What Family Means. Geri Krotow

with the biggest vase was directly in front of them. She wondered why there weren’t any flowers in this vase. Why have a vase if you don’t have flowers?

      “Will, is that you?” A soft female voice floated down from above.

      “Yes, Mama.”

      He glanced at Debra and put his finger on his lips. He didn’t have to, though. Debra couldn’t have squeaked out a single syllable. She was afraid she’d pee her pants, she was so scared.

      Would Will’s mama be mad at them for coming in?

      “I’m up here feeding your brother. There are cookies on the counter, but don’t eat more than two.”

      “Yes, Mama.” Will smiled at Debra and grabbed her hand.

      “See? It’s okay! Let’s go get a cookie!” His voice wasn’t a complete whisper but it was quieter than she was used to.

      She trailed him into a small passageway and then through a swinging door into a kitchen like none she’d ever seen. Huge pots and pans hung from the ceiling and there was a long wooden table in the middle of the room. Debra counted eight chairs.

      “We don’t have eight chairs in our whole house, Will.”

      “Who cares, Deb? Here, have a cookie.”

      He handed her a big oatmeal raisin cookie and she took a bite. It was delicious!

      “Where does your mom buy these?”

      Will snorted.

      “She doesn’t buy them. Patsy bakes them for us.”

      “Who’s Patsy?”

      “Our help. Don’t you have help at your house?”

      “No. But it’s just me and Mommy, so we don’t need help.”

      “Oh.”

      They slid into the high cane chairs and continued to munch on their cookies. Debra couldn’t stop looking at the kitchen.

      The tall cupboards had frosted glass on them and she could see stacks of dishes. When did Will’s family ever use so many dishes? She wondered if he had his own dish, like her plate with the cartoon moose on it. Probably not.

      Will was a big boy already.

      “Will, did you—”

      The voice reached Debra’s ears and jolted her upright. She turned and faced Will’s mommy.

      Violet Bradley was so pretty, wrapped in a soft pink bathrobe. She even wore fuzzy pink slippers to match. And the little baby she held was so tiny! Had Debra and Will been that tiny? What would it be like to have a brother or sister?

      “Will! You didn’t tell me you had a guest.”

      From Violet’s tone Debra knew that Will was in trouble. And from the flash in his mother’s eyes, she knew it was her fault. She’d gotten Will into trouble. Debra felt a sick feeling in her tummy.

      “This is Deb. Her mom works in Daddy’s office.” Will stood straight in front of his mom and Debra was glad he was there, glad they were facing Mrs. Bradley together.

      “I know who she is, Will, but why is she here?”

      “I had to go to the potty.” Debra remembered the I Love Lucy shows she watched with Mommy, where the friends were always sticking up for each other. So she stuck up for Will.

      “There’s a bathroom in the office,” Will’s mother replied but still didn’t look at her. She was staring hard at Will, though. Debra wished she’d never agreed to come home with Will.

      “But it’s cold, Mom, and you have the best cookies.”

      Even Violet couldn’t resist such charm.

      She sighed. “You take two cookies each and go back to the office right away. The girl’s mother will worry.”

      “Thanks, Mom.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Bradley.” Debra slipped through the kitchen door as quickly and quietly as she could.

      Violet’s reply followed her into the foyer.

      “Will, after you take her back, you come straight home. Do you understand me, Will?”

      “Yes, Mama.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Present Day

       Buffalo, New York

       Debra

      THE SCREAM LODGED in the back of my throat. I swallowed and bit my lip. I no longer viewed the knitting needles in my hands as tools that turned a hand-spun mohair blend into a piece of art.

      They were potential weapons.

      If I heard one more boring remark about family trees from any of the ladies seated around the café table, I was going for it.

      I was going to poke my eyes out.

      “I like knitting, but it’s not the same as scrapbooking.” Shirley sat across the table from me and went on to rave about how scrapbooking had changed her life.

      I wasn’t convinced. “Shirley, that’s nice, but isn’t it a lot of work, clipping and gluing and finding the right colored papers?”

      Our group’s youngest member at age thirty-four, Maggie paged through Shirley’s latest creation. Her slim hand turned another sheet of Shirley’s ode to her youngest grandchild.

      “I agree. Give me a ball of good yarn and my rose-wood needles and I’m set for any journey.” Dolores laughed. She was her own best audience.

      Nine of us sat at the restaurant table, our breakfast dishes long cleared. We’d met here every Wednesday morning for the past several years. To knit, talk and grouse.

      Maybe I could steer the conversation back to knitting.

      “I just think it’d be tough to go through every single photo I’ve ever taken.” I kept purling as I spoke. “Besides, the best time of my life is now. I love to look at baby pictures of my kids, but to have to sift through them all…”

      I shuddered at the thought of the boxes and boxes of photos shoved under the eaves in our attic.

      “Can anyone help me with this? I dropped a stitch rows ago but I can’t bear to rip this out now.” Maggie held up the wool sweater she was making for her husband. It was a beautiful cable pattern. But an ugly ladder ran down one of the cables.

      “Let me show you how to fix that.” I stood up to walk over to her when my cell phone rang.

      “Hang on.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone.

      It was Violet, my mother-in-law.

      “Hey, Vi.”

      “Debra.” Her voice was soft, too soft.

      “What’s wrong?”

      Alarm made my simmering estrogen flush turn into an all-out hot flash. I started fanning my face with a knitting pattern.

      “My legs are swollen again and I’m having a hard time moving around.”

      “Did you take your pills this morning?” Vi had chronic congestive heart disease. At eighty-five she was doing pretty well but every now and then her symptoms flared, despite the medications.

      “Yes, but the cold’s making my bones ache.” I heard her sigh and the resignation it carried. Vi was used to good days and bad, but the “bad” days seemed to be getting worse, as though her circulatory system was wearing out.

      And with it, her desire to continue the fight.

      “I’ll be home in a few minutes. Keep the phone with you.” I put the phone back in its purse pocket and gathered up my knitting, shoving the needles into the large ball of yarn.