If Carol had her way, they wouldn't be celebrating the fucking day at all.
It used to be a sort of peaceful, proud feeling she had when she thought of Mother's Day. The flowers in every shop window, and the way the magazines and billboards started including reminders to buy Mother chocolates, or perfume, or greeting cards. And Rindy would start giggling behind her hands as they caught sight of one of these advertisements, her eyes dancing and her little body nearly bursting with the effort of keeping such a secret. Harge, for all of his forgetfulness when it came to Carol's birthday or their anniversary, always arranged something with Rindy. A hand-drawn card, or a smudged clay ashtray or ring holder. He always made sure that Rindy had something for Carol.
This year, however, after a cold phone conversation, he'd announced with finality that he was taking their daughter to Florida on a vacation with his parents, and that Carol would have to arrange some other celebration with Rindy, maybe, when they got back.
Carol had rested her head against the wall, her eyes closed. "Harge, for Christ's sake. It's Mother's Day. You'd take her from me on Mother's Day?"
Harge had been distant. "Carol, I don't want to discuss it. We've had the trip planned for over a month now. Rindy is excited to go."
Carol heard her voice shake slightly. "I have seen her once in three months, Harge. Once. And you were there the entire time. I understand it, all right; I understand why. But she's my daughter. And she loves Mother's Day, she -"
"She has something for you. We'll send it to your new address." Harge sounded bored. "I'll have my secretary call you and we can talk about a date to meet up. Rindy should be back mid-June, maybe later. It depends on how long my parents want to stay, really. I'll be heading back to the city after a week or so."
Carol rolled her eyes. "I see some things never change."
Harge's voice hardened. "No, Carol, I guess they never do." He hung up the phone, and Carol clenched her hand around the receiver into a tight fist, fighting down the rush of pure anger that washed over her.
So, fine. He wasn't going to let her have Rindy on the one day that by rights, Carol should have her. Fuck him. Fuck everything.
Carol pictured her daughter; her sweet face and open, caring smile. She knew that Therese had only met Rindy once, way back in the winter, before all of this had happened. She'd changed so much in that short time, and now it was May. Would Rindy be taller, maybe? A little more gangly, her arms and legs spindly like a foal's, as they had been when Carol saw her in March? Carol had held Rindy on her hip and had been faintly surprised at how long Rindy's legs were, dangling well past Carol's hips. She'd be tall, like Carol was. A tall, elegant, potentially threatening woman.
Carol smiled. There was no denying, at least, that Rindy was Carol's daughter. Her personality was warm and open, very different than Harge and even quite different than Carol, but she had Harge's will of steel and Carol's low tolerance for stupidity, even at age 5.
At the idea of Rindy's mutinous, irresistible lower lip, Carol's own lips trembled slightly and she stood up, moving into the bedroom and closing the door softly behind her. Usually, Therese would follow her if she saw Carol was upset, but Therese had fallen asleep in the May sunshine coming through the windows, curled up on the couch, her thumb in her mouth. And it was just as well, really.
Therese couldn't possibly understand what this was like.
//~//
Therese had found the letter while she was clearing out an old box of photographs and paraphernalia she'd brought from the old apartment.
It was written in a childish hand, the letters round, a little shaky. There were drops of ink splattered on some of the words, and some of the words were misspelled. "Dear Mama, I miss you. What are you doing now? I have been learning to write and cipher and Sister Alicia is teaching me how to cook. Are you coming to visit me soon? I love you. Happy Mother's Day. Love, Therese."
The letter was stuffed in a torn envelope, the address carefully written in Sister Alicia's hand. And across the top, a stamp. "Return to sender."
Therese had had dozens of these letters, most torn up and spattered with tears, shoved angrily into the trash or thrown spitefully across the lawn of the Children's Home. Every year, she'd see the little girls and boys run across the lawn into the arms of parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents. Every year, she stood inside, her long brown hair hanging down her back in two braids with ribbons tied on the end - special ribbons that Sister Alicia had given her for her birthday, which always fell just before Mother's Day in the first week of May.
