Not today. Marti had made this celebration all about Jennalyn and her baby boy.

  As Audra and I walked the three blocks to where I had done a ridiculous job of parallel parking, she slipped her arm through mine. I was thinking of how none of the women with whom we had shared such an extraordinary afternoon had any idea what kind of car I drove. I didn’t know what they drove either, thanks to the scattered parking.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you and Dad bless me?”

  I smiled at my fanciful wish maker. “Do you mean the way we blessed Jennalyn today?”

  “No, I mean the way Miss Christy blesses Hana and Cole when they go to bed. I’ve heard what she says. I can tell you so that you get the words right.”

  “Let’s ask your dad about it when he gets home.”

  Satisfied with my answer and probably certain that Trevor would do whatever she asked, Audra picked up the pace on the way to our car.

  Trevor was in favor of the idea, especially after Audra had gone into exhaustive detail about the baby shower. She recited the blessing she had heard Christy pray over Hana and Cole. She even took Trevor’s hand and placed it on her forehead so that he would know exactly how it should be done.

  When bedtime came, Trevor and I stood next to Audra’s bed. She had her comforter pulled up, her eyes closed, and her chin lifted with a honeyed grin, waiting for her blessing. Trevor had brought his Bible with him. He told Audra that the variation of Miss Christy’s blessing was actually from Numbers 6:24–26.

  She opened one eye as if to protest and say that it wasn’t a Bible verse Miss Christy prayed. But Trevor already had his hand on her forehead, and when she heard the first line he read, she settled back and let him finish all the verses.

  “Amen,” Audra said at the end.

  “Amen,” Trevor and I echoed in unison.

  “I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to do that every night,” Audra said.

  Leaning over to give his princess a kiss, Trevor said, “As you wish.”

  I gave her a kiss and told her I loved her. Holding hands, Trevor and I exited, closing the door and heading into the living room. I was thinking that for all the moments we had fumbled as parents and for all the things we had done incorrectly or incompletely, this singular moment fell into the we-did-good category. My heart was happy.

  “Do we have any laundry that needs washing?” Trevor asked.

  I pulled back and gave him an incredulous look. “Why in the world would you ask such a thing?”

  “Because”—he slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close before murmuring in my ear—“when the washer is going, you can’t hear other noises.”

  I liked the way his thoughts were heading. “You know, I think the rug by the kitchen sink is looking pretty dirty.”

  He gave me an amorous look. “We better do something about that.”

  The next morning Audra was pouring herself a bowl of cereal while Trevor and I were doing what had become our customary morning dance in the kitchen, trying to maneuver around each other in the compact space.

  “What was all that noise last night?” Audra asked.

  Trevor and I exchanged side glances, keeping our expressions unchanged.

  “What noise, sweetheart?” I asked.

  “That thumping and pound, pound, pounding sound.”

  Trevor lowered his chin and turned his head so Audra couldn’t see his repressed smile.

  “It was the rug,” I said.

  I shot Trevor a “don’t you dare lose it” look. “I was washing the kitchen rug, and it’s kind of a big rug.”

  Trevor started coughing and made an exit for the bathroom. I turned my back to Audra and opened the refrigerator as if I were looking for something.

  “Mom!”

  “Yes, Audra?”

  “Don’t you think you should see if Dad’s okay? It sounds like he’s choking.”

  “Trev?” I called out. “You okay?”

  He cleared his throat and called back, “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Trevor didn’t return to the kitchen. I was glad because I knew he would send looks my way, shooting them across the room like Cupid’s arrows.

  I pulled my smile back, cleared my throat, and shot a side glance at Audra. She was reading the side of the cereal box and seemed oblivious. Although, with this girl I knew we could never be certain.

  “Mom, may we go to the beach this weekend?”

  “Possibly. It’s supposed to rain again toward the end of the week.”

  “We could go in the rain.”

  “Why don’t we decide when we get closer to Saturday?”

  “Okay.” She hopped down and went to get her backpack for school.

  “Audra, come back here and take your bowl to the sink, please. I am not your personal slave.”

  As soon as I heard myself spout that last line, I winced. I had grown up hearing that from my mother and had vowed I would never say it when I was a mom. The words had popped out so effortlessly.

  “Sorry,” I said, when Audra returned and picked up her bowl.

  “For what?”

  “For saying I’m not your slave.”

  Audra looked unaffected by the words. She hadn’t taken them inside her heart along with a dose of shame the way I always had. “Okay,” she said. She started back toward her room but then stopped and turned to me.

  “I would never think you’re a slave, Mom. It’s like what Miss Marti said. You’re a princess. Me too. That’s because God is the King of kings, and we are His daughters.”

  I stood where I was, not moving. How did she understand that truth so clearly? She was only ten. I was thirty-one, and I still had a hard time grasping what that meant.

  My daughter seemed so grown up as she meandered off to her room with her self-image glistening.

