How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [51]
“That’s what Poppy says.” And a sudden wrenching sense of guilt twisted my tummy. I looked outside and the sun was beginning to peek through. “I guess I need to go find her pretty soon. She’ll be worried.”
“She’ll understand about the rain.”
I nodded, not at all sure that was true.
“Sorry you got in trouble last time,” he said, and his voice seemed deeper, richer.
“My mom was being weird,” I said, unable to look at him.
“Parents only want to take care of their kids, Ramona.”
To my horror, a welter of tears built in my throat. “I don’t know how long she’s going to stay mad at me about this. It’s terrible how she looks at me now.”
“She loves you. I could see that.”
I pressed the tops of my fists together. Nodded.
Poppy came in then, the bell over the door banging loudly. “I thought I might find you here.”
She didn’t sound mad, but I stood up anyway. “It was raining really hard. I didn’t know what to do.”
Hiking her bag over her shoulder, she came up to the counter and leaned her elbows on it. “Backgammon! I haven’t played that in a long time.”
“It’s fun. Do you have a board at home?”
“I could probably get one next time we go to Denver.” She inclined her head. “You like board games, don’t you?”
“My family plays them a lot.”
Jonah collected the disks and settled them a few at a time into their places. He did it without much thought, but I saw the moment when he made to use his missing finger and three of them fell out of the space where the finger should have been. They clattered onto the counter, and one rolled away and fell on the floor, and I leapt up to grab it, chasing it under the lip of the counter before capturing it. “Got it!”
His cheekbones were red when he held out his hand, palm up. “Thanks.”
“We’d better get our errands done, Ramona,” Poppy said. “Will we see you tonight at the fireworks, Jonah?”
“I’m not sure. Some family friends are coming in today, and I’ve been summoned to my mother’s house for dinner.” He gave her a wry smile. “You know my mother.”
“I do, son, I do. Enjoy.”
I started to take off the sweater, but Jonah stilled my hand. “It’s chilly out there. You can bring it to me when you go to the farmers’ market next week.”
“Okay, thanks.” I didn’t look back as we headed out, but I felt twenty feet tall, cloaked in Jonah’s sweater, and I kept wondering as we walked through town if anyone would realize it was his, that he’d loaned it to me.
Poppy had to run a million errands before the fireworks. When she stopped at a friend’s house to take her some bread, I was too tired to go inside with her, and I begged off and curled up in the backseat for a nap. Jonah’s sweater was almost too warm, but I kept it on, letting the scent of it fill my head as I drifted off. Beneath my hands on my belly, the baby was quiet, as if she was sleeping, too.
Suddenly I thought of her as whole. A person who was going to grow up and have favorite foods and hate to wear certain things and love to dance. I thought of her at three, with chubby feet and hands, and a pain like twelve knives went through my heart. I would never see her at three, or twelve—or at sixteen, like me. Opening my hands, I pressed palms and fingers in a net over my belly, feeling her. As if in response, a knob moved against my palm. From the corners of my eyes, tears leaked in a slow river into my hair.
What if I didn’t want to give her away?
The thought stayed with me, beating like a heart, through our picnic in the park, where we ate cheese sandwiches and sliced tomatoes from our garden. Little kids spun around in circles and screeched for the fireworks to start and held sparklers far away from their bodies.
Poppy asked, “Are you all right, sweetie? You’re awfully quiet.”
“I’m just thinking,” I said.
She looked at me for a long moment. “If you ever want to talk, let me know. I’ll listen, I promise.”
“Thanks.”
It wasn’t until dusk started filling the air that I saw Jonah, loping toward us across the grass. He was as graceful as an antelope, with that same long-legged