And she watched. And she looked, straining her eyes, staring past the throng of adults to search for the mother that never came, not even once.
Therese rarely let herself think of the day she'd been dropped at the Home. Her mother had been harried, tugging Therese's hand as they alighted from the taxi. "Such expense," her mother had grumbled, "and your father barely in the ground." Her voice was still slightly accented, even though she'd been in America for most of her life and had come from Eastern Europe as a young child. Later, Therese would wonder why her mother still had an accent when other child immigrants didn't. Still later than that, Therese would wonder what her mother's voice sounded like, because she had forgotten.
And Therese had trotted to keep up with her mother's long legs, legs Therese hadn't inherited. Therese looked stubbornly like her father in almost every respect except for her eyes. Her dark blue-green eyes were entirely her mother's. Maybe that was why her mother would never look at her. Maybe that was why she would never hold her, never speak to her except out of the side of her mouth, her tone frustrated.
So many of the Home Children were orphans, or as good as. They had family members who couldn't afford to keep them, but faithfully visited every holiday, a few weekends in the summertime. Therese got used to the sharp sting of disappointment when Sally got a box of candy from her grandfather, and James got a new toy firetruck from his auntie. She got used to the radio silence on Christmas and her birthday, celebrating in the vast church basement kitchen after hours, illicitly eating plain spice cake with Sister Alicia. She knew, inherently, that the nuns felt sorry for her. But if they pitied her, they never outwardly showed it. Therese felt cared for, the way they'd help her decorate the tiny Christmas tree in their private lounge, and give her handmade presents. It was never openly said, but Therese knew she was the pet of the Home, and it became a place of safety for her.
Still, even the best spice cake wasn't like having a family actually bring you a cake from the bakery, or one that they baked themselves, just for you. And even though Sister Alicia would sometimes take Therese on her lap, especially after a nightmare or when Therese wet the bed, it wasn't the same as being held by a mother that was supposed to love you.
Sister Alicia had always told Therese that her letters must have gotten lost in the mail. "It happens with city mail," the nun had said, smoothing her wimple methodically to the sides of her face, tucking in stray hairs. "They can't keep track of anything down there. You keep writing to her, Therese. A letter will get through."
Therese had believed her, and knowing her mother's short attention span, she peppered her letters with news of how useful she was, of how much she was learning. Never did she tell her mother about how she cried at night, missing the tiny, hot apartment above a hardware store in Hell's Kitchen, missing the sound of her parents' breathing at night on the lumpy bed across the room while Therese slept in a tiny trundle bed that slid up against the wall. Her parents slept together for economy only; the rest of the time, they barely spoke, her mother contemptuous, her father simply sad and dreamy.
She never talked about how she dreamed about Papa, about how he would swing her delightedly up onto his shoulder when he came home from work, tickling her tummy. "Tiny Therese", he called her, and sometimes he'd play the guitar and teach her old Czech songs. Therese never talked about how she pressed her face into the pillow, remembering her father's scent of tobacco and cologne, how he would rock her at night if she woke up with a nightmare. When her father had died, Therese had felt like her world had ended. And in a way, it had. She never went back to the life she had before he passed on.
At the end of her stay at the Children's Home, when she turned 16 and started work in a grocery store, Sister Alicia had handed her a bundle of letters from Therese's mother, separate from the letters that had made their way back to Therese, all stamped with the ugly red "Return to sender". Every letter she had ever written. None of them had been received or read by her mother.
"I couldn't bear to throw them away. I'm sorry, Therese." The nun had said nothing else, but her eyes had been sad, and Therese knew, finally had confirmation, of what she'd known all along: her mother couldn't have cared less about Therese. She was a problem that had been packed away, the remnant of a former life. So Therese had simply moved on, letting go of the idea of any kind of a relationship with the woman who had always borderline hated her, since the day Therese had been born.