  Chapter 13

  January brought more rain than any of the TV weather reporters had predicted. By the third week of on-and-off rain, the news updates escalated. News crews went on location to the Santa Ana River, and the cameras zoomed in on where the aqueduct had been compromised. Officials offered explanations about why past damage hadn’t been repaired during the dry months.

  We kept the TV on a lot more since we were near the potential flood zone. For two days the local news gave us safety tutorials in case of flooding and issued warnings about safe drinking water. Trevor put together an emergency kit and went over our family evacuation plan.

  On the night of the next big storm, we all wore our clothes to bed and had a survival suitcase packed and waiting by the front door.

  As the night wore on, Trevor and I didn’t sleep much. We listened to the rain hitting the metal covering over our patio. Around two in the morning we got up and padded into the living room. Trevor turned on the dull outside light and used his flashlight to check the backyard. The cracked concrete patio was wet, but the water wasn’t coming toward our back door. The narrow area along the back fence was a muddy mess, but we didn’t appear to be in any danger of flooding. We returned to bed and slept fitfully for the next few hours.

  Trevor was the first one up the next morning. He had the TV on with the volume low. Pointing to the screen, he said, “Only four inches. No damage from flooding.”

  I stared at the TV feeling an unexpected surge of anger. “The storm only brought four inches? Why did they say it was going to be so bad?”

  Trevor shrugged and turned to another news channel. “Maybe there’s more coming.”

  We fell in step with our usual Wednesday morning routine since the weather wasn’t going to cause school closures. I couldn’t let go of my anger. All the preparations had been expensive and disruptive. Audra had been frightened, and I felt the exhaustion that came after days of waiting and not knowing.

  “You okay?” Trevor had just watched me throw away a dried-out heel of bread as if it had personally insulted me.

  “They made all those announcements.” I pointed a butter knife at the TV.

  “No one knew for certain what the weather was going to do,” he said. “The major storms have all passed. They predict light showers this afternoon. That’s all. It was better for us to be prepared, don’t you think?”

  I let out a low grumble.

  “What? You’re disappointed that we aren’t filling sandbags right now or driving through flooded streets to a shelter?” Trevor looked as if he wanted to laugh at me.

  “No.” I tried not to show the intensity of my emotions at that moment.

  “That’s what you sound like.” He was definitely grinning now.

  I looked away and kept my frustration to myself because Audra had returned to the kitchen and was ready to go.

  She chattered all the way to school about how she was glad that classes hadn’t been canceled and that the flood hadn’t come. Today was art and music day, and she hoped the teacher would let her sit in the front this time.

  “I hope so too, sweetheart. I’ll see you after school.” I pulled out of the carpool lane and felt the exasperation inside me simmer again.

  Why am I so angry?

  I remembered something my counselor had told me after I had hit my lowest point over a year ago. She said anger is one of the stages of grief, and I shouldn’t be surprised if I struggled with anger as I processed the results of our infertility treatments.

  “But I’m angry at the weatherman,” I said aloud as I sat waiting for a light to turn green.

  A row of logical thoughts lined up as if they were ready to present their case to me. It wasn’t the weatherman’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I had heard that before.

  The light changed, and I moved forward, recognizing the invisible connection. The anger I felt was kin to the conga line of hope-dashed moments I’d lived through for so many years. My life had revolved around the same process we had just gone through. Get ready. Take the necessary steps. Follow the instructions of the professionals. Then wait, never being sure of the outcome.

  I pulled into the parking lot at Peggy’s Pies and muttered, “I’m still mad.”

  The skies overhead were clear. The sun had taken its usual spot just over the top of the roof of the restaurant.

  “I’m surprised you’re willing to show your face this morning,” I growled at the radiant orb as I trucked to the front door.

  It turned out I wasn’t the only one who felt grouchy that morning. The return of the sunshine meant we had a return of our regulars. Nearly all of them wanted to talk about the storm. Most of them sounded disappointed that it hadn’t brought the predicted flooding.

  Listening to them hushed me up. I calmed down as I repeated all morning how glad I was that everything had turned out the way it did. One of the waitresses had run out of patience with the conversation by the end of her shift. She came over to me and said, “It’s like they all paid their money to see a show, and since the curtain never went up, they want their money back.”

  I thought about her words when I got off work and headed to Audra’s school, ready to join the lineup of cars in the drop-off/pickup lane. The clouds had been gathering since noon. As I waited, the rain started. The invigorated drops touched my windshield like tap dancers.

  It reminded me of a rainy January afternoon in Albuquerque, where I grew up. As a child, when it rained, I would read. I had a favorite chair by the window where I would sit and read and look at the way the raindrops hit the glass, and then I would read some more.

  During the ordinary, sunny days in Albuquerque, I would have a list of chores that I would accomplish as quickly as I could and then venture over to my friend Cassie’s house. Her mother let her watch TV after school, among other things. That was where I found out what was popular for girls my age. I learned songs from listening to Cassie’s favorites over and over. I pictured myself in outfits like the ones in Cassie’s teen magazines.

