The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [58]
“What’s going on, Mama?” asked Brynne, who had appeared at my side.
“Just playing with the hose.”
“She’s trying to get Daddy wet.”
“Yes.”
“It looks like fun.”
Fun! A year, two years ago, that would have been me. Pretty Paisley, having fun. Surrounded by men; a few women, too; a crowd every bit as big as Mason’s—and me not even anyone’s boss.
And now. Oh, we were big shots now. He was. Security. Prestige. The raise that went with the promotion.
But no second child.
A dark wind began to blow in my head.
“Here. Let me clean you off,” Karin shouted, taking aim again. The few reporters who hadn’t already fled gave Mason wide berth. Mason stopped moving back, giving Karin free access to his sauce-stained shirt.
But no! “Karin!” I yelled. She pivoted. I grabbed the hose and turned it on my husband full force.
“Whoa, girl!” Mason shouted. The dark wind howled. I imagined police aiming fire hoses at men cowering in front of them. I held tight.
Mason leaped forward, jerked the hose from my hand, turned the nozzle back in my direction. There wasn’t enough water pressure to hurt. But it was cold. I ran away.
Mason followed—“Oh, no you don’t!”—and kept me in the stream of water no matter how I tried to zigzag, until I was soaked head to feet, my clothes glued to my skin, my white bra clearly visible underneath my shirt. Everyone was watching.
“Daddy!” Brynne, ran up, already soaked from the sprinklers. All the same, Mason doused her. Delighted, she screamed.
The three of us ran until Brynne seemed about to give out. “Enough!” I shouted, collapsing onto the lawn. “I give up!”
“Me, too!” Brynne collapsed beside me.
Such drama!
Someone took the hose and reattached it to the sprinkler. The children jumped back in. Mason helped me to my feet. Karin Branch watched us, riveted. Herb Clay, too. A dozen others.
The dark wind abated. The sun was a little too bright.
We hadn’t brought extra clothes, except for Brynne, of course. We laid towels across the seats of the car and headed home.
“What was that all about?” Mason asked after Brynne fell asleep two minutes into the drive.
“I’m not sure.” The dark wind, I might have said. I might have said, having fun. “How could you let one of your newest employees chase you around like that, like she had a right to?”
“She didn’t chase me. You did.”
“You’re supposed to act like the boss!”
“Karin is a jerk,” he said. “A good reporter, but a jerk. You, on the other hand, are supposed to be the elegant and restrained wife of the managing editor.”
“I’ve never been elegant and restrained.”
His jaw worked. This was a company picnic. His show, not mine. I wanted to say: I couldn’t have stopped.
Later, after we had showered and changed into dry clothes, I rubbed his shoulders and said, “If I was out of line, I’m sorry. I never meant to embarrass you.”
“It’s okay,” he grumbled, not meaning it.
“Remember, we’re Marines.”
“I didn’t forget.” Before we got married, Mason’s dad sat us both down and told us that Marines don’t plan a retreat route because if they don’t, there’s no easy way out when the going gets rough. I was never sure if that was true, but it sounded convincing. “You move forward. You face up to your challenges. You don’t retreat. You’re young, and sometimes you’ll wish you could. But don’t.”
No escape route, we promised. We brought up the Marines every time we fought.
“It won’t happen again,” I said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Never, never, never.”
By the third never, he was smiling.
It was a dark wind, nothing more. The next time would be different, and so much, so much worse.
Chapter 15
November 12
Spare me, Iona thinks as Lori jabbers to her on the phone. Spare me from Braxton Hicks. Two months ago Iona had never heard of Braxton Hicks. But now. Oh, now. The English doctor who described “practice” labor contractions back in the 1870s might be living in the house with her. She’s heard about him daily, and at the moment, nonstop.
Her stepdaughter-in-law does not spare her a single detail. Lori has been having