Interrupted Read online

  “Glad you think so,” I muttered. I sat back and looked around the orchard. The ripening apples swung from the trees, wobbling in the wind.

  “Allie, are those your shoes?”

  I followed Mama’s glance and saw my shoes still sitting on the dock. I sighed. “Yes.” Focusing on Mama, I stood and took a step back. “Stay right here on the blanket. I’ll only be a minute.”

  I ran down the hill to the lake and scooped my shoes off the dock. The duck was still gliding across the water, staring at me blankly. I rolled my eyes. “Stupid duck.” I stood back and watched it take off in flight.

  Sighing, I turned and trudged back up toward the picnic blanket. I squinted at the sun. It was getting late. I paused. The picnic blanket was empty. Mama wasn’t there.

  “Allie!” Sam shouted.

  I dropped my shoes. My heart began to race. I whipped around and scanned the orchard. “Where are you?”

  Someone sneezed. I ran in the direction of the sound, my shoulders dropping once I approached the source. Mama.

  She was perched in a tree, reaching for an unripe apple. She looked down and brightened. “Oh, Allie. Can you help me reach this apple?”

  I ran up beside Sam and stood at the base of the tree, grabbing one of Mama’s dangling legs. “Come down from there,” I said calmly, although my pulse was throbbing. “Climbing trees isn’t safe, remember?”

  Mama licked her lips, looking panicked. “I … I can’t.”

  “What do you mean?” I forced my voice to sound light and teasing. “You got up there, didn’t you?”

  She began to mumble to herself about being dizzy. She swayed, reaching out to grab the trunk for support. “Allie … my head. It feels …” Her voice was slurred.

  I took a shaky breath and began to climb the tree. The wood was too smooth, too slick. How did she get up there in the first place?

  “Grab my hand,” I said, extending an arm to her. “I’ll get you down.”

  Mama stared at me with her large blue eyes. “What?”

  “Give me your hand.”

  She recoiled as if I were a poisonous adder, slamming her head against the trunk of the tree. “Get your hand away from me!”

  I winced at the impact of her skull against the wood. But Mama wasn’t crying, wasn’t even moaning. The only emotion on her face was fear of me. She was terrified of her daughter.

  “Mama …” My voice cracked. I licked my lips. “Please. Give me your hand. We’re going home now.”

  Mama began to cry, the tears streaking her pale cheeks. “Get away from me!” She buried her face in her sleeve. “I won’t go anywhere with you!”

  She’s going to fall. She’s going to get hurt. I glanced down and began to panic. We weren’t very high, but the ground was just far enough away to cause damage if she lost her balance. “Stop this nonsense!” I tried to grab her wrist. “Come on. At least let me pull you down.”

  She turned her head from me and sobbed into her arm. “Go away!”

  My heart sank. She really doesn’t know who I am.

  “Okay,” I whispered, releasing her wrist. I climbed down the tree and settled in the grass. Peering up at Mama, I let out a long sigh. “If you’re not going to come down, I’m just going to wait.”

  “I’ll never come down!” Mama sniffled. “I … I …” She gasped for breath. “I told you I cut the peaches small enough! I did, I did.” She covered her face with her hands, muffling her sobs.

  I lowered my eyes and sank onto the ground, picking up a stick to trace patterns in the dirt.

  Sam squatted beside me, leaning against the tree. “Allie, I …”

  Mama choked on a sob, then began to quiet down. Her shoulders were still shaking, but her breathing slowed.

  I glanced at Sam. He was watching me, his blue eyes brimming with tears. I looked away.

  “Allie?” Sam whispered.

  “What?” I jabbed at the ground with the stick. Stupid dirt.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Those two words hung in the air — punctuated by Mama’s stifled cries. “So am I,” I whispered, curling my knees up to my chest.

  “Can I …” Sam bit his lip, then reached out to touch my hair. “Is there anything I can do?”

  I jerked away. “No.”

  “Oh.” His face fell. He dropped his hand and stuck it in his pocket. “I guess I’ll go.”

  “Okay.”

