Page 37 of Cassie
“Come here, squirt.” Faynez frowned. She didn’t like that nickname. Sammy’s best friend Jonny called her squirt all the time. “What? It’s just a name. Not like you like Faynez any better.” She rolled her eyes, then closed them tightly and leaned towards him. He smoothed lotion on her face and the back of her neck. “Love you, Faynez.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him, watching as his gaze followed his fingers stroking the last bits of sunscreen across the bridge of her nose.
“Love you, too.” She sat on the blanket and toed off her shoes. “What else did you bring?”
“Stuff.” He settled beside her and leaned back on his arms, face tipped to the sky. “What story do you want today?” It had always been their thing, shared with their father. Stories about the times before, back when their mother was still alive.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, knowing he needed the contact more than she did. For her, this was normal. Just her and Sammy and Daddy. All she’d ever known. Sammy, though, still felt the loss of their mother keenly. Some days Faynez felt disloyal, because she couldn’t be as sad as she thought they wanted her to be.How can you miss something you’ve never had?Different than sadness, there was a longing that had settled behind her breastbone, pain tucked in so tightly around her heart she felt it every time she tried to breathe. She wanted what he’d had, what her friends had. A mom who loved her. Who chided and corrected her, and showed her all the right things to do. Because some days it felt as if Faynez was making it up as she went along, never knowing when her next words would blunder into a pocket of pain for her father.
“So?” Sammy bumped her shoulder and she glanced up to see him staring at her. “Want a story or not?”
Begin at the beginning. That’s what their dad would say.
“Tell me about the day I came home.”
He made a noise in his chest and she held her breath, not sure what she’d done wrong. “Okay.” Voice gruff, he cleared his throat and repeated himself, “Okay.” Instead of beginning the story, he rolled to his knees and reached for the box. “Let me set these up first.” He kicked off his shoes, then held out a hand, “Give me your shoes, Faynez.” Perplexed, she placed them into his hand, surprised to see he could easily hold both, fingers wrapping around the rubber-covered toes. From the box he pulled a pair of their father’s shoes, old retired ones Daddy had said had too many miles to be any good anymore. Then he took out a box. When he opened the cardboard, there was a brand-new pair of women’s shoes inside, gleaming white in the sunshine. He arranged them, then changed the lineup a couple of times, eventually ending up with her and Daddy’s shoes on either end. “These,” he pointed to the new shoes, “are Mom’s size. Look how we stack up right now.” He rubbed a hand over Faynez’ hair and she scowled at him as she reached up to smooth it down. “You’ve got some catching up to do, baby sister.”
She studied the shoes. His and Daddy’s were nearly the same size, Sammy’s just a tiny bit longer, but not as wide. Mommy’s shoes were smaller, even wedged between the two worn pairs. Hers were the smallest of all, looking tiny in comparison. It made her sad to look at them, so she twisted and turned to the side, looking out over the grass. All those stones poking up from the earth, each one marking a family’s loss.
“So, the story.” He paused and she heard him moving around, then he bumped her shoulder. “There you were, the loudest baby in the history of the world. Between crying, pooping, and burping, you pretty much had all the gross bodily functions mastered already.” She whirled and scowled up at him but couldn’t hold the expression. Sammy was smiling down at her and the look on his face was fond and sweet, and so full of love she gave up her anger right away, grinning back. “Nah, who am I trying to kid? You were cute and perfect, and I loved you as soon as Daddy carried you into the house. Always have, and always will, little sister. Uncle Deke and Aunt Mercy were staying with me, and we all made such a fuss over you. Pretty much everyone who saw you fell in love at first sight when Daddy brought you home.”
Faith’s steps slowed and she paused just outside the door to the living room. “When Daddy brought you home.” The stories never varied. That was one of the truest things she knew…the stories were set in stone. They were what happened, and that was that. She could trust their words about the stories, which meant she could always believe other things they said like “your mother would have loved you in that dress,” or “Mom would be so proud.”
The stories never varied, except that one had. When Daddy told it, he always said, “when we brought you home,” and she’d taken that to mean him and Mom. A small thing, a tiny thing, but since she had a sum total of eight pictures of her as a baby with her mother, it mattered. She’d built up an idea of Mom and her here, in the house, at home.
“When Daddy brought you home,” did not say “when Dad and Mom brought you home.”
“Samboni,” she called, and then went on without waiting for a response, “I forgot something. I’ll be right there.” She was already running for her room when he gave a muffled shout, and she slammed the door behind her and twisted the lock, shutting him out. Falling to her knees beside her bed, she reached underneath and drew out a box. Unlatching the lid, Faith quickly thumbed through the folders and envelopes inside. This was her box of important things, and it included things her father didn’t know she had. Like the cutout of the newspaper obituary for her mother that Aunt Mercy had given her years ago.
Reading, she let the words flow past her without pause until she got to the part she needed.Hope Annabelle Collins Rogers passed away unexpectedly. She is survived by her husband Isaiah Rogers, son Samuel Isaiah Rogers, and infant daughter Faith Inez Rogers. The date listed was very familiar to Faith. It was her birthday. Not months after. Not weeks after. Not even one day.
Papers fluttered from her fingers and back to the box, but Faith wasn’t watching them. She was staring straight ahead, seeing again those never-worn shoes that Sammy had to have bought just for that picture. “When Daddy brought you home.”
“Mom never came home. I did, because Daddy brought me home.”
She kept her eyes focused on the empty place on the wall, not wanting to look around and see images of the accusing eyes of her father or brother, or the fake smiles they had to plaster on every time they remembered what she’d done.
“I killed my own mother.” The words sounded as evil on the air as they had in her head, and Faith struggled to quell the trembling inside her belly.
“Faith Inez,” Sammy bellowed from the other room. “Popcorn is ready. Where the heck are you?”
“Coming.” Her response came out as a tiny squeak and she cleared her throat and tried again. “Coming. Gimme a minute, jeez.”
Sing-song, teasing, just like he’d been her whole life, Sammy called out, “I’m not waiting.”
“I’ll be right there.”I took his mother away. An image of her father’s face rose in her mind, expression ravaged by grief. She choked off a sob, burying her face in her palms.I’ve gotta make this right somehow. She didn’t know what she could do with the knowledge, was surprised by how her heart ached. But Faith knew she had to find a way to help her dad and brother heal.
***
Mason
Mason startled up from sleep, head lurching off the pillow. Breathing heavily, he pushed up to one elbow and looked around the room, verifying he and his wife were alone. She rolled towards him, murmuring a questioning, “Chunk a hunk?” Her way of asking if everything was okay.
He smiled and bent to her, nuzzling against her neck as he told her, “Sleep, babe.”
“’Kay.” She sighed and settled against the pillow, her eyes never opening.
Swinging his legs off the mattress, he stood and stretched, and then padded down the hallway. Pausing at the first door, he slowly opened it and looked inside to see his daughter sleeping. Hands folded under her pillow, Dolly’s breathing was slow and easy, her sleep deep and dreamless.
The next door was already partially opened, and Mason used his palm to ease it wider. Garrett, just over a year older than Dolly, lay sprawled on his back, hands and feet anchoring the corners of the bed. His head angled backwards, prominent Adam’s apple showing proof of the boy’s advancing age.
