Wishes and Stitches (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

F
rank perked up. “That's your father? That's a lot of ashes. Was he taller than he looked in that picture?”

Jake gathered Milo up into his arms. “We'll be out in the car.” They disappeared out the front door before anyone else could move.

“Shit, Naomi,” said Rig. “I didn't mean to—oh, God. Is that really—?”

Naomi nodded, her mouth twisting miserably. She was going to have to . . . sweep Dad up.

“I'll get the broom,” she said.

Rig leaped forward. “No, let me do it. Please?”

She shook her head. Dammit, she would
not
get emotional about this. Not right now. There would be time for that later, when the house was empty again.

Except for her sister.

A moment later, she brought the dustpan and brush into the living room. Rig still looked shell shocked. “I'm so sorry. I can't imagine . . . but your sister said that to Jake, and then I was just going to say something, but I hit the lamp instead—”

God. Her sister and the comment about Jake's dead wife. The house was full of dead people, wasn't it? At least Jake didn't have to sweep anything up.

The ash was both fine and gritty at the same time. Some of it stayed heavy as sand on the floor, and some flew up into the air like dust. Naomi tasted it in her mouth and bit her inner lip to keep from crying.

She wished Rig would just go. But he wasn't getting it—he just stood above her, staring down at her with those impossibly sad, apologetic eyes.

Frank raised one hand and said, “Lovely to meet you, my dear. My regards to your . . . ” His eyes fell to her brush. “ . . . family.” He slipped out the front door, quietly closing it behind him.

Naomi finished collecting everything into the dustpan, and then she had no clue as to what to do with it. Was it okay to put the ashes into a plastic bag? Was it disrespectful?

Rig spoke again, “Will you at least let me buy another urn? Was that one sentimental?”

“No. My mom gave it to me, actually. Thus the owl on it. I always kinda thought it was funny I stored Dad's ashes in there. It'd rile her if she knew.” She smiled at the thought and then felt sadness at having to sweep up her father's ashes. It warred with anger at Rig for creating the whole mess in the first place. But he hadn't meant to. Just like Anna hadn't meant to throw the bomb into the middle of the room.

“I'm sorry about my sister,” said Naomi. “She's so used to charming everyone she meets that . . .”
When it comes to men she wants to flirt with
, she thought. Jake was Anna's type, she knew. Tall, dark, and probably emotionally unavailable after a traumatic loss. With a kid to top it off. Great.

“She was fine. She didn't know,” said Rig. “Jake's a big boy. He knows that people will ask him questions.”

Naomi looked down again into the dustpan. “I don't have any idea what to do with this now.”

He considered it with a serious expression and then said, “You don't want to store that in anything like a cup or a bowl. Nothing you eat from. Just as a matter of politeness, of course.”

She blanched. “Of course. Do you think a bag would be okay?”

“Do you have a vase?”

Her mind went blank. “Like, for flowers?”

“It seems like a nice place to be until you get a new urn, and the flowers won't mind later. They'll like it.”

What a morbid conversation to be having. What a macabre thing to be
doing
. But it had to be done, and preferably before Anna came back out. Naomi didn't want to have to explain to her sister what had happened when she'd left the room. Even though it wasn't
her
father who'd hit the floor, it still wouldn't be a pleasant surprise for a pregnant woman who was probably supposed to be taking it easy.

“I'll get one from the kitchen.” But she was still holding the now-heavy dustpan. She didn't want to set it down. . . .

“Tell me where it is. I'll get it.”

“Upper-right cabinet, next to the sink. There's a dark-colored one—maybe that would work.” If it was the dark vase, they couldn't look through clear glass and see Dad, what was left of him. Oh, God.

As he went into the kitchen, Naomi noticed that there was still dust on the floor, the finest bits that the brush hadn't picked up. It was between the slats of the hardwood. It would probably take a vacuum cleaner to get it up.

She sat on the couch, as carefully as she could without jostling the contents of the dustpan. She didn't even want to breathe too hard, lest she cast any more of the dust upward.

Rig came back. “Is this it?” he asked, holding up the dark vase. It was a shorter, squatter vase than any of her others, and it would be a fine temporary holding place. She could fashion a plastic-wrap lid later.

Naomi nodded.

“You want me to hold it? While you . . . pour?” he asked, sitting next to her on the couch.

Nodding again, Naomi held the corner of the dustpan to the lip of the vase. Carefully, she tipped it, pouring the ash as slowly as she could.

“Would your dad at least have thought this was funny?”

Naomi didn't look at Rig, just kept pouring. “Well, yeah. He wouldn't talk about it much, didn't really talk about anything, usually. Just work.”
Maybe that's where I get it from.
“So he didn't laugh much, but when he did, his laughter boomed like thunder. I loved feeling it in my chest.”

“That's a nice memory.” Rig cupped one hand around the top so that nothing escaped.

