Loree Lough - Raising Connor

Now Deidre pointed at the ankle-deep grass beneath her Mary Jane–style sneakers. “You know what it means when dandelions bloom in March, don’t you?”

What Brooke knew about dandelions could be summed up with a word: weed.

“This happened a few years ago. We had a terrible, fierce spring. Thunderstorms, derechos, tornadoes—”

Just what Connor needs, Brooke thought, weather-related storms in his life, too.

“—and a long humid summer that broke every weather record in the book.” She turned toward Brooke. “Remember?”

No, she didn’t, because she’d spent the past five years in Richmond, where every summer seemed endlessly sticky. But admitting that would only inspire another “if you had stayed home, where you belong...” speech. Her grandmother meant well and probably had no idea how upsetting it was to hear the list of hardships Brooke’s move south had caused: she hadn’t been there when one of Deidre’s tenants left the garage apartment in shambles, when another forgot to close a window before a long business trip, and hornets built a basketball-size nest in the closet. She wasn’t there to see Deidre’s directorial debut in the little-theater production of Our Town and had never gone with her to place flowers on Percy’s grave. Once, out of frustration, Brooke had suggested that Beth would probably love helping out. “Beth,” Deidre had said, “has a family to take care of.” Translation: Brooke had no responsibilities.

Well, she had her share of them now.

“Yeddow,” Connor said, pointing at a dandelion. He squatted and picked the flower, then carried it to Brooke. “Yeddow?”

It was the closest he’d come to smiling in two days, and she felt like celebrating. She bent down to kiss his forehead. “Yes, yellow. And pretty, too!”

“Pitty,” he echoed, toddling into the backyard.

His pronunciation of the word seemed beyond ironic, because losing his mommy and daddy at the same time was a pity.

He tripped on a clump of weeds and landed on his diapered rump. Ordinarily, he’d giggle, get right back to his feet and continue on as if nothing had stopped him. Not today. He cried for nearly ten minutes straight, quieting only after Brooke tossed aside the lid to the sandbox so he could play.

“Poor li’l guy,” Deidre said.

“He senses something is wrong,” Brooke agreed. “He just doesn’t know what. It’s as though he knows somehow that Beth and Kent should have come home before yesterday.”

“You need to tell him. And soon.”

“Tell him what, Gram? That his mom and dad are gone? He’s only one and a half. Kids his age have no concept of death.” She remembered Hunter’s suggestion about talking with an expert who could help them explain things in terms Connor would comprehend. The idea was sounding better and better.

Deidre stared at Connor furiously banging his blue plastic shovel on a red fire truck. “I suppose you’re right.”

Once the funeral was behind them, she’d call Connor’s pediatrician. Surely he could recommend a good child psychologist. For now, she’d just have to exercise patience as Connor expressed his confusion in the only way he could: tantrums.

“You look tired,” Deidre said.

No surprise there. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since before the deputy’s phone call. Connor hadn’t slept well since that night, either. If only she could blame a cold or the flu for his grumpy behavior.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard. You need healthy food and a couple good nights’ sleep.”

“Once Beth and Kent are home and...” It might have been easier to say “once they’re buried” if she knew that was their preference. Brooke had rifled through every drawer and cubby in the house searching for their will. With nothing but good intentions and guesses to go on, burial had won out over cremation. “Things will be over soon, and then I’ll sleep.”

“Soon, my foot. You’re his mother now, like it or not, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and start acting like one. You’ll have to learn to organize your time better so that you don’t wear yourself out, because if you keep up at this pace, you’ll topple like a tree in the woods.”

The “If a tree falls, would anyone hear it?” adage came to mind, and for a moment, Brooke thought back to her critical-thinking class: if philosophers, poets and scientists like George Berkeley, William Fossett and George Ransom Twiss hadn’t been able to solve the riddle, surely she never could. But...like it or not? Sorry for herself? Brooke hated the tragedy that put them all in this position, and she loved Connor more than life itself. What had she said or done to make her grandmother think she wasn’t up to the job?

Deidre took her hand and led her to the sandbox. “Sit down before you fall down. I’m pretty spry for an old gal, but I’m not strong enough to pick you up.”

Fourteen years ago Gram and Gramps opened their home to her and Beth after their father’s death. It couldn’t have been easy having his children underfoot, reminding them that they’d lost him forever, especially under such tragic circumstances, but they’d done it. Respect and gratitude kept Brooke from snapping back.

Deidre picked up a tiny blue shovel. “What time is your appointment with the bank manager?”

“Two o’clock. And at four I meet with the funeral director.”

Sprinkling sand into a matching bucket, she said, “I’m glad you’re not bringing this munchkin with you....”

“No one could expect him to sit still and keep quiet, least of all men in suits talking about balance transfers or coffins.” Brooke scooped up a handful of sand, watched it slowly rain from her fingers. “Hunter volunteered to stay with him while—”

“Hunter?” Deidre leaned closer. “Hunter Stone?”

That had pretty much been her reaction, too, when she’d said yes to his offer.

“I didn’t know you two were even on speaking terms.”

Memories of the way she’d fallen into his arms like a Victorian damsel in distress made her grimace, but Brooke put it out of her mind. “He stopped by the other morning. I’m not sure why. To offer his condolences?” She shrugged again. “We got to talking. One thing led to another. And when he offered to help with Connor, I decided to let him.”

Smiling, Deidre raised an eyebrow.

Good grief, Brooke thought. She loved her grandmother to pieces, but her notion that having a man in your life could right every wrong, well, that wasn’t so easy to love.

Connor sighed and tossed his truck aside. “Look at those big sad eyes,” Deidre said. “Why, it really is as if he knows. Did you tell him his uncle Hunter is staying with him? That might put a smile on his face.”

At the mention of Hunter’s name, Connor crawled over to Deidre. “Huntah?” And when she didn’t answer fast enough to suit him, he leaned into Brooke’s lap. “Huntah?”

“Yes, sweetie, he’ll be here soon.”

It had never sat well with her that Beth allowed Hunter to get close to her, and then to the baby. But as Beth had once pointed out, “Even you can see that they’re crazy about one another. If it makes Connor happy...”

Being around him had made Beth happy, too.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Deidre observed.

“I was just thinking. Guess Hunter finally figured out how to stay awake on assignment. Otherwise Beth and Kent wouldn’t have let him spend so much time with Connor.”

Deidre aimed a bony forefinger. “Shakespeare wrote that sarcasm proves a lack of wit, you know. I’m paraphrasing, but you get my drift.”

Would Deidre be less sarcastic, Brooke wondered, if she hadn’t memorized all those savvy lines during her years on the Broadway stage?