The Lucky One(13)

Exactly. Even if she wasn’t completely sure where Nana came up with her metaphors.

Glancing at her watch, she knew that as soon as the party ended, she’d have to head back to check in on Nana. No doubt she’d find her in the kennel, either behind the desk or checking on the dogs. Nana was stubborn like that. Did it matter that her left leg could barely support her? My leg ain’t perfect, but it’s not beeswax, either. Or that she might fall and get hurt? I’m not a bucket of fine china. Or that her left arm was basically useless? As long as I can eat soup, I don’t need it anyway.

She was one of a kind, bless her heart. Always had been.

“Hey, Mom?”

Lost in thought, she hadn’t seen Ben approaching. His freckled face was shiny with sweat. Water dripped from his clothes, and there were grass stains on his shirt she was certain would never come out.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can I spend the night at Zach’s tonight?”

“I thought he had soccer practice.”

“After practice. There’s going to be a bunch of people staying over, and his mom got him Guitar Hero for his birthday.”

She knew the real reason he was asking.

“Not tonight. You can’t. Your dad’s coming to pick you up at five.”

“Can you call him and ask?”

“I can try. But you know . . .”

Ben nodded, and as it usually did when this happened, her heart broke just a little. “Yeah, I know.”

The sun glared through the windshield at baking temperature, and she found herself wishing she’d had the car’s air conditioner fixed. With the window rolled down, her hair whipped in her face, making it sting. She reminded herself again to get a real haircut. She imagined saying to her hairdresser, Chop it all off, Terri. Make me look like a man! But she knew she’d end up asking for her regular trim when the time came. In some things, she was a coward.

“You guys looked like you were having fun.”

“I was.”

“That’s all you can say?”

“I’m just tired, Mom.”

She pointed toward the Dairy Queen in the distance. “You want to swing by and get some ice cream?”

“It’s not good for me.”

“Hey, I’m the mother here. That’s what I’m supposed to say. I was just thinking that if you’re hot, you might want some.”

“I’m not hungry. I just had cake.”

“All right. Suit yourself. But don’t blame me if you get home and realize you should have jumped at the opportunity.”

“I won’t.” He turned toward the window.

“Hey, champ. You okay?”

When he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible over the wind. “Why do I have to go to Dad’s? It’s not like we’re going to do anything fun. He sends me to bed at nine o’clock, like I’m still in second grade or something. I’m never even tired. And tomorrow, he’ll have me do chores all day.”

“I thought he was taking you to your grandfather’s house for brunch after church.”

“I still don’t want to go.”

I don’t want you to go, either, she thought. But what could she do?

“Why don’t you bring a book?” she suggested. “You can read in your room tonight, and if you get bored tomorrow, you can read there, too.”

“You always say that.”

Because I don’t know what else to tell you, she thought. “You want to go to the bookstore?”

“No,” he said. But she could tell he didn’t mean it.

“Well, come with me anyway. I want to get a book for myself.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry about this, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Going to the bookstore did little to lift Ben’s mood. Though he’d ended up picking out a couple of Hardy Boys mysteries, she’d recognized his slouch as they’d stood in line to pay for them. On the ride home, he opened one of the books and pretended to be reading. Beth was pretty sure he’d done it to keep her from peppering him with questions or trying, with forced cheerfulness, to make him feel better about his overnight at his dad’s. At ten, Ben was already remarkably adept at predicting her behavior.

She hated the fact that he didn’t like going to his dad’s. She watched him walk inside their house, knowing that he was heading to his room to pack his things. Instead of following him, she took a seat on the porch steps and wished for the thousandth time she’d put up a swing. It was still hot, and from the whimpering coming from the kennel across the yard, it was clear that the dogs, too, were suffering from the heat. She strained for the sound of Nana inside. Had she been in the kitchen when Ben walked through, she definitely would have heard her. Nana was a walking cacophony. Not because of the stroke, but because it went part and parcel with her personality. Seventy-six going on seventeen, she laughed loud, banged pans with the spoon when she cooked, adored baseball, and turned the radio up to ear-shattering levels whenever NPR featured the Big Band era. “Music like that doesn’t just grow like bananas, you know.” Until the stroke, she’d worn rubber boots, overalls, and an oversize straw hat nearly every day, tromping through the yard as she taught dogs to heel or come or stay.