It was kind of him to do that, she thought. He was a nice man.

And it was completely, terribly wrong that she heated up this way when she looked at him, warmth pooling between her thighs when she remembered how he'd kissed her. He had the dust of her
father
on his hands, for God's sake.

Naomi stored the vase carefully on the same end table and took the dustpan and brush through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. She'd shake them off in the morning, when she was more clearheaded. Now, she just wanted to get Rig out and away, then she wanted to talk to her sister, then she wanted nothing more than deep, oblivious sleep.

In the living room he stood, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Long day,” he said.

“Obviously.” Crap, it sounded like she was mad. But she wasn't angry with him anymore for breaking the urn, she really wasn't.

Rig didn't flinch, though. “I'm going to go,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the front door. “They're out there waiting for me.”

How had she forgotten all about the other Keller men? “Yeah, that would be good.”

This time he did flinch. “Again, I'm sorry.” Then he just stood there, not moving.

“I guess I'll see you on Monday, then,” she said.

They faced each other. Naomi didn't know whether she should put out her hand to shake or not. That would be the polite thing. The professional thing.

Therefore it was the right thing. “Well, good night.”

Rig looked surprised at seeing her hand, but he shook it brusquely. “Good night,” he said.

When she shut the door behind him, she felt a wild urge to either laugh or cry, and she wasn't sure which one she felt more like doing. She turned, leaning her back against the door, staring into the living room that just moments ago had been so abnormally full of people.

And her house still wasn't empty. One person remained, the only person she'd ever avoided more than her mother.

Anna.

Chapter Twenty-four

A
nna?” Naomi didn't want to just push open the guest room door that stood ajar, but her sister hadn't responded to the light tap she'd given on the wood. The room was dark, no lights on. Anna couldn't possibly have gone to sleep already, could she?

“You still in there?” Would she have slipped out the back door? Without saying anything?

Sure she would. She'd done it before. Naomi entered the room and flipped on the light switch. “Anna?”

Her sister, still wearing the red robe, was lying on her back on the bed, one arm slung over her eyes. “What?”

“We need to talk.”

“I guess. Can we do it in the morning, though? I can't even begin to tell you how tired I am. I was on the bus for two days, and that's no place for a person who has to pee every seventeen seconds.” Anna sighed. “It's just that everything kind of hurts. And I'm exhausted.” Her voice wobbled at the end of the sentence, and Naomi ached to give her something: a hug, maybe, or a kiss on the top of the head. Even a pat on the knee would do. She took a step toward her sister, but Anna rolled so that she was on her side, facing the wall.

Rather than addressing her sister's back, Naomi went to the window and pulled the curtains over the already-shut blinds. Where was she supposed to start? She didn't have a textbook for this, no class had ever prepared her for it. She should ask about the baby's father. How it had happened. Was her sister in love? Had she been left by someone? Had she done the leaving? Was Anna hurting?

Instead, she asked, “How far along are you?”

Anna said nothing.

Naomi tugged the last curtain closed impatiently, and was rewarded for her distractedness by having the curtain rod jump its hooks, the curtain slithering to the floor as she tried to grab it. She always forgot this rod was tricky. Dang it.

“Anna, you have to talk to me. I'm letting you stay—”

“Big of you,” her sister muttered.

“Excuse me?” Naomi felt heat in her forehead as she fought with her temper. “The least you can do is answer a couple of questions before you fall asleep.”

“Fine.” With a thunk, Anna rolled over onto her back again, and folded her arms over her stomach.

“Seven months, I'm guessing?”

“Twenty-nine weeks, actually,” said Anna.

“Wow. How do you feel?”

“About being pregnant?”

“No, physically.” Shoot, she should have said yes. That would have been good. Naomi kicked herself.

“Physically, great. I'm an ideal pregnant person. I haven't had a second of morning sickness, I don't get overly tired, unless I cross the country on a bus, and my back doesn't even hurt. My feet are getting swollen, that's the only thing that's bothering me lately. That and I'm getting to the point where I can't see them.”

“You're carrying well,” said Naomi. She brushed some nonexistent dust from the bureau.

“If by that you mean I'm not a fat cow, I beg to differ. I've put on thirty pounds.”

“You were underweight before.”

“Thanks,” said Anna in a sour voice. “Didn't take you long to start criticizing. Should I tell you where the dad and I met? Would you believe a pool hall? Or should I tell you we met in the can? Or better, in jail?”

With a tone sharper than she intended it to be Naomi said, “Quit it. This is exactly what I expected from you.”

Faster than Naomi would have thought she'd be able to, Anna sat up, swinging her legs wide over the edge of the bed. “What? Knocked up? Broke? Begging for help?”

Naomi didn't answer her. Besides, the answer was obvious.

Anna got the same sad, stubborn look she used to get when they were kids, the one she got when things weren't going her way. Her mouth turned down, and her eyelids dropped over her blue eyes. When they were young, their mother would fall for it, caving in to her demands for chocolate and new toys.

