by L. B. Dunbar
“You’re a pain in my ass,” he mutters before crushing my mouth one more time and leaving me stunned. “Get out of the rain,” he says, stepping back toward his truck and waiting for me to run to the house. As I reach the porch, his engine roars, and I turn around to see the wipers flick across the windshield. He’s watching me watch him.
I don’t know what just happened here, but I pray lightning strikes twice, and it happens again.
Rule 8
Thank you is more than two words.
[Jess]
I still can’t believe she agreed to this. It isn’t like Emily can teach Katie an entire language in a few days. I just want her here when I introduce the idea, or rather, as Emily introduces her idea to my daughter. It’s all a huge risk because I don’t want my daughter to have a setback and because I’m asking someone I hardly know to help me.
I just want . . .
What? What do I want from this woman?
More kisses.
More time.
She only has until Sunday, she said, and then it’s back to her home. Her life. But she still hasn’t ordered a sink, and those pamphlets scattered on the floor of the library were about Alzheimer’s and assisted living. Emily has some tough decisions to make about her grandmother, and I shouldn’t be dragging her into supporting me and my daughter. But I sense the connection between Katie and Emily will help make the acceptance easier for Katie. Katie will agree to learning because, for some reason, she wants to please Emily.
Once again, I’m stumped.
Emily pushed and pushed and pushed with her fairy-tale nonsense and then boom! Katie admitted something happened just like in the story. Someone stole her voice. Debbie. She is a nasty witch, but since I don’t believe in hocus-pocus or voodoo, I don’t think it’s that easy. How I wish it were so simple. I’d find an antidote, give my daughter a magic potion, and restore her voice.
I’m pacing the front room, my hands deep in my back pockets, and repeating over and over this is a bad idea, this is a bad idea when my youngest sister walks into the room.
“What are you doing?” She chuckles as she watches me stalk back and forth before the front window like a caged animal at the zoo.
“I’m waiting for someone,” I snap, harsher than I intend.
“Oh, really?” she teases. “And this wouldn’t happen to be the infamous Emily Post of Chicago, would it?” My youngest sister, Tricia, and I are close. She has the same physical features as our eldest brother, Tom, with dark hair and mossy-green eyes, but she isn’t a jokester like him. I sense her husband, Trent, has something to do with the slow erosion of her humor, but I can’t question her marriage today.
“How do you know about Emily?” I stop pacing and stare at my sister. Her expression gives away the answer, and I start walking before the large window again.
“Tom,” I groan. Since the moment Emily graced our shop with her presence, he’s told me he “ships us” as a couple. His hip lingo is courtesy of his teenage daughter. Basically, he’s trying to meld us together like two separate wires, making us spark. I’d add where there isn’t a spark, but that would be a lie. Now that I’ve kissed her, the flame is real. So is the reality she’s not staying in this town. It’s the reason I’ve tried to ignore the electric current that runs up my arms every time I’ve touched her. Even before my lips met hers, and I couldn’t fight it anymore.
She’s a conduit for me, conducting all kinds of feelings I shouldn’t be feeling yet can’t seem to stop from flowing through my body—or my heart.
“Tom says she’s real pretty,” Tricia states, drawling like she’s from the South instead of the Midwest. “And he says you’ve been spending time together.”
“Tom should mind his own business,” I snap and then look up at my sister to apologize.
“What’s going on?” she asks, lowering herself to the arm of my mother’s couch. My sister has practically moved in here this summer. She’s on summer break from her teaching job, but I don’t know why she isn’t home with her man. Then again, I can’t say I’d want to spend all my time with her husband, either.
“Emily is coming over here, and we’re going to introduce Katie to sign language.”