  He stood and lingered for only a second before turning away. I looked up at his back and bit my lip. “Sam?”

  He turned. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for coming to the picnic.” I gave him a small smile.

  He grinned slowly, his blue eyes crinkling. “I had a good time.”

  I watched him walk away before I picked up my stick again, drawing letters in the dirt.

  I looked up at the rose-painted sky. Shots of amber and gold lit up the pond, casting shadows through the speckled leaves of the apple trees.

  A soft snore came from the tree. I looked up and saw Mama’s leg swaying back and forth — dangling from the branch.

  Releasing a heavy breath, I pushed myself up, brushing dirt off my skirt. I bit my lip, staring at Mama. How am I going to get her down?

  I managed to clamber halfway up the tree and wrap my arms around her waist. Careful to keep her head from hitting any branches, I pulled her sleeping body out of the tree and laid it on the picnic blanket.

  There was a nasty bump on the back of her head, so I ran back to the house and scooped ice cubes out of the icebox, wrapping them in an old rag. Kneeling by Mama’s side, I pressed the rag against her skull.

  Oh, Mama, why? Why are you doing this to yourself?

  Tears stung at my eyes. I whispered, “At least you fell asleep in our own backyard. I can’t imagine how I would have gotten you home from Mr. Ward’s house.” I smoothed a dark hair off her forehead.

  “I love you,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “Do you remember … do you remember when I was little and I used to draw you pictures, and they were absolutely awful but you used to tell me they were beautiful and hang them above the dining room table? Then we’d pretend we had guests over and you’d make them praise me too.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I looked down at Mama and smiled, stroking her soft cheek. “They should have praised you instead.”

  I pulled off my sweater and wrapped it around Mama’s thin shoulders. Then I curled up on the ground next to her, holding her hand against my cheek.

  The June sky was so blue. I leaned against the sturdy tree trunk and stared up at it, fingering my apple. A flock of birds appeared on the horizon and called out to each other as they crossed over the yard. I wondered what it would be like to be a bird, wild and free. What a delicious afternoon. A smile spread across my face, warm and slow.

  “When are we going to decorate for Christmas, Allie?”

  I frowned and looked down, jerked back to reality. Mama was sitting below me on a blanket, a book in her lap. This one was full of pictures, since her eyes couldn’t focus on the words anymore.

  “Mama, it’s still summer.”

  Mama shook her head. “No it’s not, it’s Christmastime.” She squinted up at me.

  I took another bite of my apple and rested my head up against the oak tree. My bare legs swung through the humid summer air. “Mama, if it were almost Christmas, wouldn’t we be wearing coats?”

  Mama frowned for a minute, her clear blue eyes looking very troubled. “No.”

  “Okay, then.” I munched my apple and looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were beginning to gather, threatening a storm. Perhaps I had better get Mama inside.

  “We need to get out our Christmas album, Allie.”

  I looked down. Mama was staring up at me with that stern look on her face.

  I tried to decide which would be worse: having the neighbors think we were crazy or disappointing Mama. “Okay,” I sighed, swinging down from the tree.

  I put in one of Mama’s old record albums
and waltzed around the living room with her to “Silent Night.”

  “Allie,” Mama moaned, “you’re stepping on my toes.”

  “Sorry.” I played the male part, leading Mama around the room. One-two-three, one-two-three. Mama’s waist felt so thin and frail; I had to dig my fingers into her sides to hold on. Where did all her flesh go?

  “Ouch.” This time Mama stepped on my foot.

  My head was getting dizzy as we spun around the room. Mama was staring at the walls behind me, paying no attention to her feet or her partner. I frowned, beginning to feel sulky.

  “Do you think we’re finished now?” I asked as “Silent Night” turned into “Winter Wonderland.” I put my hand on my forehead and pushed back my bangs. Mama looked uncertain.

  “Did we hear ‘Away in a Manger’?”

  Three sharp knocks rapped on the door.

  Mama’s face lit up as she moved toward the hall. “Oh, is that —?”

