No One Ever Asked

by Katie Ganshert

  “Mm-hmm. You sure volunteer a lot.”

  Yes, she did, but it had nothing to do with Marcus. In fact, if there were another youth center in South Fork, she’d gladly volunteer there. But there wasn’t. And her interview for Crystal Ridge made her feel like a giant sellout. When she volunteered at the youth center, she felt like less of one.

  “Here’s what I have to say about Marcus Wright,” Whitney said. “If you don’t snatch that boy back, he’s gonna move on.”

  “And you won’t hear me complain if he moves on with my ReShawn, neither. That girl needs a man who loves the Lord. Not the men she has prowling around her while she’s working at the airport. I tell you what, she is on a slippery slope.”

  Anaya walked away from the loud dryer, away from Auntie Trill and Whitney going on about how hard it was for a black woman to find a decent man these days. She went to the front of the salon and squirted a dollop of hand sanitizer into her palm. Her hands were more than clean, but the habit had turned into a compulsion. Her phone vibrated against the front desk.

  The number on the screen turned her breath shallow.

  With a look over her shoulder, she slipped outside onto the sidewalk—where the salon sat between a liquor store and a gun shop that never conducted background checks.

  “Hello, this is Anaya.”

  “Anaya, hi!” The greeting was friendly, the voice familiar.

  It was Tim Kelly, calling on behalf of O’Hare Elementary.

  * * *

  When Anaya was little, her daddy told her a story. It was about a farmer whose horse ran away, but then it came back and brought another horse with it. All of a sudden, the farmer had two. The next day, the farmer’s son tried to ride the new horse, but it bucked him off, and he broke his leg, leaving the farmer without a worker. A week later, the emperor’s men came to gather every able-bodied man in the village to fight in a war. The farmer’s son was spared because of his broken leg.

  After every twist of events, Daddy would say, “Good news, bad news. Who’s to say?”

  When he finished, Anaya wanted to know if the story came from the Bible.

  “No, sunshine,” Daddy said. “It’s from China.”

  After he’d kissed her on both cheeks and the tip of her nose too, she stared up at the ceiling, wondering how her daddy went and got a story all the way from the other side of the world when he’d only ever lived here in South Fork.

  Now Anaya had her own version of the story.

  A girl wanted to teach in South Fork, where her daddy taught because he loved his community and held the belief that when you loved something, you poured yourself into it. But South Fork didn’t have the money to hire a new teacher. So the girl applied for a job at a different district—the antithesis of the community she wanted to serve—and because of a glowing letter of recommendation, she got an interview. South Fork lost their accreditation, and now the very ones the girl had always pictured herself teaching had the option of coming to her.

  Good news, bad news. Who’s to say?

  Certainly not Anaya. She only knew that at the moment, despite everything Auntie Trill had to say this afternoon, Anaya wanted them to come. She wanted Darius and all the rest to join her so she wouldn’t feel so alone.

  She walked inside the house and found Mama asleep on the couch.

  Anaya bent over and kissed her cheek.

  Mama’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. The coffee brown of her irises went soft and warm as a slow smile spread across her face. “Hey, baby doll,” she said, her voice croaking like a frog.

  Anaya folded her arms over the back of the couch and set her chin on her hands. “I got a call from Principal Kelly.”

  Mama sat up, quick as a lightning bolt. “And?”

  “I got it.”

  “You got it?”

  Anaya nodded.

  Mama practically hurdled the couch. She wrapped her arms around Anaya and rocked her back and forth in an exultant dance. “Oh, thank You, Jesus. Thank You, Jesus. Thank You, Jesus.”

  Anaya couldn’t help herself. Mama’s joy was contagious. For the first time since Tim Kelly’s phone call, she felt herself smile.

  “It’s been a rough couple of years for all of us, but the clouds are parting, and the light is starting to shine through.” She grabbed Anaya by the shoulders. “My baby is gonna teach second grade at O’Hare Elementary.”

  “And coach the varsity track team.”

  Tears welled in her mother’s eyes. “I know it’s not what you envisioned, but it’s a good way to keep doing what you love. You deserve this, baby. You’ve worked so hard, and your father would be proud.”

  The words twisted Anaya’s heart.

  Because Mama didn’t know the whole story.

  With a teary smile, she pulled Anaya into another rocking hug. And as she swayed back and forth, back and forth, the refrain played on.

  Good news, bad news. Who’s to say?

  Ten

  The small crowd of parents sat in camping chairs, clapping as Camille’s son walked up to the plate. He looked skinny, and also nervous.

  “Come on, Austin!” Kathleen called. “Swing hard, buddy.”

  It was the final game of the tournament, the bottom of the fifth. Two outs. Malone & Strut was down by one. The bases were loaded. Bennett had just had a rare strikeout and threw his bat, which nearly got him kicked out of the game. Kathleen’s husband, Rick, was calming him down off to the side, and Neil was nowhere to be seen. But Camille couldn’t think about that now. She couldn’t think about the South Fork transfer or the strange text messages on her husband’s phone. All she could think about now was her son and the way his heart was probably racing.

