying for someone like you. People who are having a hard time with their pets and need some help. If you get good I bet you could charge whatever you want.”
She smiled. “You think?”
He nodded. “I think it’s great that you know what you’d love to do. Most people don’t even have that.” He smiled and felt a flutter in his gut. He saw them taking long walks and holding hands and sitting in front of a crackling fire in the dead of winter. He cleared his throat, feeling his own cheeks grow hot. “You should go for it,” he said again. “What have you got to lose?”
They exchanged information and he didn’t think he’d ever hear from her again. But a few days ago he got a letter with a business card inside and a picture of a little dog jumping through a hoop. “Puppy training and socialization classes by Alicia.” That’s her name—Alicia Rodriguez. Alicia with the most beautiful brown eyes, long lashes, and a smile that will knock your socks off.
Lately he’s been thinking that maybe he’s ready to go out on his own, be the master of his own schedule, build in a little more free time for himself. He wants to enjoy his home more, wants to spend some of the money he’s been saving up. And who knows—the last time he walked through Avalon Park, he saw plenty of people with puppies and dogs. Maybe he’ll invite Alicia up for a visit, if she’s interested. She already said that Avalon looked like the kind of place someone would be happy to call home. Maybe he’s being presumptuous that she’d want to see him again, but it can’t hurt to ask.
After all, what does he have to lose?
Chapter Thirteen
Connie whacks at a patch of wild dandelions that are threatening to take over the garden. It’s early on a Saturday morning and the October air is cool. She has a full day of food prep ahead of her, and she needs to return some calls to people who want to book the tearoom for an upcoming event.
The tea salon is becoming popular with wedding planners who like to recommend the space for bridal luncheons or small engagement parties. Connie’s designed a paper tea packet that brides can customize with their name and wedding date. She can add a quote about love or marriage, or put a title like “Love Is Brewing” or “The Perfect Blend.” It’s a simple thing that adds a personal touch, and when tied with a satin ribbon looks as professional as the ones that cost an arm and a leg.
Connie pulls the dandelions up by the roots, tossing them into the growing pile next to her. She knows Serena will eat them, the flowers and leaves, at least, and it would be so much easier to let her roam free and help keep the weeds in check. The only problem is that Serena won’t restrict herself to the weeds, instead going for anything green and edible. Madeline doesn’t want her to bother patrons or create a problem for the neighbors. In short, it’s this or nothing.
Connie glances at the goat. Serena looks conked out even though it’s too early in the day for her to be tired. She wishes there was more space for Serena in the pen, but since they converted the backyard for additional seating and a small lounging area for customers, it’s not possible. Connie can hear Madeline remind her that the property’s not set up for livestock, and that there could be a zoning issue, too.
“Have you asked around yet?” she’ll ask casually. It’s not nagging exactly but Madeline’s not giving it up, either. The thought that Serena might no longer be a part of her life is unbearable, but Connie doesn’t want Madeline or Walter Lassiter getting involved, so she finally sat down and printed out copies of her missing goat sign.
“Leave some in the tea salon,” Madeline suggested yesterday. “In case anyone wants to put it up in their place of business, too. The more people who see it, the better.”
So Connie had reluctantly left a pile on one of the tables in the entryway along with their take-out menu and business cards. So far no one’s taken any. She’s counted them out, twenty in all, and each time she goes by, she counts them again. Still twenty. She feels encouraged each time she sees the small stack, knows Madeline can’t say she isn’t trying to get the word out.
“So what’s wrong with your goat?”
Connie looks up and sees Walter Lassiter peering over the top of the fence. He gives a nod toward Serena, who ignores them both.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Connie says as she digs out some crabgrass. “She’s just tired.”
“Nope,” Walter says. “She’s sick. Maybe she ate something she shouldn’t have.”
“Sick?”
“Look at her. Something ain’t right.” He jerks his thumb toward the pen.
Connie bites her lip. “You’re saying that, Mr. Lassiter, because you want me to get rid of her.”
“Of course I want you to get rid of her!” he snorts. “Are you just figuring this out? She doesn’t belong here. She’s a goat. She belongs on a farm or in a zoo. Has she even been dewormed?”
Connie looks at Serena, who’s lying listlessly in her doghouse. She doesn’t hop on top anymore, which
Connie finds odd. She figured Serena was pouting because Connie couldn’t play with her as much as she’d liked.
“Goats can have all sorts of parasites,” Walter continues. “They need to be vaccinated. After all, this is a neighborhood, with people. Do you see any other goats around? No.”
Do you see any other fussy neighbors around? Connie wants to retort. No.
But she doesn’t say that, just stands up and wipes the dirt from her hands. She gathers up the weeds and dumps them into the small wheelbarrow she uses to garden. “Well, I’m trying to find the owner,” she says. “But if I can’t find them, then …”
“Then I guess you’ll have to find another home for her,” Walter finishes. The look on his face is all business now.
“That will be up to me to decide,” Connie says. She doesn’t want him thinking she’s easily bullied.
“No, missy. City ordinance. I don’t want to have to bring this up at the next town meeting, either. It’s bad enough you have all these people coming and going …”
“The tea salon is a legitimate business,” she interjects.
“But keeping a goat in a residential area, even if you have a commercial license, isn’t. I looked it up, missy.”
“My name is Connie, Mr. Lassiter.”
“I’m telling you this first, missy, because I know you’re doing your best and I appreciate the casseroles. But the minute I do a sit-down with Madeline, that goat is history. Again, nothing personal. I don’t have any intention of spending my retirement years living next door to a goat. There’s enough commotion going on as it is.”
Connie is suddenly weary. “I hear you, Mr. Lassiter.”
“And I’d get that goat to a vet, if I were you. Something’s not right with her.” He grunts and heads back to his house.
Connie pushes the wheelbarrow toward the trash and compost area, then goes over to Serena’s pen. “Hey, girl,” she says. She unlatches the gate and walks in. “How are you feeling?”
