Five Kids, One Christmas (The Brannigan Sisters) Page 4

  Single parents of a group of children who considered themselves, but not Helen and Nat, family.

  And so it went.

  The children returned to school, to preschool, to routine and faces more familiar to them than Helen’s or Nat’s. After some debate, Nat, too, returned to the digital and technical photography and darkroom classes he taught part time at the local community college to fill in the periodic gaps between journalistic assignments. Routine resumed, he hoped, would make them all easier with each other, give them something to talk about at the end of the day.

  Give him air to breathe that was not filled with the eternally unsettling taste of Helen.

  Only Helen’s normal daily routine remained out of her reach. This meant she had three hours almost every morning while Jane was in preschool and Max at kindergarten to rearrange furniture—her version of nervous chain smoking—and reflect on her inadequacies. The make–work mornings were followed by three hours nearly every afternoon spent alone with Max and Jane having those shortcomings illustrated to her. When the three older children arrived home shortly before four they were all too willing to further confirm for her all the things she lacked in the way of mothering skills. And that was only on the days she didn’t drive the car pool. On carpool days there were always extra kids around to let her know how far out of her depth she was.

  Then, of course, there was Nat she had to get used to. Who knew there’d be so many rules to follow just because he happened to be blind? Who knew logic would have nothing to do with anything when he happened to get near her—in the same house, two floors apart? And who knew that living with a dog wouldn’t be such a terrible thing?

  Still, life went on regardless of what she did or didn’t know.

  Parenting and patience came more naturally to Nat than they did to Helen perhaps, but even he was handicapped by limitations he hadn’t expected. The scrutinized time he’d spent with Zach and Cara over the years hadn’t prepared any of them for one–on–one, day in, day out, with no Amanda and John waiting to sort out the pieces when Nat and his children parted. He realized with an ache in his heart that the time he’d had with them before now had been fun time, limited time. It had been full of presents and fa–la–la and dreams of the future, without remembering that dreams and reality are often two separate things and that meshing them was, more often than not, a whole lot of work. None of it had prepared him for this.

  But it would work, he assured himself and Toby fiercely, night after night when he went, exhausted and torn, to his bed at the rear, southern side of the second floor. He would make it work. No matter what. And little by little, things would get better. They had to. An increment at a time, the children—all of them—would get used to him, to Helen, to the current state of things. They would learn to accept, to move forward, to trust. They had to.

  No matter what.

  On the front, north end of the second floor and completely overwhelmed, Helen couldn’t whip up the mental energy to think that far ahead. A day at a time was the only way she knew how to play it—just like her first weeks in the army, at the Point. Getting through, getting by was the name of the game until the day arrived when she’d figured out the rules. And if there weren’t any rules here, that would be fine, too, as long as she knew there weren’t. Then she could make them up as she went along, change them if they didn’t work, organize a plan.

  Organization and preparedness were the keys to life.

  After nearly twenty years as an army officer, with all the rules neatly written down—which didn’t mean she always followed them, only that she had a list in front of her that she could ignore when she chose—she was lost without a plan.

  What was it she’d thought on Halloween, standing on the porch waiting for someone to answer the door? That she was just a little concerned about how well she’d do as a single parent to the child actually born of her loins? That she was, in fact, scared to death of the prospect of failing and screwing up one child’s life as a military, move–around mom? And now she had to figure out, what?—how not to screw up the lives of five children, while trying to get her military career shifted to Michigan, which was not exactly the hub of army life or promotional opportunities for a recently promoted, full–bird colonel with her eye on eventually becoming a general.

  Which wasn’t what this was about by a long shot. Her career was merely a sidebar, a comment on the moment.

  In the blink of an eye, the crunch of steel and fabric and bone, all their lives had changed—Nat’s, the children’s, hers—and there was nothing any of them could do to change things back, retrieve moments that were lost. All they could do was forge onward as best they might. But with her? A mother impersonator? Of five?