  She fisted her hands over her knees and leaned forward. “Come on, Austin,” she whispered under her breath.

  Please, Lord, let him get a hit. Let him be the hero, just this once.

  Austin took a few practice swings while the pitcher waited at the mound. The opposing team wore hunter green. They were sponsored by Schnucks. Austin wore red and gray. They were sponsored by Malone & Strut, a law office located on Main Street. Rick was a divorce attorney. When Camille first met him, which was several years before he made partner, she’d asked, “Why divorce?”

  Rick had shrugged and said, “Job security.”

  “Well, you won’t be getting our business,” Camille had replied in a jovial tone, one that hid her underlying smugness. It was a smugness that wasn’t appropriate, and neither was the joviality. Marriage wasn’t a competition, and divorce wasn’t funny. The job security Rick joked about wasn’t a joke. It was a sad reality. The thing was, it had never touched Camille. Not personally, anyway. She came from a long line of healthy marriages. Neil wasn’t so fortunate. His grandparents were divorced. Neil hardly knew his grandfather. Growing up, he couldn’t spend time with his grandmother without hearing her speak bitterly about the man or his new wife. The experience made him adamantly against the whole thing.

  So adamant, in fact, it was one of the first points they established after he got down on one knee and popped the question. Divorce was off the table. It simply wasn’t an option.

  Whatever they were going to face in their marriage, they would face together. If something so horrible came along as to require counseling, they would go to that together too. And therein lay the source of her smugness. Camille Gray’s marriage had always been a given—like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. You didn’t have to fight for the sun. Nobody sat up at night worrying that it might fall off course.

  Perhaps that should have been a warning.

  Camille had taken her marriage for granted, and things taken for granted were all too easily neglected.

  Kathleen whooped again as Austin stepped inside the box.

  The pitcher wound up and let the ball go.

  It flew over
home plate, straight into the catcher’s glove.

  “Striiiike!” the umpire called, a little too enthusiastically.

  Camille’s heart sank. Come on, Austin. You at least have to swing.

  “It’s all right, kiddo,” Rick shouted, clapping as he returned to his seat beside Kathleen. “Make sure to swing at those good ones.”

  The catcher threw the ball back to the pitcher, and after checking the runners at first and third, he wound up again.

  This time, Austin did swing. The ball cracked off the bat and sailed into the air. Camille jumped from her seat, ready to let out an ecstatic cheer, but the ball landed just foul of the first base line. Kathleen groaned. Camille sank back into the chair—her heart thudding in her ears.

  The count was now 0-2.

  She clasped her hands together, her muscles coiled.

  Please, Lord. Please, Lord. Please Lord…

  The pitcher threw the ball.

  Austin swung and missed.

  Camille’s thudding heart sank into her toes.

  “Tough break,” Rick said, clapping her on the shoulder as the runners on base jogged to the dugout. “At least we have one more inning to get ’em.”

  Yeah. One more inning.

  Camille watched listlessly as the boys took their positions in the field. Bennett ran out to first, because Bennett was athletic like Cody and Dane. He usually hit doubles and triples. Kathleen and Rick didn’t know what it was like to have an Austin. Sometimes Camille hardly knew what it was like to have an Austin. Her son alternated between right field and the bench. Right now, he was on the bench—sitting with slumped shoulders, his hat pulled low over his face.

  A surge of anger broke through Camille’s listlessness. Where was Neil? He promised he would be here. Austin always did better when his father came. Whatever pep talk Neil gave him before the games seemed to set at ease the worst of Austin’s nerves. But he wasn’t here now, and it was already the last inning.

  She removed her phone from her purse and dialed his number.

  For the past two weeks, they’d been like their son at the plate—a whole lot of swinging and missing, no matter how hard they tried. Miscommunication. Misreading cues. Much of it revolved around the South Fork transfer—which had Camille hard at work and Neil hardly caring. In fact, the less he seemed to care, the more riled up she got. So much so that she had contacted every legislator and administrator there was to contact—some more than once—pausing only to organize the annual Fourth of July block party.

  “Hello,” he answered, his voice terse.

  Camille stood from her seat and walked a few paces away, where Rick and Kathleen wouldn’t hear. “Where are you?”

  “At work.”

  Really? That was it? No explanation? No apologies or excuses? “You told Austin you were going to be here at his game.”

  “And you told me you were going to pick up my mother for the closing.”

  Camille’s stomach dropped to the ground, right next to her heart. She had completely forgotten. For the past several months, her mother-in-law had been living in a retirement home. It was only recently that Neil was able to convince her to put her house on the market. It sold quickly, and today Camille was supposed to drive her to the bank for the closing. Neil mentioned it a couple of nights ago, but immediately afterward Lacy Cunningham texted about O’Hare’s newest hire.

  Lacy had identical twin boys in Paige’s grade. She avoided being a room mother but volunteered for things like classroom parties and the winter carnival. Her youngest cousin had interviewed for the second-grade position, but she didn’t get the job. Someone named Anaya Jones did. Lacy had taken the whole thing rather personally.

  The closing for her mother-in-law had fallen right out of Camille’s mind.