  I remember always waiting, nervously, for my mother to ask what Cassie and I did at her house. I knew she wouldn’t approve of the TV shows, the music, or the magazines.

  Strangely, my mother never asked.

  My swell of anger from that morning had dissipated. That is, until this new thought about my mother settled on me. Did she simply not care about what I was doing as long as I wasn’t underfoot? Or did she trust me to monitor myself at that age? I suspected the answer was lack of interest. And that’s when the anger returned.

  A week after the flood-that-didn’t-happen, I was home alone while Trevor was at the grocery store with Audra. I decided to call my mother. I had been thinking a lot about my childhood; maybe she and I could reminisce together. I’m not sure how I came up with that fairy-tale notion. Maybe I thought there was a first time for everything. Since I had been in a reflective mood for a week, maybe she had been, too, and we could stitch together some shared memories.

  It had been more than a month—almost two—since I had talked with her.

  She answered, and I did what I always did. I worked my way through the usual topics: How was the weather? Did she have a good time at my brother’s over Christmas? Did she manage to avoid getting the flu?

  Her replies were short and cordial, as usual. She asked how Audra was enjoying school, and if she had used the gift card my mother had sent.

  “Not yet. She’s trying to decide what to use the gift card for. I mailed you a thank-you card that Audra made.”

  “Yes, I received it.”

  “Oh, good. She’s becoming quite a little artist.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  “I don’t think I was much of an artist when I was her age.”

  “Hmmm.” It seemed my mom was trying to remember.

  “I’m not sure where the creative gene came from.”

  She didn’t reply, so I kept going with the informal thank-yous. “By the way, Trevor and I appreciated the gift card you sent us for Christmas too. I’m guessing you saw my thank-you note. It was in the same envelope as Audra’s.”

  “Yes, I saw it. Thank you.”

  “We haven’t used our gift card yet either. But we will. It was very generous of you. Thank you.”

  A pause followed where I anticipated a “You’re welcome” to be inserted. My mom seemed distracted, so I threw out a question that I hoped would spark some good memories. “Do you remember the Christmas when the electricity went out and we opened our gifts by candlelight?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was a good Christmas.”

  She didn’t reply. Maybe that hadn’t been a good Christmas for her.

  “We thought our electricity might go out last week. We’ve had a lot of rain here. They predicted flooding.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “It didn’t happen, though. Everything was okay.” As soon as I realized we had circled back to the weather, I knew I had run out of things to say. A pause followed.

  “Well, I just wanted to call and see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m doing well. Thank you for checking in.”

  “Okay. Well…” I glanced at the wall where I had recently hung a framed photo of Trevor and Audra on Christmas Day. They were next to their sandcastle on the beach. The setting sun had created a radiant burst of light right behind their smiling faces and captured the moment perfectly.

  Even though my mom hadn’t asked, I concluded the call with, “We’re all doing fine here.”

  “Good.”

  “Bye, Mom.”

  “Goodbye, Emily.”

  I went over to the sofa and stretched out, staring at the ceiling.

  Why did I think anything would be different this time? What is that saying about the definition of insanity?

  I sighed.

  The truth is, I keep hoping that one day she will say, “I love you.” That’s all. Just “I love you, Emily.” How can it be so difficult for a mother to say that to her own child?

  I thought of how my mother was always polite. She wasn’t mean. She had done admirably well after my father had passed away and she had to raise my younger brother and me alone. But my lifelong defense of my mom by explaining how difficult things had been for her was waning. The older I got, the more I realized that Trevor had been right all along. My mother’s superpower was withholding approval.

  Was that why I struggled to feel accepted by other people?

  Don’t go there. You don’t need to psychoanalyze yourself right now.

  I rolled off the couch quickly, as if it had been the sofa of a therapist. I didn’t want to ignite any of the anger tinder that had caught fire so quickly before. I’d been in a calm place emotionally for the past few days, and I wanted to stay there.

  A few days earlier I had stopped at a thrift store with Audra. One of the finds I had brought home was a small gold frame that cost only fifty cents. I pulled it out of the hall closet and carried it into the bedroom. In the back of my Bible was the card Jennalyn had given each of us at the Favorite Things party. Taking it out, I was happy to see that when I placed the card over the frame, it was just the right size.

  Later, when Trevor and Audra came in with their bags of groceries, I was still in a steady mood. The bit of cleaning and organizing I had done helped me to feel like I had accomplished something useful. And I had framed the card and placed it in the center of the windowsill above the kitchen sink. Next to it was a small cleaned-out jelly jar that I had filled with broken bits of seashells Audra and I had collected on our trips to the beach when we first had moved here.

  “Hey,” Audra said, “that’s new.” She flashed a quick smile of approval at my artistic attempt. “Dad said I could watch a show on his iPad in my room as long as I use the earbuds.”

  “And?” Trevor prompted her.

  “And if I come help you with dinner right away if you ask me to.”

  “Okay.” I smiled at her but had a sinking feeling. Trevor must have had something to say to me that he didn’t want her to hear.