“You know I think this is a great idea.” Tricia smiles, giving me a knowing look. She’d tried to recommend the same thing—communicative support—when everything first happened, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I couldn’t handle one more thing after Katie’s speech loss, Debbie’s disappearance, and my divorce. Not to mention, our father’s death and my move home. “It’s only a few more weeks before everyone will begin trickling back to the schools. We can contact the special education department then.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I can accept Katie has special needs. She is special. I just don’t want my daughter to suffer any pressure, particularly from strangers, because she’s been through so much already. She isn’t stupid, and I don’t want her to end up feeling that way.
“You know it’s really different now, Jess,” Tricia adds as if reading my concerned thoughts. “Sure, Katie’s going to have some issues, but there’s nothing wrong with needing help, and with the right support, she’s going to do very well. She’ll excel at everything.”
Except speaking.
I know the facts about selective mutism, but it still doesn’t make me feel better. The reality is, something happened to my daughter, and I’ve worked hard to assure my child nothing would ever happen to her again.
A knock on the door makes both Tricia and me jump, and then she laughs.
“Your nervous has made me nervous,” she teases as she stands for the door.
“Wait.” I reach forward for my sister. “I don’t want anyone else around. Just Katie, me, and Emily. I’m not turning this into an intervention or anything.”
Tricia frowns, but then she nods. “Okay. I’ll be upstairs.”
Upstairs? Why is she hanging out in her old room so much?
I shake the thought and open the door.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” My breath catches after that initial greeting. She’s cleaned up. Not dirt-laden or sweaty from a run or drenched from the rain. Of course, I already know she cleans up nicely from the night I walked her home, but I wasn’t really focused on her attire, even if I did steal her shoes.
That was kind of creepy, I remind myself.
I step back, allowing Emily to enter. She has a small present in her arms as well as an iPad. She looks around the big front room that opens onto the dining room though a large archway, taking everything in.
“Wow, this is really nice,” she says, scanning over the furniture that actually isn’t that nice.
“My mom tries to keep it up.”
“Your mom cleans your house? Does she still do your laundry?” she teases.
“No, smart-ass. This is her house.”
Emily stops in her inspection and stares at me. “You live with your mother?” As if the horror in the question wasn’t enough, the shock on her face is priceless.
“Yes, I’m thirty-six, a single father, and live with my mother. Satisfied? All the secrets are out.” I exhale, feeling us already starting out on the wrong foot. Her mouth, which was gaping, snaps shut, and she looks away from me. I swipe a hand through my loose hair and then take an elastic from my wrist and tie back the strands. I watch Emily observe me as I make quick work of my hair and then give her the explanation she really deserves.
“My dad died, and I decided to come home. My mom had this big house to herself, and I thought she could use the distraction of having Katie around. Plus, I was running out of options. Katie needed preschool, and I was at a loose end with work and daycare. It was just too much. I needed to put Katie first. She’s my priority.” I take another deep breath. “And that’s why you’re here.”
I step near her but don’t allow myself to touch her and point her to the dining room table. I’ve set out crayons and coloring sheets. Thank God my daughter likes the simple things. I’ve
already mentioned sign language to Katie, but I have no idea if she understands the concept completely. This is where I’m hoping Emily can help. It was her bright idea after all.
Katie joins us as we sit at the table, and Emily immediately begins chattering about fairy tales and fairy godmothers. She’s given my daughter a book and tells her they can read it in a little bit. They draw stuff on the paper I provided, and I’m sitting back watching and wondering how she’s doing it. Emily isn’t a mother, yet the way she nurtures Katie is coming so naturally to her. I’m sad on behalf of my daughter, whose own mother wasn’t half as caring.
“What did you draw there?” Emily asks. Katie slides the paper to her, and Emily looks at it, then glances at my daughter. “A birthday cake. Is it your birthday?”
Emily sits straighter, gazing up at me. “Is it her birthday?”
I’m shaking my head when I hear footsteps behind me. “It’s Jess’s birthday. Tomorrow.” My little sister’s voice is too high for someone in her thirties. Her hand extends over my shoulder as she reaches forward toward Emily. “Hi, I’m Tricia, his sister. You should totally come to his party tomorrow night at Tom’s.”