  I dashed in front of her and smiled. “That’s for me,” I said, leading her back to the couch. “Stay right here until I get back.”

  I opened the door to find our neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, peering over my shoulder, her glasses sliding down her nose. “Why, hello, Allie.” She glanced toward the living room, her interest clearly piqued. “Is that Christmas music?”

  I moved to block her view and plastered on my happiest face. “We like to get in the spirit early.”

  Mrs. Peterson frowned, then she shrugged her shoulders. “I see,” she simpered. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to give you this present, Allie.” She handed me a finely wrapped parcel and looked pleased, reaching up to touch the top of her fancy department store hat.

  My birthday was three weeks ago, Miss Prissy-Pants. At least Sam got the month right. “Thank you.” I hugged the present to my chest and stared at her.

  “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” Mrs. Peterson made a move toward the door.

  I quickly stepped in front of her and softened my eyes. “Mama’s not feeling very well today,” I whispered, tipping my head forward. “Come back tomorrow.” I straightened and offered a grin. “But thank you for the gift.”

  Mrs. Peterson’s shocked expression stayed frozen as I shut the door in her face. I locked it and made a face at the wood, feeling better already.

  “Who was that?” Mama called from the living room.

  “Mrs. Peterson. She just wanted to give me this birthday gift. It’s three weeks late, though.” I raised my eyes to the ceiling and put the gift on the mantle.

  Mama shook her head. “No, it’s a Christmas gift.” She reached up to rub her neck, pulling at the collar of her flannel nightgown. She must have been heated up given the actual season.

  I sighed. “Mama, it’s not Christmastime.” Dr. Murphy didn’t tell me whether or not I could talk sense into her.

  “Yes, it is. Now open it.”

  With her calm blue eyes fixed on me, I opened up Mrs. Peterson’s well-wrapped gift and grimaced. “Oh, great. A stuffed bear.” To go with the other six identical bears I have from every birthday of mine Mrs. Peterson has ever witnessed.

  “How wonderful,” Mama said mechanically. “You should name him Bear.”

  Wonderful.

  Mama crossed her arms and snuggled back in an armchair. She sighed. “I wish David was here.” She glanced up at me. “When do you think David will get here?”

  My stomach ached. I turned around and placed the bear on the fireplace mantle so Mama wouldn’t see my face. “He’s not coming back, Mama. He left years ago, remember?”

  Mama’s eyes filled with tears. “But he loves me. He told me he loves me.”

  I leaned over and squeezed her hand. “Of course he loves you.” I rubbed her arm. “Now you sit here while I get us something to eat, okay?”

  It was easier to let Mama think good things about my father than hint at the truth. I could still remember the day he left. It wasn’t dramatic, or even sad. A little bitter maybe, but at least they never screamed at each other. Though the only person they ever said I love you to was me, never each other — they both claimed they didn’t believe in true love. One day, he decided he didn’t love either of us, and told us he was going to leave. And that was it. No fireworks, no bullets, no fights. Mama didn’t even cry — at least not in front of me. I did, every night for a month. But neither of us ever talked about it. Ever.

  Mama tolerated people and even liked some, but she never loved them. My father was a Christian, or at least he said he was, so now we hated Christians. “They’re hateful people,” Mama told me the day after he left. “They will make you feel loved — make you feel wanted. But they don’t mean any of it. Always remember, look out for yourself and don’t let your guard down. Don’t ever forget your roots or your common sense.”

  Mama was still sitting at the table, staring at her hands. I bet she didn’t remember any of that anymore. I suggested she sit in the living room and listen to more Christmas music while I fixed supper. Green beans and chicken. Again.

  At least I know how to make more than just sandwiches this year, I thought as I set the table. Mrs. Peterson’s old cookbooks had been useful after all, and it was nice of her to give them to me. But really, a fourteen-year-old can only do so much.

  I stood back to get a good look at the table. As an afterthought, I searched the cabinet for some candles to place in the center, and a little lace doily to set them on. Nice. I smiled, thinking about Christmas dinner.

