Page 96 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“Birdie, stop licking your chops over my grandson.” Veda’s sharp voice interrupts my thoughts as she pats my knee before standing up.

I forgot she was here.

Bo laughs, and I narrow my eyes. “I’m not licking my chops,” I say defensively.

Twisted hand in the air, “Whatever you want to call it then, stop doing it,” she says sharply. “We have acockto get ready for the kiln.”

Then, like she wasn’t just being stern, she laughs again.

So do I.

And so does Bo.

An hour later, the three of us make chocolate chip cookies in Gran’s kitchen with organic flour that I snuck into her pantry.

For the rest of the day I forget—Veda has cancer.

Thirty-nine

It’s hard to believeon such a perfect October day—clear blue sky, bright yellow leaves, crisp blowing air—I become a total basket case.

I’ve cleaned three times, labeled and relabeled everything, and printed out every possible document the social worker might ask for.

Financial statements.

College transcripts.

Letters of recommendation.

Medical records stapled to my updated will listing Bo as a willing and able custodian.

Bo’s financial statements.

And, after convincing Bo it was absolutely necessary for my sanity, his own medical records and college transcripts.

We’re on my porch—me shaking, Bo telling me to relax too many times to be helpful, and GeorgeStrait whimpering and thumping his tail against the wooden boards. A familiar car parks in the driveway.

Sharon.

The same social worker I chased down the road with obscenities in hysterics.

Bo recognizes her, waves as she gets out of the car, and whispers, “Relax,” before taking my hand in his and walking toward her.

“Birdie,” she says, with a curt nod when we meet in the middle of the yard. “Good to see you again.”

I force a weak smile with Bo’s hand squeezing mine. “Sharon.”

Inside, we sit in the living room where I have all the papers ready for her.

I rub my endlessly wet palms on my jeans. “I don’t know how these things usually go,” I admit as she sits across from me, clipboard on her lap, pinched with papers. “But I’ve prepared some material for you.”

I swallow, then offer her a stack of papers.

She takes it, adjusting the glasses on her face, thumbing through them. She pauses once to flick her eyes to Bo before continuing.

“Mr. Monroe,” she finally says, taking her glasses off. “Will you be residing in the same house as Huck?” she asks.

He clears his throat. “I don’t live here if that’s what you mean,” he responds, dropping his elbows to his knees as he looks at her.

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