Uhm, what the hell? Sami Knight will be there, and I haven’t had the chance to tell Sami I’m no longer interested. I don’t need some catfight over me and on my birthday no less, but then I start to wonder.
Would Emily even fight for someone like me?
Sure, we’ve kissed, but isn’t that another fairy tale? Good girl goes for bad boy. Not that I’m that bad, but her opinion at times suggests I’m less than her. Small-town repairman. Single father. Living with my mom. Even though I’ve told her about my education, she doesn’t seem to care. It’s not who I am anymore anyway. I’m me, and I’m here, where I should be.
I tip my head back and glance up at my sister’s chin as she places each of her hands on my shoulders. “Just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” I mutter.
“Tom sent me on a mission.” She winks at me, and I hate how I now have two family members meddling.
“I wasn’t invited,” Emily says, keeping her voice steady as she gazes at Katie. Is she hurt? Would she even consider going to a party in my honor?
“Well, consider yourself invited,” Tricia says too cheerfully, patting my shoulder as I keep my eyes on Emily.
She isn’t looking up at me when she says, “I’ll need to think about it.”
I don’t understand what she’s getting out of this—sitting here helping my daughter—but I don’t ask. I’m just curious if this will work. Something shifts in Emily’s demeanor as she focuses back on my daughter.
“So Katie, your daddy told me he mentioned sign language to you.” There’s a pause. Of course there’s a pause. Silence fills the room.
“Do you know what sign language is?”
Emily picks up her iPad and taps on it a few times before holding it up to show Katie something.
“It’s a way to communicate with others. You get to speak with your hands.”
Emily goes crazy for a few minutes exaggerating how some people talk with their hands all the time. Waving them this way and that. Throwing them up in the air. I’m getting a real lesson myself, and Tricia’s presence lingers behind me. Her fingers hold me in place, still resting on my shoulders.
“Maybe we can learn to say happy birthday so you can say it to your daddy.”
I hold my breath for some reason. I’d prefer she speak the words. I want to hear her voice, but Emily helps Katie find a video on the internet, and together, the two of them follow the instructions.
“Happy.” Emily moves both her hands, palms facing her chest, and brushing them upward two times.
“Birthday,” she says next, then spreads her fingers on her right hand, taps her chin with her middle finger and moves it over her heart. She does the motion twice, repeating the word while making the two-step sign.
Happy Birthday, Katie mimics. I’ll need to learn what these symbols mean, and I reach for the iPad, staring at the paused video.
Can I do this? Can I learn a new language just so I can communicate with my child?
Happy Birthday, Katie gestures again. She concentrates on correctly positioning her hands, repeating the movements. Tricia remains behind me, digging her fingers into my shoulders. My heart races in my chest, and my eyes fixate on Katie.
“Can you do it again?” I ask her, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Can you teach me?”
Katie repeats the signs, and I practice them, a little uncomfortable with the movements but willing to learn as I watch my child’s face light up.
Emily taps Katie’s shoulder. “Let’s learn one more word.” She taps on the iPad, finds what she wants, and points to the video. I don’t hear an explanation, but Katie follows what she sees.
She lifts her right hand, palm out, and spreads her fingers. With the tip of her thumb, she taps two times just above her brow.
“What did she say?” I ask Emily, my voice hitching higher with anticipation.
“Let’s put it all together,” Emily says to Katie, and the two mimic the series of gestures, Emily speaking as they move their hands and fingers. “Happy. Birthday. Daddy.”
“Daddy,” Tricia whispers, and Katie repeats the sign for daddy.
When Katie finishes, I lean forward and open my arms. My baby girl slides off her chair and steps into them. Tugging her up to my lap, I hold her to me, closing my eyes for a second, overcome with emotion. When I open them, I see Emily watching me.