Therese curled up on the twin bed in the guest room, crunching the letter in her fist, biting her lip against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her; emotions she was usually successful at suppressing and not caring about. But of course, it all came back up every Mother's Day, all of the adverts imploring her to remember Mother and what she does for you. What if your mother had never been there for you? What then?
There was no holiday for abandoned children.
//~//
After crying all afternoon in the bedroom, Carol decided the best course of action was to simply drink her way through Mother's Day and then never acknowledge it again unless Rindy brought it up first.
Eventually, there would be a time when Rindy wouldn't be under her father's thumb so much. But Carol worried. Would Rindy still want to see her mother then? Would she even still know Carol like she did now in the same way?
Carol, walking into the kitchen and picking up her crystal tumbler from the credenza against the opposite wall, remembered her first Mother's Day with Rindy. At just under five months old, she was a giggly, happy baby, never making strange or crying for sustained periods of time. While Carol left most of the baby care to the nanny, she did like to hold Rindy, playing with her in the living room, watching her wave her silver rattle and giggle at the patterns the light it caught made on the wall and the floor.
Harge had rarely held his daughter - he was uncomfortable around babies. But he doted on her, bringing home gifts for her constantly, playing with her on the floor. Later, when Rindy was older, he'd give her piggy-back rides around the house and help her with her colouring book. That Mother's Day, he'd given Carol a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a greeting card that he'd signed from Rindy. Carol still had it, packed away somewhere deep in the wardrobe.
Carol took a deep swig of her bourbon and sighed, feeling the tears press against her eyes. Of all the things Harge could do to hurt her, removing her daughter from her life had to be the worst. And she hurt, all the time; the empty hole that Rindy had filled ached. Most of the time, Carol could ignore it, and did, living her life to the fullest, loving her time with Therese. But like any hole, it gaped at the worst times.
Just then, Therese walked into the kitchen, scrubbing a hand across red eyes and going to the fridge for a glass of water. She stumbled past Carol, for a moment not even noticing her sitting at the kitchen table, but then she heard the clink of ice in Carol's glass and spun around. "Oh. Carol."
Therese was a mess, thought Carol. Her hair was slightly mussed and her blue-green eyes teary. Carol could tell by the way she was standing that she was wet, but she could also tell by Therese's body language that Therese was warning her not to ask. They generally respected each other's need for space, though Carol knew that space was sometimes the last thing both of them needed after years of withdrawal. But she didn't have the energy today, anyway, and if Therese wanted to be left alone, she could do that. Carol turned the glass in her hand, watching the light shoot through the Waterford crystal, the shining depths of the bourbon rich and brown.
Therese leaned against the counter and sighed, deeply. She took a long drink of water and crossed her ankles. Today she was wearing a pair of rolled-up high-waisted jeans and an oversized man's shirt, tied at the waist. Carol loved it when Therese wore pants; her diaper usually showed quite obviously under them. Today was no different; Therese was rounded at the waist and bottom. She wasn't wearing a girdle over her diaper today, so her plastic pants were quite audible when she moved. Carol smiled, despite herself. Therese was so sweet - and so adorable.
Therese smiled back, but her eyes were concerned, and Carol realized that she must look a mess, herself. Generally she didn't like Therese to see her cry; it was a habit born out of the years she never showed emotion in front of Harge or Rindy. And there was the way she looked so old and tired; how the lines in her face seemed so deep, and her eyes so exhausted. She knew Therese didn't see it, but still. One had to have a sense of self-preservation in these times.
Carol shrugged. "It's all right, darling."
Therese came and sat down across from Carol; she didn't ask any questions, but she didn't take her eyes from Carol's, and Carol sighed.
"Really. Don't worry about it. It's just a tough weekend." She tried to smile, and an understanding came into Therese's eyes. Therese reached a hand across the table and Carol took it in both of hers, noticing how cold Therese's was. The girl was always cold.
"I love you," said Therese, and letting go of Carol's hand, she got up and paused beside Carol, kissing the top of her head. Carol put her arm around Therese's waist, across her tummy, and pulled her close for a moment.