  She rubbed bleary, sleepless eyes with shaking hands. Lord oh Lord oh Lord. When John Maximovich made the effort, he sure did know how to wind up and throw the ball hard. She should have figured she’d have to face her fears of parenthood eventually—whether she was prepared to or not.

  But as… Colonel Mom?

  Propping her elbows on the vanity desk beside her new bed, Helen stared at the face the mirror reflected back to her in the moonlight. Sucked in a tight breath and let it out slowly. Well, nothing else for it. Between here and the third floor were five children who needed a mother—or a reasonable facsimile thereof—and needed Nat. She wasn’t what they were looking for, but, God willing, for the next six months or better she was what they had. She and Nat and the psychological observers and the courts and the Sanderses, with the proof at the end to be found smack dab in the middle of whatever kind of pudding the baking period brought.

  A good pudding, she hoped. Thick and rich and not soupy, with five mostly happy kids floating in the middle of it with Nat in the bow shouting directions and her at the rudder steering around the lumps he couldn’t see.

  Oh, God—she slumped, head in her hands—she’d gone completely punchy. She didn’t even know enough about kids and kitchens to be able to come up with a simple analogy. And as far as desserts and puddings were concerned, Jell–O Instant Pudding, add milk, shake and ready to eat in five minutes was about as good as she got.

  Just her luck it was near the top of Libby’s list of things the kids wouldn’t eat. Which meant she had a lot to learn.

  Big surprise, huh? But so did they.

  Damn good thing, then, that determination and stubbornness were two of the things she was best at.

  And damn good thing God kept a special eye on children and fools.

  Especially fools who wanted to slink down the hall and crawl into bed with Nat.

  Chapter Three

  ~GUY FAWKES DAY—8:05 A.M.~

  Still rattled after almost a week to get used to being here, being the "mom,"—currently, for reasons she preferred not to recall, synonymous with pariah—Helen stood in the middle of the laundry room surrounded by mountains of multicolored clothing with nary a dry–cleanable garment in sight. Her pen wavered above the grocery list.

  "Toilet paper, milk, bread, cream cheese, not–instant pudding, a packet of shoes for My Pretty Pony…"

  She squinted and tapped the pen clicker against her teeth. She’d forgotten something important; she could feel it in her bones. "…Hamburger, hot dogs, tomato soup, frozen waffles, frozen pot pies, Hamburger Helper, fluoride rinse, antiplaque rinse, cookies, fruit, a wedding dress for Malibu Barbie…"

  Nope, she couldn’t think what it was. Ah well, she decided philosophically, it couldn’t have been important. Well, at least not too important.

  She hoped.

  She shrugged. If they didn’t write it on the list, she couldn’t very well be expected to know they needed it, could she? She’d simply pick up extras of everything—except the Pony shoes and Barbie clothes, and she was only buying those because she was so entranced that Cara and Jane had come out of their shells and offered to trust her enough not only to ask her to buy something for them but to find the right things to boot. Better than standing here stagnating in front of t
his apparently personality endowed washing machine—and a bitchy personality it had, too—waiting for cows to fly.

  Libby, of course—her Libby—didn’t do dolls. She was into other things: planning chaos, sorting mayhem, telling her mother how to do all the things her mother didn’t know how to do…

  Speaking of which…

  Yawning and guarded, dressed in a Tasmanian Devil T–shirt and a pair of plaid flannel boxers, Zach stepped through the laundry–room door.

  "Colonel…"

  Helen winced at his use of her title. Damned rank sounded too blasted military, too tight assed and stringent to be used by children in their own home—especially when The Observers were around to hear it.

  She could just imagine these young, idealistic, usually single and childless social workers sending each other skeptical glances, making notes in their reports: Not integrating well. Poor adjustment to situation. Recommend more frequent visits. And this in a state whose programs served as a national model for the preservation of The Family—read parents with biological offspring—at all costs and in all situations in order to maintain a trimmer state budget under the compassionate guise of "Families First." Helen only hoped that the ideal of family conservation would work to advantage for her, Nat and the rug rats—to which end she’d been trying unsuccessfully for days to come up with something for the children to call her besides the "Mom" everyone but Libby strenuously avoided.