“Thank you,” I mouth like I did the other day in her nana’s dining room when I listened to her read. I knew my daughter was enraptured with her. I was enraptured myself. And confused. So confused.
Emily makes a motion, using her open right hand to tap her chin with her fingertips and then tipping her hand forward and down slightly in my direction. For a moment, I think she’s blowing me a kiss.
“Thank you,” Tricia whispers over my head, translating for me. “Why are you thanking him?” she retorts louder, giving a little snort of disbelief.
“For giving this a chance,” Emily says, keeping her voice soft.
I lick my lips, fighting against the fear—the fear I need this woman in my life and she’s going to slip out of it before I have a chance to do something about it.
Rule 9
Wishes rhymes with kisses, kind of.
[Emily]
I sit on the screened-in porch, contemplating how I’m down to only one evening before I need to leave. I know I can’t go. I don’t know how to ask my boss for more time off even though I certainly deserve the time. It’s not like I’ve been lazing away the days. The entire week has been an effort to clean Nana’s house and figure out the sink situation. Nana hardly registers the sink doesn’t work, but she notices that radio is missing, and she’s accused me of stealing it twice. I’ve done more research on Alzheimer’s and find accusations of stolen items is a common sign of early-stage dementia.
Grace and I have spoken again about my fear of leaving Nana alone as well as what to do about her situation. It’s an unresolved puzzle. A facility? And where? Keep her in Michigan or take her to Illinois? There are so many questions and I’m overwhelmed trying to figure it all out alone. I’m giving myself the night to make a final decision. I can already imagine what my boss will say if I call him and ask for another week. He’ll tell me they miss me while he’s deciding who will take over my articles. I’ve handed in two this week, despite the vacation days, and proposed another one of special interest on selective mutism.
My boss was not impressed.
My eyes close as I tip my head back on the worn outdoor cushion. This couch is still surprisingly comfortable despite the faded fabric. I’d like to fade away for a few minutes—to stop thinking—but I just can’t. In this position, my other senses take over, and I hear the noise of something moving on the gravel driveway. I assume it’s an animal scavenging through the night, and I dismiss the sound, wondering how Katie does it. How does s
he hold in her voice?
Suddenly, the presence of something large looms outside the screen at my back. I twist to look more closely and nearly come out of my skin at the outline of a man in the dark yard.
“Jesus,” I curse under my breath.
“Nope, Jess,” clarifies a masculine voice that sounds too familiar and slightly slurred. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
I head for the door and unlatch the hook, which I realize would hardly have prevented an intruder had there really been one. Then I notice a handful of pebbles in Jess’s hand and a paper bag in the other.
“You plannin’ on breaking and entering or something?” I tease, nodding at the collection.
“I was going to toss pebbles at your bedroom window to get your attention.” The gravel falls to the ground with a tinkling sound, and I smile. It’s juvenile but kind of romantic. I hold the door open even wider and tilt my head, inviting him into the dimly lit porch.
“You didn’t come to my party.” There’s a question buried in that statement, but I don’t have an answer. I didn’t really get an invitation despite the nicety of his sister. Considering we’d kissed and he hadn’t requested I attend, I felt awkward just showing up. He speaks rather loudly when he adds, “So I brought the party to you.”
“Nana,” I whisper and point a finger toward the ceiling as if she’s both my excuse for not attending and a reason to be quiet.
“Right. Quiet.” He holds a finger over his lips and huffs out an exaggerated shush. He steps over to the couch and plops himself on the middle cushion. I seat myself next to him and notice a second bag under his arm.
“Whatcha got?”
“Wine and cake.”
“And to what do I owe the honor? It’s your birthday. I should be gifting you.”
His head rolls on the back of the cushion where it rests. Gazing at me, he says, “What would you give me?”
Swallowing the knot in my throat and ignoring the sudden pulse between my thighs, I boldly respond with another question. “What do you want?”
