Page 75 of When Wildflowers Bloom

He kisses me on the temple. “Good.”

After hours at a park—flying kites, swinging on swings, and watching the dog chase ducks—I’m home. As perfect as the day was, all I can think is: I wish Huck was here too.

Twenty-nine

“I heard you weren’tfeeling well yesterday,” I say over the rim of my Veda-made coffee mug.

She scoffs. “I was tired and Bo overreacted.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, eyebrows raised. “I absolutely believe you.”

She rolls her eyes before taking a sip of orange juice, hand trembling around the cup.

“I thought I could teach you to make flowers today.” She changes the subject.

I only nod.

And while with anyone else it wouldn’t be concerning, she’s pleasant all day—doesn’t snap at me once. Not as she shows me how to make flowers out of clay that I can’t seem to make stick together. Not while she’s wearing her purple, heated gloves as I do laundry. Not when I feed her a nutritious lunch that she usually calls glorified cardboard.

“Birdie,” she says as I’m packing up for the day, “I have a doctor’s appointment Thursday I’d like for you to drive me to.”

“Of course.” My eyes narrow. “Everything alright?”

She gives me the look that says,Of course not, but I’m not telling you that.

I sigh. “Right.” A brief pause. “Of course I’ll take you.”

I start to leave when her voice stops me again. “And Birdie?” I look over my shoulder at her. “It probably goes without saying, but don’t mention it to Bo.”

I nod, hating her just a little bit for asking it of me and hating myself a little more for agreeing to it. Even though I don’t know what I’m not telling him, I know I’m not telling himsomething, and it curdles in my gut.

As best as I can, I shove the thoughts—and the guilt that comes along with them—in a box with a lid and put it away somewhere in the back of my mind.

“Sam, I brought muffins!” I call Wednesday morning as I open the door.

“Bah!” He shouts. “Bonnie, I don’t need your damn muffins. I’m having a heart attack!”

I look at him, standing in the middle of his living room seemingly fine, and scrunch my nose.

“Are you sure? You look fine.”

“Of course you think I look fine—you ain’t got no tits!” I don’t bother telling him that there is absolutely zero connection between the two. Instead, I drive him to the hospital.

For five straight hours he tells the doctors and nurses: “I got better care from the doctors in ’Nam than this!”

For five straight hours he tells me: “The cots in ’Nam were more comfortable than this damn bed!”

For five straight hours he’s convinced he’s about to die.

Finally, he’s diagnosed with acid reflux, given a bottle of pills, and I take him home.

While most days the experience would send me straight to an asylum, today I’m unfazed.

After several emails with Sharon and Huck’s new foster parents, Wednesday afternoons are my newly scheduled day to spend time with him.

I pick him up, his blocky grin a sight for sore eyes. I don’t hug him often because he doesn’t love to be touched, but today I do. He runs down the sidewalk to me, and when I wrap my arms around him, he hugs me back. His hug gives me the same relief as propping up tired feet after a long day. “I missed you, Birdie!” he says so loudly it cracks my heart.

“I missed you too, kiddo,” I reply, smiling as he gets into the van. “We’re going to see Bo today.”

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