"I love you, too. I just need a bit of time, sweetheart."
Therese nodded, but she leaned into Carol, and Carol patted her bottom. "Go and change. And put on a sweater, Therese. Your hands are like ice." She smiled at Therese, who made a face and left the room, heading for the bedroom.
Carol sighed. The only way to get through this weekend was to just keep pushing through it, she supposed.
//~//
So that was it. It was Mother's Day. Therese wanted to kick herself for not immediately understanding what this day would mean to Carol; Carol so often didn't mention Rindy at all, save for the Sunday conversations she usually had with her. Therese understood it was for self-preservation, but Carol did such a good job of concealing her emotions most of the time that it was easy to forget about the fact that Rindy was never far from Carol's mind.
Therese had overheard some of the phone conversation this morning; Harge was apparently taking Rindy somewhere for awhile. Therese had clenched her fists; Harge could be so cruel to Carol when it came to their daughter. He used her as a pawn to get under Carol's skin, and having been the child her parents used to hurt each other, Therese felt nothing but sorry for the little girl. Rindy was so sunny and sweet, and she didn't deserve to be pulled back and forth between her parents, though Carol certainly didn't have the upper hand in any of this.
So it explained why Carol had withdrawn all afternoon. Therese understood it; she didn't feel like talking about her feelings either. But she did want to make Carol feel better. Maybe Therese could make dinner for her. Carol usually preferred to cook these days; she liked trying out new recipes and becoming better at cooking for herself after years of having a live-in cook and maid, but Therese also enjoyed cooking and she'd noticed that some of the stores had strawberries, probably shipped in from somewhere warm. But strawberries were Carol's favourite, and she could pick up some fresh-cut flowers for her as well. Carol loved tulips and there were so many at the fruit and flower markets around the city. They usually had a vase of flowers on the kitchen table, but the last ones had died a few days ago and they hadn't gotten around to replacing them.
As Therese changed into a dry diaper, she found herself getting rather excited by the idea. They could have a roast and then strawberries and cream for dessert. And then maybe they could spend the day out tomorrow. The cherry blossoms were out in the park next to the apartment; Therese had been dying to take her camera out to use her new roll of colour film that Carol had given her for Valentine's Day, which she'd been saving for a special occasion due to the pure expense of developing the prints. She couldn't do it herself; she'd have to send them to the New York Times lab. They could see the blossoms and maybe get ice cream. That should cheer Carol up.
Clean and dry, Therese washed her hands and then obediently put on a sweater as Carol had told her to, before calling, "I'm going out for awhile," and leaving the apartment. Immediately, she felt better in the fresh air, and she walked briskly down the street towards the supermarket a few blocks over. The day was bright and sunny, if a little chilly. Therese stacked a roast beef, some new potatoes, and some frozen corn into her basket, and picked up a bunch of tulips from the buckets of flowers by the cashier before leaving for the fruit and flower market on the corner, underneath their apartment. The prices were generally better, and she liked the owners very much, a pair of Russian Jews who usually gave her a little something extra when she bought from them.
Holding the tulips, Therese smiled as the sun hit them, bringing out the beautiful colours of red and orange and yellow. They would catch the sun nicely, thought Therese, thinking of how the morning sun slanted through the kitchen window onto the table. And Carol would love them. She did so love being surprised, and it was so simple to make her happy.
Entering the little store, Therese spent some time selecting the strawberries, putting the flowers down on the counter beside the display to free up her hands. They were a little paler than regular strawberries, she thought, but still looked fairly plump and juicy. The wife sidled over. "Those ones, they're from California," she said in heavily accented English. "Very delicious, only got them in yesterday."
"They look delicious," said Therese appreciatively. "I think my aunt will love them." The owners knew both Carol and Therese, and like everyone else who wasn't in their inner circle, believed that Therese was Carol's niece.
"Don't forget the cream!" said the wife, pulling a small bottle of whole milk with the cream floating on top from the refrigerator behind her and placing it on the counter. Therese giggled.