  Naturally, Nat was already "Nat" and sometimes "Dad," but even Max and Jane had begun to address Helen as "Kern’l." As though she were some forbidding Dickensian entity—which, if the reactions of her nieces, nephews and Libby to her when she was being her sternest were to be believed, she was pretty sure she wasn’t. They had a tendency to giggle.

  "Colonel, have you done the wash yet?" Zach’s tone was faintly accusing, faintly hopeful, as though something as meaty as trust hung in the balance. Perhaps it did. "I need some clean school pants."

  Helen sighed. Zach might not know what to call her, but at least he was speaking to her. That in itself was a vast improvement over yesterday.

  "Ah…" Dubiously she viewed the jumble of laundry—some of it clean, most of it dirty—on the floor around her. School pants. Now where had she…? Light dawned; she looked at Zach. "Navy blue Dockers with reinforced knees, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Thought so." She opened the dryer, plucked out the needed item, feeling like a magician producing white doves from thin air. "These do?"

  "Those’re Libby’s."

  "Oh." Deflated. Magic exposed for the trickery it was.

  Zach held out a hand, almost conciliatory. "Almost" being the key. "She needs some, too, so I’ll take ’em anyway. What about mine?" A hint of belligerence mixed with the accusation this time. "And Cara’s?"

  Helen could almost hear the unspoken ‘or didn’t you wash clothes for anybody but your own kid?’ circling like a buzzard over road kill.

  It didn’t help that she was only almost certain that she had. With all this parochial school navy blue to wash, who could tell?

  She reached into the dryer, scooped up another handful of dark blue. Be pants and be big, she prayed, and brought the items into the light. A school uniform vest and two pairs of pants—each in one piece and of one not–even–bleach–dabbled color. Zach took them from her, sorted the tangle of cotton legs and Orion knit.

  "Mine, Cara’s, mine," he announced finally, examining vest, pants, pants. "This’ll do. Thank you, Colonel." He turned to go.

  "You’re welcome." Helen hesitated, called him back. "Ah, Zach?"

  He looked at her. "Yes, ma’am?"

  She made a face at the formality. "Well, I was just thinking that, um, ‘Colonel’ and ‘ma’am’ are a little too, um, protocol for, er, family use, don’t you think?"

  Zach shook his head. "My mom told me I should always show respect for my elders, whether I respect them or not. And my dad—I mean, my other dad, not this one—"

  John, Helen thought, surprised by the accompanying pain.

  "—said military people should always be addressed by rank, not name."

  "Well, that’s true, but—" she clutched the grocery list, not wanting to think what he’d implied about respect—or his lack of it for her "—it wouldn’t be disrespectful if I told you that you could call me, say—"

  "You’re not my mother and I won’t call you that." Violent, adamant, instinctive.

  "Oh, God, Zach. No." Helen shut her eyes, swallowed. Sweet Mother Mary, another insensitive mistake. Would she never stop making them?

  She reached for him; he shied away. "I didn’t mean—I wasn’t saying—I meant, well, maybe you could call me Helen or something instead of Colonel is all, you know?"

  "Oh." A measure of fierceness left his face. The wariness remained. "Yeah." He considered her a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said. "I can’t."

  She was astounded. "Why?" she asked, unable to help herself.

  Zach shrugged. "It just wouldn’t be right." He tossed the pants and vest over his shoulder. "I gotta go get dressed," he said, heading out the door.

  Helen stared after him, the words ‘It wouldn’t be right’ clanging painfully inside her heart, echoing in her ears. Rejection hurt, damn it, no matter how deeply embedded in lead your ego was.

  She shook herself, drew herself erect. He’s eleven, she thought tightly. What does he know?

  He’s eleven, her heart responded softly. He’s been through a lot. Give him time.

  Time…

  She drew a cleansing breath, brushed the moment aside. Yeah, time. Speaking of which, she had a lot to do with hers. Grimly she eyed the laundry, which seemed to have multiplied while she stood there. A pair of Sesame Street pajamas, a load of yellow Big Bird sheets and a rubberized bed protector dropped into the puddle of mixed fabric at her feet.

