Instead, I’d spent Sunday hovering over Eileen, pestering her with smiles and hugs and attempts to fulfill little requests that a single parent is usually too busy to do. We’d rearranged her tiny bedroom, and made toffee chip muffins from scratch, and walked down the little path to the river and talked about the things that mattered to her. School, books, worries about high school, worries about making friends, ideas for inventions, ideas for changing the world. She was consistently full of surprises and I’d loved every minute with her, but the pressure still built.
Monday morning, I’d called Maureen and told her I’d be at work on time, because that was what I needed to do. I’d packed a treat in Eileen’s lunch, but then irked her with a long hug goodbye, because I hadn’t been able to bear letting her out of my sight without it. I’d worked all day and smiled and chatted and helped ladies find clothes that made them feel comfortable in their own skins . . . all because that’s what I needed to do. But my own skin was tight and uncomfortable and nowhere I wanted to be.
By Tuesday morning, the tropical depression had morphed into Tropical Storm Andrea, but it was still stalled and seething out in the Gulf. It’d occurred to me that it should’ve been named Ann, since it would be fitting to share my name with a useless vortex of energy that couldn’t decide who to destroy first. But then I’d felt guilty for my miserable little fantasy because I loved storms. I loved their power and speed and mystery, and the fact that this one was weeks ahead of hurricane season would normally seem inspiring to me, as if Mother Nature had an urgent message she couldn’t wait to share. But the truth was, the only messages I could hear in her gusts were indictments.
“Insssinssseere! Faaalsse! Deessseeetfulll!” her windy breaths accused me.
And she was right.
By Tuesday afternoon, her storm had leapt into a Category 1 hurricane, and then a Cat 2 just three hours later, moving in such fitful loops over the warm water that forecasters were warning coastal residents to prepare for a sudden onshore surge.
“Andrea’s not playing by the rules!” the local news anchor cheerfully announced at five-thirty that evening. “Make your preparations now, because we could see some bumpy weather overnight on Wednesday or early Thursday!”
I watched grimly, thinking of Cara as the update streamed live on the computer at work. Her last check-up hadn’t gone well. Her doctor had measured her abdomen and thought the baby was too big for a vaginal delivery. She’d scheduled a caesarean for Thursday, and Cara was distraught.
“I can’t!” she’d cried over the phone. “What if the baby isn’t developed yet? What if it isn’t . . . what if it isn’t normal? I have to give birth at home!”
Apparently, Adam had received basic medical training in the Marines, and had consulted with an experienced doula to try to prepare, but he certainly wasn’t a surgeon. Cara had been so upset that Adam had tried to console her. His muffled reassurances on the other end of the line were strong, sure.
“It’ll be okay. It will.”
Even I’d almost believed him.
It might be okay. It might. If I could convince myself that I wasn’t abandoning her to whatever Sal wanted to protect Eileen—and me?—from. If I convinced myself that she and her baby might be okay because he hadn’t said that they wouldn’t be. If . . . if.
As the storm gained strength, the sultry air added to the pressure within and without me and I found it hard to breathe. The sky wasn’t sunny anymore. A mass of gray was pushing in from the east as the storm hovered and grew, and its tendrils were starting to sweep up from the south, curling over the river and back towards Wilmington, locking us in. Locking me in.
“Mom? You okay?” Eileen had stopped watching the weather report and was searching my profile—probably wondering what the hell was wrong with her mother lately.
I forced myself to blink, turn, and see her lovely face.
“Of course, sweetie. Sorry.” My smiles were scarce the past couple of days, but I managed a decent one.
“Fine. I guess I’m not old enough to know.”
“What’re you talking about, honey?” I reached to hug her, but she slouched away.
“Mom. Just because I’m not an adult doesn’t mean I’m a kid,” she grumped.
“I know, sweetie. If it makes you feel better, I wish I could tell ya!” Her eyes sharpened and I bit the side of my tongue. I’d meant to sound light-hearted but had only convinced her something really was wrong.
“I can tell it’s more than worrying about Cara . . . ” She squinted as I held my breath. “Is it the storm?”
“Nah,” I exhaled. “We love storms!”
“Yeah, but there’s something about this one . . . ” She frowned at the monitor again and tapped the screen, sliding back to the radar sweep.
“It’s early in the season, but y’all have studied how the climate’s changing. Does this really seem all that odd to you?” My tone was soothing, glad she’d focused on something other than my mood—but I also waited for her answer. Her intelligence was so piercingly intuitive that if anyone could see what others had missed, it was her—thirteen or not. She was only limited by life experience and whether she knew enough about a subject to ask the relevant questions.
As if she could hear my thoughts, she looked back up at me. “I don’t have a good reason . . . ”
“Well, don’t worry, Leeni.” I smoothed her forehead with my fingertip and cupped my hand around her cheek. “Between your brain, my angels, Papa’s house, and the Bronc, we can handle anything.”
She surprised me by leaning into my hand. “I love you, Mom.”
“And I love you. Don’t worry, babe. I’m not lettin’ nothin’ hurt you. Mother Nature and me are old