"Thank you; I would have forgotten it!" She placed her strawberries on the counter and paid for it all, smiling at the last minute when the wife slipped a small bar of chocolate in her basket and winked at her.
Leaving the store, Therese felt light and happy. She practically skipped up the stairs and unlocked the door hurriedly, excited to give Carol her gift and see her smile. She'd give her the chocolate, too. Carol adored chocolate, though she rarely ate it in order to "preserve her figure".
Carol was still sitting in the kitchen, but she looked much more relaxed. She smiled at Therese when she came in with her basket. "What have you been up to? Was it nice outside?"
"It's a perfectly lovely day," Therese said brightly, and started to unpack her basket. "I knew we didn't have anything planned for dinner tonight, so I thought I'd make you something nice." She smiled at Carol, who looked pleased and got up from the table.
"You didn't have to, darling. You know we could have gone out, or ordered in." Carol looked over Therese's purchases. "But you bought strawberries? Oh, Therese. You remembered." She put her arms around Therese's shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze, and Therese beamed.
"Those were supposed to be a surprise, nosey." She leaned back and Carol kissed her cheek.
"Oops."
"I got you something else, too, but you need to go out of the room. Stop ruining my surprises," teased Therese. Carol immediately let her go and threw up her hands in mock-surrender.
"Yes, ma'am. Far be it from me to ruin things!" She smiled and went into the living room. Therese looked through her basket for the flowers, but didn't find them. She frowned. Could she have left them in the hallway? Going out to the hallway, she looked on the phone table and beside the door, where she would often drop her purchases to take off her shoes, but she didn't find them.
Carol was reading the newspaper in the living room. She looked up and smiled at Therese. "Can I come back in, now?"
"No," said Therese. "I'm not finished yet." She tried to smile, but she knew she looked concerned, and Carol's face changed. But Therese shook her head, and Carol stayed put.
Where could they be? There was no way she could have lost them from the store below up the stairs to the apartment; Therese could be forgetful, but she wasn't that forgetful. Going back into the kitchen, she searched the counter and every nook and cranny of her basket before she realized they were lost. Her heart sank and she sat down at the table, her lips trembling.
She'd only wanted to make a perfect surprise for Carol, because Carol was so sad. To prove that someone thought about her and cared if she was happy. And rationally, she could always go and buy more, or see if she could find where she must have left them, but it was the principle of the thing. She'd wanted to have it all perfect. Therese's lower lip began to tremble. She was always doing this, forgetting something, getting lost in her own head.
Carol poked her head in, then. "Therese?" She noticed Therese's face and stopped, looking concerned. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" Her voice was soft, and it tugged at Therese's heartstrings. Therese's chin started to quiver, and then she let out a sob.
"Oh, Carol, you shouldn't be in here," she sobbed, feeling a bit stupid, and Carol pursed her lips.
"Therese. I'm not going to leave you when you're upset like this. What happened? You were so happy." She came in and sat down across from Therese, and Therese rubbed her hand across her nose, her shoulders hitching a little.
"I got you some flowers," she wept. "But I can't find them and I'm sorry. I wanted you to be happy. I'm sorry you're not happy. I wanted you to feel better."
Carol's face changed, and now she looked a little teary-eyed. "Darling. That was very sweet of you to want me to feel better."
"But I haven't; I lost them. I do this all the time, Carol. I'm sorry. I can't do anything right, not even when I wanted to make you feel better about Mother's Day. I never could make even my own mother feel good about it. I must just not be very good at this." She sniffled, and Carol passed her a paper napkin. Therese wiped her eyes and nose, but then burst into tears again.
"I just wanted to do something nice for you."
Carol waited until Therese stopped talking, and then she reached across the table to take Therese's hand. "My darling girl. You do many, many nice things for me, and you're a very thoughtful person. You thought it'd be nice to go out and surprise me with things I like, without even really knowing what was wrong. Forgetting one little thing does not make you terrible at trying to do something nice for me."
