A Heartbeat Away. Eleanor Jones

      “Well, for that I’ll say thank-you, Edna Brown, but as your services are no longer required, I suggest that you get yourself off home and leave my daughter to me.”

      I felt so proud of Mrs. Brown, standing up to my dad like that. I wished with all my heart that my mom was watching, so that she, too, could learn to be strong and brave. And in that moment I made a promise to myself. Whatever happened in my life, I would never cower from it like my poor sad mom. I would never give in and turn inside myself, as she had.

      “Your wife was released from the nursing home into my care,” Mrs. Brown went on. “She needs peace, no worries and plenty of rest, or else she’ll be back in there in no time at all.”

      My dad’s swarthy skin turned a dull red.

      “Well, she has me now. Doesn’t she, Mrs. Brown?” he retorted.

      For just the slightest second, I saw Mrs. Brown’s glance waver. She placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it tight.

      “Well, you damn well make sure that you look after them both,” she told him in a frosty voice. “Or else you’ll have me to answer to.”

      My dad took hold of my hand then and pulled me toward him, and we watched as she walked back toward her car, head held high.

      “Nosy old bag,” he murmured as she climbed into her car and started the engine. I thought she was just going to drive away, but she regarded us for a moment, then wound down her window and leaned out.

      “Bye, Lucy,” she called, with a gentle smile for me. But as she turned her gaze onto my dad, her eyes went all glittery and hard.

      “You can tell Mary that I’ll be along on Friday as usual to collect her allowance for her, so I’ll see her then.”

      My dad’s mouth was set in a grim line and his blue eyes blazed with anger as he yanked at my arm and dragged me easily behind him into the house, despite the fact that I kept my legs stiff and straight. The front door slammed so hard behind us that I thought it might fall off its hinges.

      

      I went back to school in the first week of January, and life gradually settled into an uneasy routine. Every Friday Mrs. Brown would stop by to visit my mom, then go to collect her money from the post office before picking Daniel and me up at school. She always brought Fudge with her, and we would play with him in the back of the car while she drove to the supermarket to buy our groceries.

      My dad was never there when we got home on Fridays. I suppose he didn’t want to see Mrs. Brown. He knew he couldn’t stop her coming, so he just stayed away. And that was probably a good thing. If not for her going to the supermarket for us on Fridays, there would never have been any food to eat in our house at all.

      As soon we carried all the bags into the kitchen, Mrs. Brown would put on the kettle to make a pot of tea to share with my mom. Sometimes my mom would help her, when she was having one of her “better days,” but usually she just sat in the living room and waited. I often wondered how Mrs. Brown could be so patient with her, but when I asked her about it one day, she told me that my mom was ill and I had to be patient, too. It made sense to me, and I did try, but it was hard.

      Mrs. Brown always stayed for at least an hour, and Daniel and I used to go outside and throw a ball for Fudge. He never tired of running for that ball, and when we went back into the house, he’d be so exhausted he’d flop on the floor, his tongue hanging out, until it was time to go home.

      

      One Friday in spring, when golden daffodils were blooming everywhere and the birds sang sweet songs of promise from way up in the budding treetops, we burst into the house with our grocery bags to find my mom sobbing by the unlit fire. She was on her knees with a letter in her hand and her eyes were red-rimmed.

      I looked at the envelope she had discarded in the hearth and realized that it was exactly the same as all the others that had arrived lately—the ones that my dad always burned. He would run down the stairs while my mom was still in bed, pick up the mail from where it lay on the mat and throw most of the letters, unopened, into the fire.

      “Damn bills,” he would curse as yellow flames licked away at the officially typed writing. Then he would grab his coat from the peg by the door and march out of the house, banging the door behind him. Sometimes after one of those outbursts he would stay away all day and all night, and sometimes he would come home in the early hours of the morning, singing and shouting his way down the street. Whatever he did, it always made my mom cry, and now that she knew about the letters, I was afraid of what she might do

      I looked at her crumpled gray face, all blurry with tears, and repeated my vow—the one that I had made to myself on the day Mrs. Brown had brought me home.

      Daniel and I stood open-mouthed as Mrs. Brown untangled the letter from her trembling fingers. She read it through with a grave frown on her face, and for an instant I thought she, too, was going to cry. Then her mouth set into a thin straight line and she folded the crisp white paper several times before placing it deliberately on the tabletop.

      “Now, come on, Mary,” she said. “Crying isn’t going to help, is it?”

      My mom moaned.

      “I think I’ll just end it all, Edna,” she sobbed.

      Mrs. Brown tut-tutted and glanced at Daniel and me.

      “Why don’t you go outside and play with Fudge, children,” she told us firmly. But I held on to Daniel’s hand and made him wait with me outside the door. It was my mom and I wanted to see what was going to happen.

      “Let’s look through the rest of this mail,” suggested Mrs. Brown in her best matter-of-fact tone of voice, “and then I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.”

      Why was it that grown-ups always thought drinking tea would help?

      Daniel and I stayed close to the door, straining our ears, but all we heard was the crackle of paper as Mrs. Brown sorted through the letters. When her firm voice cut through the silence again, it made us both jump.

      “Have you read this one, Mary?”

      My mom didn’t reply, and she asked her again with a tinge of impatience.

      “Have you read it? It’s from your sister. I didn’t know you had a sister.”

      I didn’t know that my mom had a sister, either, and when I nudged Daniel and shrugged, he pulled a face at me and I started to giggle.

      “Outside now, children,” ordered Mrs. Brown. We sucked in our breaths and stayed very quiet until Fudge went racing past us into the living room; then Mrs. Brown came and found us and sent us out into the garden.

      I didn’t feel like playing because all I could think about was that letter. What if it made my mom ill again? What would my dad do when he got home? What if we lost our house the way we had before?

      Daniel and I sat on the wall in the warm spring sunshine as Fudge ran up and down by himself. We didn’t really need to talk, because Daniel always knew what I was thinking. After a while he jumped down and looked at me with the bright expression on his sunny face that told me he was about to have a good idea.

      “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside and ask them what’s happening? Just because we’re kids doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be told things.”

      Daniel always knew what to do. He was so confident and brave—and he was right, too. After all, I mean, if the letter was going to change my life, then I really ought to know about it.

      Together we marched into the house, accompanied by Fudge, who tore around us in dizzy circles, eager to play. I wished that I were a dog, with nothing on my mind but food and fun.

      My mom had stopped crying and she was gazing up at Mrs. Brown with a surprised expression on her thin face.

      “But I haven’t heard from Violet in years,” she cried.

      Mrs. Brown shrugged.