  “Mama!” I called, pulling off my apron and putting it back on the hook. No answer. “Mama, dinner’s …” I paused in the doorway of the living room. Mama was fast asleep on the couch, curled up in a little ball.

  She’s barely ever awake lately. I sighed and reached for the old green quilt to lay over her. My hand brushed her cheek as I pushed her hair off her face. It was ashy and hollow.

  I turned to leave, peeking at her once more. Mama shivered and pulled the blanket closer. My heart tugged at the sight of my mother wrapped up like a defenseless babe.

  “Oh well,” I whispered to Daphne, scooping her up in my arms. “I suppose it’s just you and me.”

  I sat Daphne on Mama’s lap and stared at her in silence as some woman droned “We wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  Lonely … sad … lost … I turned off the lights in the kitchen and sat down in the dark. Mama’s empty plate was in front of me. I took a small bite of my green beans before pushing the food away and clearing the table instead.

  Chapter 3

  I felt a funeral in my brain,

  And mourners, to and fro,

  Kept treading, treading, till it seemed

  That sense was breaking through.

  — Emily Dickinson

  Allie?”

  I lowered my book. Mama looked up at me with tired eyes. I jumped up from my seat and knelt on the floor beside the couch. “Yes?”

  Mama reached out and took my hand in hers — her palms felt cool and clammy. She squeezed my hand and smiled faintly, her eyes crinkling like they used to. “I love you, my little miracle baby.” Her voice sounded breathless.

  I smiled back. “And I love you too.”

  Mama took a deep breath and leaned back. “This headache …” She paused and licked her lips, “This headache has really made me tired. I … I wanted to know if you would read me another poem, Allie.”

  “Of course.” I squeezed her palm, glad to hear her speaking my name. “What do you want to hear?”

  Mama closed her eyes and sighed. “Dickinson. ‘The Heart Asks Pleasure First.’ ”

  I was pleasantly surprised that she remembered the name of her favorite poem. That was progress, right?

  “My heart wants to die,” Mama said softly.

  My head jerked up. “What?”

  She shook her head and looked away. I stared at her for a few more seconds in silence. It had never occurred to me that Mama might welcome the thought of death, since she didn’t believe in anything beyond that. Wouldn’t th
at cause you to fear the end?

  The idea chilled me. I tried to put it out of my head as I crossed my legs and flipped through the volume of poetry in my lap, turning to Mama’s favorite.

  “The heart asks pleasure first,

  And then, excuse from pain;

  And then, those little anodynes

  That deaden suffering;

  And then, to go to sleep;

  And then, if it should be

  The will of its Inquisitor,

  The liberty to die.”

  I shut the book and ran my hand over the worn cover. “Well, that was Emily Dickinson for you.”

  The candlelight flickered across Mama’s sleeping face.

  I sighed and laid the book down in my lap.

  “I hope you enjoyed it, Mama. Dickinson is your favorite.” I fingered the fraying spine of the slim book of poems. I flipped through the dog-eared pages, held it close to smell the fading scent of Mama. “Do you remember reading this to me, Mama?” My voice faded to a whisper as I let my fingers slide off the cover. “Do you remember?”

  Mama rolled on her side and mumbled something in her sleep. The moment was over; she was lost again. I kissed her cheek and sat back down.

  “Why are you so tired all the time?” I whispered. My chest ached looking at her. “I miss talking with you.”

  I rocked back and forth and looked out the window. Rain trickled down the glass. I followed the dribble of water with my finger. Funny how much raindrops look like tears.

  Footsteps pounded on the front porch. I started, my book falling out of my lap. I reached down to pick it up and held it close as I inched my way to the front door, where footsteps had been replaced by loud raps on the door. I glanced out the window. A figure dressed in a dark slicker was standing out front with a large bag in his hand.

  There had to be something I could use as a weapon. Why did we have to have such a prissy, safe living room? Finally, I grabbed Mama’s big black umbrella.

  Holding the umbrella out in front of me, I inched my way toward the door. Deep breaths, Allie. You can do this. Deep breaths.