"Yes, it does!" Therese started to cry again, and Carol stroked her hand. "I should have remembered. I never remember the important things. I never remember to bring home the milk when you ask. I never remember to bring in the newspaper. I leave chemicals in the bathroom. And I always do this, Carol, I did it when I was a child. I just forget and I don't know why and when I do remember, I've already made the other person angry, anyway, so it doesn't matter."
"Therese, sweetheart." Carol looked completely confused. "Whatever do you mean? Who are you making angry?"
"I always made her angry," wept Therese. "She never read any of my letters, and I know she never saw any of the pictures I drew for her. And it didn't matter, I guess, because she didn't want me anyway, but I tried to make it better and it never was better and I don't want you to be angry at me for being forgetful. When I was trying. I am trying."
Carol slid her chair over to Therese and took her into her arms, kissing her forehead. "Oh, baby. Are you talking about your mother?"
Therese nodded, and Carol kissed her again, her cheeks and her hair, snuggling her close. "I promise you, I will never forget that you are trying. And I think it's wonderful that you wanted to make Mother's Day a special day for me. I don't think it matters that you forgot the flowers; you were thinking of making me happy."
"I'm sorry," whispered Therese, and Carol rubbed her back.
"I think I should be apologizing to you," she whispered back. "I'm afraid I didn't realize that this day is a bit hard for you, too. What do you mean, she never read your letters?"
"She sent them all back," hiccupped Therese. "Sister Alicia kept them all. She sent every one of them back."
Carol didn't say anything for a moment, and Therese listened to her breathing, the sound of Carol's heart. Then Carol spoke. "I can't believe she would do that."
Therese just shrugged miserably, and Carol stroked her hair. "I'm sorry, Therese."
Therese turned her face up to Carol, who kissed her wet cheeks. "You are not deserving of someone's anger because of a few little personality quirks. And I will not be angry with you - much - when you forget something little like bringing in the milk." She winked at Therese, and Therese tentatively smiled back.
"Now. Why don't I help you get dinner started?"
Therese shook her head. "No, I want to do it for you. You go and sit down in the living room." She got up, then, and handed Carol the chocolate bar. "Mrs. Zimmerman gave me this. I can at least surprise you with this! I know it's your favourite."
Carol smiled. "Thank you, darling. I hope you'll share it with me."
Therese nodded, as she loved chocolate, too. "Of course I will."
//~//
After dinner, they sat on the couch, watching the new television Carol had had delivered a month ago and cuddling. Carol had mentioned that Rindy would be sending her something in the mail; Therese had nodded, and then Carol started to cry.
It was so rare to see Carol cry that Therese had sat bolt upright, looking confused. "Oh, Carol."
"I can't believe he'd be so foul as to keep her from me on Mother's Day. He just finds more and more ways to hurt me, and I've done everything he wants except give up you . . ." Carol sobbed, and then she wiped the tears falling down her cheeks in annoyance. Therese reached up and rubbed them away with her thumb, and then kissed Carol's cheek. Carol pulled her closer and bent her face into Therese's hair.
"He's being cruel," said Therese. "And it's mean. It's not fair." She didn't know what to say, but the words seemed to help Carol, because Carol kissed her forehead.
"Yes, he is."
Just then, there was a buzz from below, and Carol looked startled. "Were we expecting anyone?"
Therese felt equally startled. "I don't think so." She got up from the couch and went to the door, slipping down the stairs. She found Mrs. Zimmerman from the fruit and flower market below.
"Hello, sweetie. I think you forgot these, hmm?" Mrs. Zimmerman held up a bunch of tulips, and Therese broke out into a wide smile.
"Oh, you found them!"
"You left them by the strawberries. Silly girl," she chided, but her voice was affectionate, and Therese wanted to throw her arms around her.
"It's good you knew where we lived! Thank you so much for bringing them back."
Carol's voice sounded from above. "Therese? Who is it?"
"I'll be up in a moment, Carol," she said, and then smiled at Mrs. Zimmerman, who waved, though she couldn't see Carol and Carol couldn't see her.