“I'm keeping the baby,” Anna said.

“Okay,” said Naomi, feeling proud of herself that she didn't utter the first thing that came to her:
What the fuck are you thinking?

“You don't mean that.”

Naomi shrugged. “It's a pretty innocuous word.
Okay
.”

“You're going to want me to give it away, I know you will. You don't think I can do this, but I can. I've changed.”

Naomi had heard this before, most recently the last time Anna had come to visit, which had been when Naomi was still in San Diego. She'd had a plan that involved something with a friend's hydroponics start-up and had needed a loan. The business was supposed to be completely legal, and the reassurances that a check would come the first of every month, paying Naomi back in installments, had sounded heartfelt, and Naomi had actually believed her.

She'd never received one check.

“No, I've
really
changed.”

Naomi pulled open a bureau drawer. She patted the T-shirts that she'd left inside it—she should really sort them and get rid of the old ones. If Anna stayed, she'd need room . . . What was she thinking? Anna couldn't stay. No, make that Anna
wouldn't
stay.

“Have you found religion?” asked Naomi, slamming the drawer shut.

“No.”

“Addicted to any substances, herbal or otherwise?”

“I don't even eat chocolate because I don't want the caffeine buzz for the baby.”

Naomi frowned. “You can eat chocolate. There's no problem with that. Are you employed full-time? Or even part-time?”

“No.” Anna's voice was small.

Leaning on the bureau's sharp edge, Naomi said, “Tell me how you've changed.”

Anna's eyes met her own. “I'm a mother.”

“Oh, please. You have a fetus inside you,” said Naomi. “You're not a mother until you've changed four diapers between midnight and three
A.M.
”

Anna's hands curved protectively around her belly. “I have a baby inside me.
My
baby. And I don't know how, but it's all going to be okay.” A pause. “For once.”

Naomi turned to the side and readjusted the position of the alarm clock on top of the bureau. Owl shaped, it hadn't worked since the batteries died six months ago. It reminded her that she should call their mother. But God, she didn't want to be the one to break the news that Maybelle was going to be a grandmother, and that she wasn't even getting a son-in-law in the bargain. To her mother, Anna, even with all her faults, was perfect. It would be too painful to be the one to knock her off the pedestal. Anna should call her herself, when she was ready.

The owl clock
was
kind of cute. It worked for a nursery-cum-bedroom. She should put new batteries in.

Maybe this would be okay.

She spoke slowly. “You didn't get to see the living room floor after Dad's ashes were scattered all over the room.”

Anna covered her mouth with her hand. Muffled, she said, “Your dad's
ashes
? You're kidding me.”

“Rig knocked over the urn.”

A snort was heard under the hand. “That's awful.”

Naomi nodded. “They were in an owl vase until he broke it.”

A small, delighted scream. “You're kidding. Mom would plotz. I can't believe I missed that. That's even more awful than me simply not knowing Jake was widowed.”

“Way worse,” Naomi agreed.

A giggle escaped from Anna. “Did you pick him back up?”

“Rig helped. He felt awful.” Naomi didn't think the smile she was trying to subdue would be respectful to her father. But really, it
was
funny, seen from the outside.

“I bet he did,” said Anna. “What's the story on him? He's hot.”

Naomi fiddled with the green lamp that she always had trouble with. “If you can't get this to shut off, then just unplug it here at the base. I'll get another one that works so you can have a night-light. You always liked reading in bed.”

She knew what her words meant. And she knew that her sister might not even stay the whole night, let alone more than a few days. Naomi didn't want to get burned again. Hurt. She was done with all that. When she'd washed her hands of rescuing her sister that last time, when the hydroponics business turned out to be nothing more than a large grow operation that left Anna busted and sitting in jail for four months, she'd felt good, if sad, about the decision to avoid her sister as much as possible in the future.

This, right now, wasn't avoiding. This, probably, wouldn't be smart. But Naomi met Anna's hopeful eyes and, for once, didn't look away first. “I have some of your old books in the garage. I'll get them out tomorrow. And I have a gift certificate a patient gave me for the Book Spire. It's a nice store. I'll dig that up and you can have it.” Naomi pulled her hair back from her face. “If you want it.”

Anna's smile was like sunrise. “Yeah. I want it. Thank you, Naomi.”

“Right.” Naomi was out the door in the space of a breath. “Watch the toilet, jiggle the handle if it runs.”

She escaped into her own room, and drew a breath that shook in her chest. “Oh, wow,” she whispered.

Family. Living under her roof. In Cypress Hollow.

Suddenly, in what felt like the space of a heartbeat, Naomi knew she wanted this to work. There was nothing she could do about Anna freaking out and running off. She knew that from too much past experience. But God, she wanted her sister here.

Now, to just keep from blowing it herself.