  Eleven

  Jen rubbed shea butter between her palms, letting it soften before she slathered it on Jubilee’s skin. Thirty minutes ago she’d been covered in sidewalk chalk. Now she was squeaky clean from a bath. Earlier a little neighbor girl had joined her outside. The two of them decorated the driveway with flowers and hearts and rainbows while Nick broke down boxes in the garage and Jen unpacked the last of the kitchen.

  The low-key evening had been so blessedly normal. There was no spitting, no screaming, no accidents, no lying. It came as a reprieve. A much-needed reprieve—like a breath under water. Maybe Leah was right. Maybe everything was going to be okay.

  “So,” Jen said. “What did you and your new friend talk about?”

  “She said you not real.”

  Jen stopped her rubbing. “What?”

  “She tell me you are not my real mama.”

  The words filled up the space in the small bathroom, squeezing out all the air. Jen sat back on her heels, a dollop of shea butter melting in her hand. Jubilee wasn’t the first kid to hear something like this. Jen had read stories from other adoptive moms online. Still, there was nothing quite like hearing it from the mouth of your own daughter.

  “Why do you think she said that?” Jen asked.

  Jubilee lifted her bare shoulder.

  Jen came up on her knees and rubbed the shea butter there. When she finished, she held out her hand. “Touch.”

  Jubilee poked her knuckle.

  “See. I’m real, aren’t I?” The question reminded Jen of her favorite bedtime story as a child: The Velveteen Rabbit.

  “Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you.”

  Jubilee smiled a shy sort of smile and spread her hands wide over her belly. When she first came home, it had been so alarmingly distended. “But I not grow in your tummy.”

  Right.

  And that was what the little neighbor girl had meant when she used the word real, not understanding the implications—as if a mother were only really a mother when she conceived and carried and delivered a child. Jen must only be pretending.

  Sometimes she felt like she was.

  Often she had these moments where she was looking down at her life—at her interactions with Jubilee—and she would have this thought, like none of it was real. Her. Them. Here together, in Missouri. At any moment she would wake up three years younger in her bedroom in Clayton and think, What a strange dream.

  “You’re right, Jubilee. You didn’t grow in my tummy.”

  Her shy smile turned into a frown.

  “Do you know where you did grow?” Jen lifted Jubilee’s chin and pressed her other hand against her own chest. “You grew right here. In my heart.”

  * * *

  One look at the calendar and Camille’s skin flushed with feverish vindication. There, on the square marked July 7, was a note about the possibility of a tournament game—should Austin’s team make it that far—Paige’s sleepover at Faith’s house, and nothing at all about the closing.

  Camille had been so bothered—so consumed with the uncharacteristic brain lapse ever since she got off the phone with Neil—that she hardly noticed when Austin’s team took the lead in the bottom of the sixth, nor could she join them for a celebratory dinner at Maria’s Cantina afterward. Austin went with the Malones, and Camille drove home.

  And here was proof that her mistake was actually his.

  He was mad at her for something that wasn’t her fault.

  The garage door opened.

  A few seconds later, her husband walked inside with his briefcase and car keys, his suitcoat draped over one arm and his tie loosened around his neck.

  Camille pointed at the calendar. “You didn’t write it down.”

  “I didn’t think I needed to. Not when I talked to you about it in person two nights ago.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, if something is important, it needs to be written down on the calendar. Especially right now. I have a lot going on at the moment.”

  “So do I. That�
�s why I needed you to be there for my mother this afternoon. It took a half hour just to calm her down, Camille, and another two for her to ask the attorney and the Real Estate agent all of her neurotic questions.”

  “If it was such an inconvenience, you should have called me.”

  “My mother called you.”

  “Your mother always calls me, Neil! I have a million and one things to take care of—three of those being our children. I can’t be expected to take care of her too. I’m not superwoman.”

  “Oh please. You love being superwoman.” His words came out so contemptuously, Camille took a step back. He’d never spoken to her like that before. “You love being the one everybody needs. Well, today I needed you, Camille. Your husband. Remember me?”

  “You didn’t write it on the calendar.”

  “Never mind the calendar! I asked you for one thing—one thing—and you blew it off like it didn’t even matter.”

  “I didn’t blow it off. I’ve been taking care of our children! All day long, while you’re at work or CrossFit, that’s what I’m doing. Taking care of our children. And does anyone ever thank me for it? No! We have a teenage daughter who treats me like dirt. She’s determined to get her license, and she’s a horrible driver. And who has to do all the driving with her? Me, that’s who. Because you’re always at work.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Camille the martyr.”

  “I am not a martyr.”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s your second favorite role, right after superwoman.”

  “You’re a jerk.”

  “Maybe I am, but at least I’m an honest one. At least I can admit to my shortcomings.”

  “Really? Then who’s Jas?” The question tumbled out, impossible to take back. She couldn’t undo it, nor could she unsee the way all the color drained from her husband’s face. But now that it was out, she refused to regret it. Camille pulled back her shoulders and jutted her chin. “I saw all the text messages, and I have to say, they were awfully chummy.”