"Next time buy them from us! Our flowers are much nicer than this. I gave a few to you, see?" She pointed out a few lovely yellow and red blooms, and Therese thanked her.
"You shouldn't have. Thank you."
"I must get back," said Mrs. Zimmerman. "Enjoy them!"
Back upstairs, Therese met Carol at the door and proudly presented her with the flowers. "Mrs. Zimmerman found them!"
"Oh, sweetie. They're so pretty." Carol smiled and took them from Therese, letting her get in the door before giving her a tight hug and a kiss. "You know how much I love tulips. You see? You remember all the right things," she said, and winked.
After they put them in some water, Therese went back to the couch and held her arms out for Carol. Carol's face changed; she usually could recognize when Therese was finished being big for the day, and this was no exception. Almost tenderly, Carol's voice slipped into the special tone she used just for Therese when she felt little.
"You're looking sleepy, sweetheart."
"I need you." Therese slipped a thumb into her mouth then, and Carol sat down, pulling her into her arms.
"That's nasty. No, no." She pulled Therese's thumb out of her mouth, and Therese turned and touched a button on Carol's blouse. Carol chuckled. "We've been trying to keep that for before bedtime."
"Please?" Therese nuzzled into Carol's chest. "Please?"
"Are you ready for bed?"
"Don't want to go to bed," Therese protested. "I just want to nurse."
Carol patted Therese's bottom. "You're wet. I think it's time to get ready for bed."
Therese pouted. "Don't want to go to bed!"
Carol stroked her hair. "We've had a long day, sweetheart. And you've been very upset, and I've been upset . . ."
Therese's chin started to quiver. "Don't want to go to bed," she repeated, and she pressed her face into Carol's chest for a moment.
"What is it, Therese?" Carol asked, and Therese sniffled.
"It's in there. I don't want to go in there."
"What's in there?" Carol cradled Therese against her, rubbing her back. Therese wasn't ever one for being afraid of imaginary monsters, even when she was feeling very little, but she was one for avoiding things when she felt like she couldn't handle it. Therese knew that she was being silly, but she didn't want to look at the ugly red "Return to sender". She wanted to make the letter disappear and never see it again.
"The letter. I don't want to see it."
Carol looked understanding. "Ah. Well, why don't we get it and -"
"No!" Therese was surprised at the sound of her voice. "I don't want to see it again. I don't want to." She started to cry, and Carol rocked her.
"Therese. You're a little overwrought, I think." She kissed Therese's head and then tipped her chin up. "We'll get the letter and we'll light a little fire, and then you won't ever have to see it again. There are a few things I'd like to get rid of, as well, I think."
"Not allowed to light fires," mumbled Therese, and Carol laughed.
"My little one, always following the rules," she teased. Therese just pouted, and Carol kissed her cheek. "It's all right. What they don't know won't hurt them."
Therese nodded, then, slowly. "I want it to go away."
"We'll make it go away." Carol stood up and helped Therese off the couch. Therese took Carol's hand and they went into the bedroom together, where Therese had dropped the letter on her bedside table. Carol picked it up and shook her head.
"How could she," she murmured, and Therese looked away. Carol pulled a newspaper from Therese's bedside table as well, one from Monday, and stacked it on top of the letter. Then she went to the wardrobe and pulled out a dusty box from the very back.
Therese had seen this box before, but had never looked inside, due to it being Carol's personal items. She knew Carol wouldn't snoop through her things. They respected each other's privacy. She watched as Carol raised the lid and sorted through old drawings and cards from Rindy until she came to a card covered in roses. Distastefully, she picked it up.
"The first Mother's Day, before Rindy could write. He gave it to me. I've been meaning to get rid of it for awhile," she said. "I don't know why it took this long." She placed it on top of the pile of papers and then put them on the dresser.
"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you changed for bed and then we'll light the fire. You can have some hot cocoa if you like."
