Page 98 of If Not for My Baby
“You ever notice she won’t let anyone help her with anythin’ at all?”
“Notice?” Beth huffs. “We’ve been putting up with this one’scan-doattitude since she was a kiddo. Wouldn’t let me put her hair in pigtails. Went to school with a whole chunk down her back that she missed every day.”
She’s right, but it wasn’t just me—my mom never took handouts from the other Cherry Grove mothers in town. All of whom, including Beth, were old enough to behermom. She didn’t want to be a charity case—the knocked-up teen with no husband and no money. I learned from her that there was nothing I couldn’t do on my own. And frankly, any attempts she made to lean on people often left her weeping into a pint of Phish Food.
“I’m self-sufficient.”
“Clementine.” My mom’s glare is one only a mother can manufacture. “You won’t let me buy you allergy medication.”
Tom’s eyes are on his vast array of colorful bills. “That sneeze is very cute, though.”
My mouth twists to conceal a spreading grin. Across the counter, a soft smile warms my mom’s cheeks as she watches us. To my shock it’s Mike who says, “Always has been. Like a baby bird.”
I could kiss Beth on her round cheeks when she adds, “I think it sounds like a broken smoke detector.”
“That, too,” Mike says.
I bring our mugs of black tea back to the table and roll, landing right on my mom’s orange property empire. A miserable groan gurgles from me.
“Pay up,” she says with wicked glee.
“Can I offer you my railroads instead? My youthful complexion?”
My mom only shakes her head. “Clementine Bugsy Malone Clark, we do not welch on our debts in this household.”
I obey, leaving me a veritable beggar, and Tom runs a hand over my shoulders in commiseration. “Your real middle name is Bonnie, you said?”
I nod around a mouthful of pizza. “Doesn’t that mean something in Irish?”
“In Scottish it meansbeautiful.” He looks at my mom as if to say,right?
She shrugs. “I’m just a Faye Dunaway fan.”
“It’s true,” I say. “We were Bonnie and Clyde for Halloween once. I was seven…and I was Clyde.”
Tom looks pleased, like it’s exactly what he expected of us.
“What?” My mom pouts. “I saidIwas the Faye fan.”
Mike’s chair creaks as he stands. “Well, I think the Scottish meaning couldn’t be more fitting.”
It’s a sweet thing to say, but the energy in the room has shifted. “Thanks, Mike.”
“I’m going to grab some more beers from downstairs,” he announces.
Tom stands, too. “I can help you?”
I cringe at the difference in their heights and wish he’d sit down.
“Nope, I’ve got it, man.”
The dust cloud of discomfort Mike leaves behind is staggering. Beth doesn’t hide her concern for her son, watching as he heads down the basement stairs. My mom makes a show of rolling doubles.
My stomach twists. “I’m going to see if Mike needs a hand with those beers.”
I’m three stairs from the basement floor when my eyes finally adjust to the shadowy light. Too many bulbs have gone out in the ceiling that neither my mom nor I were tall enough to replace. Mood lighting, we called it. Perhaps that’s Dianentine, too.
Mike’s just standing there before the fridge, lit by the fluorescent glow, hands on his hips in thought.