  "Mom?" Libby’s voice thundered hollowly down to her through the second floor laundry chute. "Mother, are you down there?"

  Oh, bother, not now. Couldn’t she simply crawl into a hole and lick her wounds in peace? "Yes," Helen hollered back, knowing that where Libby was concerned there was no sense in denying where she was. No matter where she hid, young Miss Maximovich was bound to find her out. "What do you want?"

  "Jane wet her bed last night. Cara and I stripped it, but don’t forget to make it. Oh, and Max put on the same clothes he was wearing yesterday. I think you should prob’ly make him change ’em so he doesn’t wear dirty stuff to school this morning."

  "It’s almost time for school. Are you dressed yet?"

  "Not yet."

  "Well, get dressed and get down here."

  "But don’t you want me to tell Max—"

  Helen dropped her hands to her hips, viewed the laundry chute through narrowed eyes. "Libby," she said firmly.

  "But—"

  "Now."

  "Okay." The response was disgusted and resigned. "I will. But he’s gonna smell." The laundry chute banged shut.

  Helen rolled her head, easing the tension in her neck, looked at the pile of somewhat fragrant sheets at her feet. Shut her eyes and sighed. One more load of laundry and one more "to do" to add to today’s list.

  Grimacing, she bent and picked up the yellow—and yellowed—percale with two fingers at arm’s length and dropped it into a pile closer to the washing machine. This wasn’t like anything she’d ever had to do in her life—if you didn’t count the years her mother, Julia, had spent trying to domesticate Helen’s GI Joe, gung–ho self, and that had been a disaster—so what the dickens did she know about doing laundry for an unfriendly mob that got upset if you accidentally put their green stuff in hot water with their red, and the resulting—albeit clean—mess turned out a sometimes Christmas striped but generally uniform brown? And then told Nat, who wouldn’t have known otherwise—until he got to class and a student told him what he was wearing?

  While she was thinking of it, she added Shout Color Catchers to her shopping list. Nip that problem—late—but r
ight in the bud.

  On the kitchen side of the laundry–room wall, the house phone rang. Helen grabbed for the instrument, accepting the reprieve with alacrity. In a moment she wished she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get out of doing laundry. She shut her eyes, trying not to sigh when she heard the too–familiar voice at the other end of the line. The children loved Amanda’s mother to death, and she, in her defense, would have died for them, but as far as Helen was concerned, Emma Sanders was a worrisome impediment to the situation’s general bliss and recovery.

  "No, he’s on his way out the door, Mrs. Sanders, and—"

  "The hell he is," Emma interrupted sharply. "He’s there, I know it. He’s just avoiding me the way he’s done for the last—"

  Familiar with the diatribe, having heard it several times during the past six days, Helen interrupted without a qualm. After all, this wasn’t her former in–law, so why should she deal with her? "Why don’t I see if I can catch him, shall I?" Helen asked quickly, pulling the telephone away from ear and mouth. Hauling the white, twenty–five–foot cord across the kitchen with her, she bellowed down the front hall, "Na–at, phone. It’s your mother–in–law."

  In the front foyer, harnessing Toby for his morning walk, Nat winced. Adjustments were part of life; no one knew that better than he. But why the hell was it always necessary to deal with the complications all at once? Wasn’t it enough that he was trying to live in an unfamiliar house with three floors—not counting the basement and attic—and umpteen million rooms? Wasn’t it sufficient for him to struggle for the patience and understanding to deal with five kids in varying stages of grief, denial and distrust without putting them in the same domicile with Helen, who not only played havoc with his pulse, but who moved things around when she was nervous? And not just little things, not simple rearrangements of things; she transported furniture from one room, one floor, one house—in this case, his apartment—to the next so often that he had to use his cane and Toby so he wasn’t constantly tripping over things the way he had the first couple of days. Wasn’t all that plenty enough for anyone? So did he have to deal daily with the former in–laws who wanted to take his children away from him on top of it? Was that fair? Was it necessary—?