"I want a bottle," murmured Therese, and Carol smiled. "You don't like bottles very much, though."
"I want one," insisted Therese, and Carol chuckled.
"All right. You can have a bottle." She started to unbutton Therese's shirt, and Therese obediently raised her arms, but not before adding, "With cocoa, please", as Carol undressed her. Carol selected a pair of Therese's more little-girlish pajamas, pink with a frilly lace collar and lace around the cuffs of the pajama bottoms. Therese usually resisted these pajamas, but tonight she let Carol dress her in them as she sucked her thumb on the bed.
Carol finished changing Therese and putting on her pajamas, then she helped her up and went to go wash her hands. Therese walked to the door, away from the papers, and waited patiently for Carol to pick them up and go to the living room with her. Carol finished washing her hands and then smiled.
"Let's make them disappear."
Therese usually enjoyed being the one to light the fire, but Carol took the matches away, shaking her head at Therese. "No, Therese, I will light the fire. I don't want you to burn yourself. Go and sit on the couch, please." She expertly struck the match and lit the kindling and extra newspaper they threw in there throughout the winter. Occasionally, Carol would haul in wood from New Jersey when she went to visit Abby through the winter, but as fires technically weren't allowed, they didn't have any on hand. It didn't matter, though; they only needed the fire for a short time and there were still a few extra logs in the holder beside the fireplace.
Therese stood by the couch, but she went forward to sit beside Carol when Carol started tossing in the old papers and watching them burn. "Be careful, baby," was all that Carol said, but she let Therese throw in a few sheets of newspaper before she put the letter in Therese's hand.
Therese threw it in, a little more forcefully than she meant to, and it landed squarely in the flames, immediately catching fire. She watched it burn and then turned to Carol and began to cry.
"Oh, sweetheart." Carol kissed Therese's forehead and then threw in the card from Harge, getting a little teary-eyed herself. "It hurts a little. It has to. We wouldn't have kept them so long."
Therese nodded, and then turned to Carol, raising her arms. "I need you."
"I'm right here, sweetheart." Carol got to her feet and then lifted Therese into her arms, holding her close and supporting her bottom securely. "Let's get that bottle for you."
Therese squirmed impatiently as the milk heated on the stove. "Why won't it hurry up?"
"Why do you want a bottle all of the sudden?" countered Carol, reaching up to get the cocoa powder out of the cupboard and standing back as Therese jumped up onto the counter to get it herself. "You usually don't really like them, sweetie."
"I just want one." Therese didn't know how to explain it. She just wanted the warm chocolate milk and Carol and to be held, and a glass seemed like too much work. Carol nodded and let Therese messily stir in the chocolate powder, smiling as Therese licked the spoon, even though it was a bit hot.
She filled the bottle and picked Therese up again. They'd started this carrying business a few weeks ago, and Therese tended to really like it, burying her face in Carol's shoulder and enjoying the way that Carol held her securely and safely.
Settling on the couch, Carol held Therese close and slipped the bottle between her lips, watching as Therese eagerly sucked - almost a little too hard. She choked a little, and Carol sat her up, patting her back. "Slow down, Therese. It's all right."
Soon, they settled into a rhythm, Therese's eyes closing, Carol humming quietly above her. Carol didn't like to sing outright, even though Therese thought she had a beautiful voice. She only sang when she thought Therese was almost asleep. Therese wished she would sing more. She snuggled closer to Carol and stopped sucking for a moment, taking a little break.
"That's a girl," Carol hushed her, noticing Therese getting a little squirmy. "Just relax."
When the bottle was finished, Therese was sleepy, but she didn't complain when Carol gently sat her up to burp her. She did, however, wet her pants when that happened, and flushed.
"I think someone is ready for bed," said Carol, watching Therese yawn. "And yes, we'll change your diaper before you go down." She smiled at Therese and Therese smiled back, burying her face into Carol's shoulder.
And the fire burned out, taking the letter, the card, and the emotions of the day with it.
Besides, tomorrow they were going to see the cherry blossoms.