Page 121 of The Woman in the Hollow
“Hello!” my mom’s voice rang through the house.
“Grammy!” the kids chorused, running out to greet her.
She emerged a few minutes, a toddler on one hip, her hand in one of the older kid’s hand.
“Oh, Hannah! Perfect! I could use your help.”
“My help?” Hannah asked.
“I’m taking these darlings back to my place for the night. I heard Mama is not feeling well. I could use an extra set of hands.”
“So long as it’s not in the kitchen,” Hannah said, shrugging.
“I will drop them back off tomorrow around noon,” my mom said, giving me a smile. “Hopefully Hazel is feeling a little better by then.”
She didn’t even need to pack bags. My mom was the kind of grandma who kept clothes for all of the kids at her house, just in case.
“I really appreciate it, Ma.”
“Don’t mention it. I love having them over, you know that. The other kids are getting too cool for Grandma these days. I’m happy to have the littles while I still can.”
With that, she nudged the kids and their aunt toward the back door then shuffled everyone into her massive bus-like transit van.
And they were off.
I turned off the sauce, deciding it could wait until later, then brought the cup of tea and plate of crackers upstairs to find Hazel in bed with the lights off and drapes pulled.
“It’s quiet,” she said in a croak, like if she spoke too loudly she might get sick again. “Did the kids smother Hannah to death?”
“Damn near. No, Mom dropped by and took your sister and the kids to her house.”
“She’s a saint. Have we told her that lately?”
“Every time you speak to her.”
“It’s not enough. Let’s hire a sky writer. Commission a pop star to write a song about it that she’ll hear every time she goes to the grocery store. Nominate her for the Nobel Prize.” I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my coat and tie, and climbed into the bed with her.
She nibbled one cracker, then another, but before reaching for her tea and sipping carefully.
I gently rubbed a hand across her thigh.
“Any better?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure the crackers are going to stay down. So that’s a win.”
“By my calculations, we are roughly four months away from all-pizza-all-the-time.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time. I don’t remember the last time the house was this quiet.”
“Sure you do,” I said, rubbing my hand up and down her arm. “The last time Ma took the kids.”
“Flowers. We need to send her about fifty dozen long-stem roses.”
“Get right on that,” I agreed. “So, judging by the sickness pattern—” I said.
“Yep. My money is on a boy. Your mom was right about this family’s genes.”
She was.
