Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(49)

Having engine problems? Car won’t start? Feel you’ve “bought a lemon”? Because Mercury rules transportation, during the retrograde period, a person’s ability to catch a plane on time is compromised. Luggage is lost, and it’s hard to find a good mechanic.





But hey, it’s not YOU!





It’s MERCURY!





When planet Mercury “retrogrades” it appears to be moving backward in the sky. Just like your miserable life!





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EMAIL—Time Received: 1:23 p.m.

TO: Holly Banks





FROM: Rosie McClure, School Office, Primm Academy





SUBJECT: Lots of things, too numerous to count.





Ms. Banks, this is Rosie McClure from the school office. I believe we met earlier today? You signed for my map.





I hope this doesn’t sound terse or insensitive, but your daughter, Ella, was brought to the school office during lunch today because she had no lunch. Nor did she have any money to buy lunch. Perhaps this detail slipped your mind? I gave her money from the school’s petty cash account and made sure she had something nutritious to eat. Please come to the school office at your earliest convenience to settle your daughter’s account. It’s only the first day of school, and already she has a negative balance.





On another note, you may want to have her evaluated for kindergarten readiness. She’s been crying for you for most of the morning.





Perhaps you should come to the school to pick your daughter up? Use the carpool lot, not the bus lane, please. I’ve added a $10 cleanup fee to Ella’s account for the cookie mess you spewed all over the door. You also traipsed through the Science Department’s endangered boxwoods and ivy garden. Do you have something against sidewalks?





You can wait for me on the wooden bench outside the school office. You know, the bench beneath our nation’s flag? That one.





16


Back to school again



Holly felt certain, with the notable exception of Mary-Margaret St. James, there wasn’t another mother in town going “back to school” as often as she was on Ella’s first day of kindergarten.

Ella appeared so innocent and vulnerable in her blue dress and little doggie backpack, waiting for Holly on the wooden bench beneath the American flag, the volunteer bulletin board, and the paper sun with the streaming petition to volunteer. The moment Ella’s eyes met Holly’s, Ella yelled, “Mommy!” and leaped to her feet, running the length of about fifteen black and white ceramic tiles. Holly knelt down on the large welcome mat where the Pie Committee once stood, her arms stretched wide to receive Ella as she crashed into Holly with such force Holly fell backward. The two of them, a pile of emotions sprawled out on the mat, smothering the word welcome.

Ella’s arms and legs wrapped around Holly so tight you’d think Ella was trying to climb inside Holly’s rib cage. Holly didn’t bother standing upright or wiping away Ella’s tears. She didn’t care that Pink Freshwater Pearls from the school office stood in the doorway, watching. After the day they had? Nothing mattered. Nothing. Nuclear proliferation? Who cared? Climate change? Didn’t matter. Trans fats? Zzzzzz. Ella was Holly’s baby girl, and she’d had a bad day. That was what mattered. The End. Fin.

Holly signaled Freshwater Pearls to give them a minute as she sat, rocking Ella, kissing her neck, smelling her scent, running her fingers through Ella’s hair.

“Mommy’s here. Don’t cry, sweetie.”

“I don’t want to go to kinner garnen.”

Ella sucked her thumb.

“I know it’s hard, Ella. New things are hard.”

And dang it, Ella wasn’t supposed to suck her thumb. But Holly didn’t want to deal with that right now because Ella needed comfort—Ella needed her thumb.

“Aim sleeves back plack on my cooks.”

What? “Ella, honey, I can’t understand you.” Holly pulled Ella’s thumb from her mouth, wondering if now was the best time to pick this battle. Jack’s voice crept inside Holly’s head, reminding her she needed to be consistent. Every dang parenting article by those stupid dang child psychologists popped into Holly’s stupid dang head. Ella had turned five in May. Holly knew she shouldn’t suck her thumb or drink from a sippy cup. She didn’t need Jack or the magazines—and especially not the cable guy—telling her that.

Holly gave a sidelong glance at the checkered pattern of the black and white floor tiles, so grateful she’d had time to drive home, take a shower, and get into some real clothes. White jeans, a heather-gray shirt, and a pair of black Doc Martens. Maybe all of this was her fault. Maybe Ella’d be ready for kindergarten if Holly’d weaned her off thumb-sucking earlier. But what was Holly supposed to do now? Trust the mothering instincts that told her now was not the time to take Ella’s thumb away from her? Or be consistent, as Jack said, and help Ella break the habit? Holly hated moments like this. Motherhood was so confusing.