Made to Order Family. Ruth Herne Logan
hate those shoes.” Skeeter’s tone sounded like Rita’s had earlier. Rita grimaced, recognizing the parallel. “They’re ugly.”
“Then wear your sneakers,” Rita counseled. “The ones with Strawberry Shortcake are cute.”
“For babies.” Skeeter stuck out her lower lip, then tossed her head, pigtails bouncing. “I’m not going.”
Rita cut her off. She squatted and locked gazes. “You have five minutes to get ready for Brett’s game. If you don’t, you’ll lose TV privileges for the rest of the week. That’s five long days, Skeets.” Rising, she eyed the girl. “It’s up to you.”
In the old days she’d have wheedled the girl’s cooperation, trying to assuage the guilt of Tom’s crimes. She’d worked double time to make it up to them, be the nicest mom she could be, bending backward until she’d collapsed in an alcoholic heap. Big mistake.
Unraveling two years of insanity wasn’t easy, but doable now that she was sober. She stirred boiling water into an insulated jug containing hot chocolate mix. Sweet cocoa essence rose, rich and full, delighting her senses. If only she’d turned to chocolate instead of whiskey….
Her computer light blinked green from the quaint kitchen alcove, a reminder of Brooks’ words. How could she find time to write up a professional prospectus with long hours of work and the intricacies of raising three children on her own, one of whom presented a constant challenge?
The phone rang. Rita grimaced, knowing her time frame was short. Her mother’s phone number appeared in the display. Swallowing a sigh, Rita answered, one eye on the clock. “You’re home.”
No exchange of pleasantries. No socially acceptable intro. Yup. That was Mom lately. “Hey, Mom, yes. I’m here. But Skeeter and I are on our way to Brett’s soccer game.”
“You’ve had supper already?” Critical doubt shaded her mother’s words. Intentional? Maybe yes, maybe no. In either case Rita had a game to get to as long as Skeeter cooperated.
Please, Lord, let Skeeter cooperate tonight.
“Sandwiches later,” Rita explained. Skeeter reappeared wearing the Strawberry Shortcake sneakers and an aggrieved expression. Rita nodded approval at one and ignored the other. Some things weren’t worth the battle.
“How do kids get homework done when their schedules run them ragged day after day?” Judith Barnes’ voice pitched higher. “Nothing should outrank homework. School performance. You above all people should know that, Rita. Your grades were excellent when you applied yourself.”
In Mom-speak, that meant, “You didn’t apply yourself often enough.”
The ten seconds Skeeter had been kept waiting pushed her patience beyond endurance. She parked one hand on her hip and tapped a toe, the hint of bored insolence well practiced. At seven years old, it shouldn’t be a consideration. With Skeeter it had become almost ingrained, not a good thing. “Um, hello? I thought we were going? Isn’t that why I had to put these stupid shoes on?”
“I’m coming, Skeets.” Rita added a silent frown, indicating displeasure at Skeeter’s voice and tone. Skeeter rolled her eyes, her mouth curved down in a characteristic pout. Great.
“Mom, I’ve got to go. Brett’s game is going to start soon.”
“Rita, you know I don’t like to interfere—”
Rita knew nothing of the sort.
“And I generally mind my own business—”
Meaning I’m about to mind yours, so watch out….
“And I’m a firm believer in parents raising their own children—”
Translation: I could do better, hands down, no questions asked.
“But why do you let her talk to you that way? So bratty? Liv wasn’t like that. Neither was Brett. But with Aleta you let her get away with all kinds of things you’d have never let slide before.”
Before what? Tom’s crimes? His suicide? Her alcoholism?
Her mother drew a breath, her voice a mix of concern, criticism and consternation, a gruesome threesome. “When she gets like that, she sounds just like her father. Proud and pretentious.”
“Mom, I can’t do this now. I have to go. Skeeter’s waiting. So is Brett. I’ll be glad to discuss my chronic failings at a later date, okay?”
“You don’t have failings, Rita. You’ve made mistakes. Nothing the rest of us haven’t done, myself included. I just don’t want this to go too far, too long. It’s hard to backtrack with kids.”
Since Rita was fairly sure she’d let Skeeter’s sour attitude grow out of control already, she couldn’t say much in response. “I know, Mom. Gotta go. Talk to you later.”
“All right.”
Rita disconnected, checked her cell-phone charge because Liv would be calling later for a ride home, and nodded toward Skeeter’s clothes and shoes as she twisted the top of the thermos.
“You look great.” She raised the bright raspberry-toned bottle. “Hot chocolate for later.”
Skeeter’s eyes widened in appreciation.
“You might want to bring a book or stuff to color,” Rita added. “If it gets really cold, you can sit in the car.”
Rita moved aside to allow Skeets past. Stepping down, Skeeter caught her toe on a chipped porch tile. She crashed to her knees. Hysterical tears ensued, ruining the momentary peace. Rita leaned down, inspected both knees, grabbed the still-secure bottle and shrugged. “Not fatal. Let’s go.” Skeeter glared.
Rita did a slow count to ten. She was segueing from eight to nine, weighing choices, when Skeeter stood, a martyred expression in place. Moaning, she limped to the door.
Obviously five days of no television loomed long and lonely. Rita took the positive-reinforcement route. “It’ll make Brett happy to know we’re at his game.”
No answer. Ah, well. The sacrificial-lamb act would fade if ignored. After the day she’d had, Rita had no difficulty doing just that.
“Come on, Brett, that’s it!” Rita fist-pumped as her son feinted right, dodged left, then sent the ball on a diagonal across the net where a teammate finished the play by tapping it in. Rita clapped and cheered with the rest of the Charger parents. The score was two–one with less than ten minutes to play. She turned as the teams regrouped and glanced at the parked car. The cold night made the backseat a welcome reprieve for Skeeter. Once they’d gotten to the field, she’d forgotten her snit and played with other sideline siblings until the damp air chilled them. Most of them had retreated to their respective cars as the temperatures dropped.
“Step by step,” Rita reassured herself. It had taken time to plunge her family into the pits of despair, until a social services intervention spurred events that resulted in her sober state. Resuming an even keel wouldn’t happen overnight.
“How’s the game?” Brooks’ voice startled her out of her reverie.
Rita’s heart lurched. She frowned and turned, mad at her reaction, pretty sure half the single women in AA had a crush on Brooks at one time or another. His warm strength radiated solidity. She willed her pulse to calm and kept her voice even with effort. “We’re winning. Brett just had an assist. That means he sent the ball to the player who kicked it in.”
Brooks rocked back on his heels, one hand thrust into his pocket. His eyes crinkled. “I may not be a big fan but I comprehend the concept.”
Embarrassed, she started to turn. He paused her action with a hand to her arm. “I brought you something.”
He handed her a twenty-ounce convenience store cup. She eyed it, then him.
“Chai. The spiced variety.