The Price of Redemption

“You okay?”

The flyaway brown hair came from Dustin, so did the brown eyes and wide lips. Size and imagination came from Ruth. Megan, like Ruth, knew there really were monsters in the closet. Ruth’s had been real. Its name had been Darryl George. With Megan, they were imaginary and had started back when Dustin stopped coming home, and Ruth took a full-time job. “It’s so quiet,” Megan complained, picking at the edge of her blanket. “I’m thinking about Daddy. And I’m alone.”

“Grandma and I are both here. We were in the garage.”

“You’re not going to work tomorrow, are you?”

“No, not for a long time.” No need to explain to a five-year-old the ins and outs of family emergency leave. Ruth was just grateful to have time to spend with her family, time to spend burying Dustin both physically and mentally.

“Will you sit in the chair?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

Years ago, when Megan was a baby, Ruth would pick her up and rock her in the pale blue rocking chair. Sitting in that chair with a precious little daughter had made the exhaustion almost pleasurable. Not like today. Putting her feet on the floor instead of on the footstool, Ruth pushed herself back and forth while listening to her daughter breathe and to the sound of the television returning to life in the next room, her mother’s room.

So, Carolyn was sticking around.

And Ruth needed to decide if she wanted to pursue this conversation on the day she buried her husband.

Some things needed to stay buried. Ruth was smart enough to believe that; she just didn’t intend to allow it to happen.

EIGHT

The aroma of breakfast pulled Ruth from a sound sleep. Good thing, too, because if she’d slept in the rocker any longer, her neck would forever tilt at an awkward angle. After making sure Megan was still asleep, Ruth stumbled from the room and joined her mother in the kitchen.

Her mom hadn’t prepared breakfast since her husband died. He’d always demanded she make him three pancakes, four slices of bacon, two pieces of toast and orange juice. For a man who didn’t bring home a regular paycheck, sometimes his demands were unrealistic. But Ruth couldn’t remember a morning her mother didn’t make the breakfast.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, Ruth picked up a fork, examined it and asked, “You ready to talk?”

“No.”

“Why are you making breakfast then?”

“Because I’m willing to change.”

“What all are you going to change?”

“I’ve not completely decided. Right now I’m just changing my morning habits. I’ve always liked breakfast. I let your father take that away from me, along with other things, and I need to get it, and them, back.”

“Talk to me, Mom.”

“I can’t today, Ruthie. I need to think.”