Blow(45)

William was Erin’s oldest and at seven, he was quite a little man.

I raised my hands. “Don’t shoot.”

Disappointment flickered on his face. “That was too easy, Elle. Next time you have to draw your own gun.”

Little did he know, I was toting a real gun in my purse. “You mean like this?” I pretended to have a gun pointed at him.

“Whoa, you’re fast,” he said, his eyes like saucers.

“Elle, is that you?” Erin called from the kitchen.

“Hi, Erin. Yes, it’s me.”

“Come on in. Clementine is just finishing dinner,” she said.

“Race you to the kitchen,” I challenged William.

He promptly took off, practically mowing over Conner on the way.

“I want to play,” Conner said. Conner was five and always wanted to be doing what his older brother was doing.

While they sped ahead, I walked past the family room, which was completely littered with toys, and stepped on a Lego or two in the hallway. Erin’s house was always chaos, but the kids always seemed to be laughing and having fun.

Given that, I guessed, what did a little mess matter?

I passed dozens of pictures on the wall. Mostly of the kids, who obviously ruled the household. I stopped at one in particular. It was of a family of five. I knew it was Michael and Erin and their parents, but I wasn’t familiar with the third child. He was an older boy, and his eyes were just as ice blue as Michael’s and his mother’s. I would ask Erin, but she didn’t like to talk about her parents. She and her father didn’t get along, and for that matter, neither did Michael and his father.

The kitchen was in the back of the house and I knew just when the boys reached it.

“I win!” William yelled.

“No, I win,” Conner countered.

“I think you both won,” I said from the archway.

I knew better than to look around but I still did, growing a bit uneasy at the mess. Bottles, cups, and bowls covered almost every inch of the counter. Pots and dishes filled the sink. Crayons and markers were all over the table, and I couldn’t help noticing someone had decided to try his hand at sketching on the wall.

Finally, my eyes landed on a little treasure. Clementine sat in a booster chair with a tray of food and beside her in a high chair sat Braden. Braden and Clementine were practically the same age. I think Braden was a month or two older.

Erin turned around in her chair. She was wearing sweatpants and her fiery red hair was in a disheveled ponytail. She looked how I felt—exhausted. Taigh, who was six weeks old, was at her breast. I think she was still breast-feeding Braden and I wondered how that worked.

“Mama!” Clementine shrieked when she saw me.

My heart stilled and panic struck at the same time.

With uncertainty, Erin’s eyes darted to mine.

“She’s never called me that before,” I managed to say, not sure how to respond to either Erin or Clementine.

Erin waved her free hand dismissively. “It’s the only word Braden knows. They’ve been copying each other all day. She even wanted to drink from my breast.” Erin let out a laugh. “And he wanted to drink milk from her sippy cup.”

Okay then.

Perhaps that was all it was. With a smile, I crossed the room to greet the happy little girl. “Hi, sweet girl. How are you are today?” I cooed.

My heart still wasn’t beating as it should and I had to fight back the urge to cry. She wasn’t my daughter. She had a mother. And hopefully her mother would be returning to her soon. But all of that didn’t make the moment any less special.

“I couldn’t get her to eat the peas,” Erin said, switching breasts.

I looked at Clementine’s tray and had to laugh. Green mushy blobs were everywhere. “Yes, I can see that.”

Erin blew a loose piece of hair out of her eyes. “At least she ate all her applesauce and macaroni and cheese.”

Clementine’s navy-blue dress showed signs of both. “Thanks for feeding her.”

“Mommy, he hit me.”

“No, Mommy. He hit me.”

The older boys were yelling from the other room, but it didn’t seem to faze Erin a bit. “John, the boys are fighting and they need a bath anyway. I’d like to go to early Mass tomorrow,” she called to her husband, who must have been elsewhere in the house.

I hadn’t realized he was home. John was a doctor and usually took call on the weekends. Weekend call made it easier for him to be home at night during the week, and it was important for him to see his children. He was a nice, respectable man who took care of his family with more than just money.

“I’m on it,” John answered from somewhere upstairs.

His response didn’t surprise me—he was always helping with the boys.

So different from how I’d grown up.

“Come on, boys,” John called. A moment later I heard laughter and the boys giggling as they ran up the stairs.

“I want to go first,” William said.

“No, I do,” Conner whined.

With a tight grip on the sticky handles, I carefully removed Clementine’s food tray.

Giving the kitchen my full attention now, I couldn’t help but think about what a stark contrast this house was to the one I grew up in. Everything in our home always had to be clean, orderly, in the right place. We had to eat everything on our plate, we weren’t allowed to yell or scream, and we always tidied our own messes. And my father never helped my mother with anything except for disciplinary issues.