“MAMA, GET UP.”
I don’t say it loud enough to wake her. I just have to say it. She hasn’t left the bed in two days. Not since Daddy left. No one told me he’s gone, but I know. Even if I hadn’t overheard Aunt Ruthie talking about it, even if I hadn’t heard Mama crying, I would know. The house is too quiet. His big laugh isn’t filling every room at once. There’s a certain way he clears his throat when he’s studying, and I haven’t heard it in days. His office is empty, his Bible left open to the last passage he taught me about a deep love.
He’s never missed a recital because he loves to see me dance, but for the first time, he wasn’t there. I didn’t know until the end when Mama met me backstage, wearing her worry face, as Daddy always called it.
“Where’s Daddy?” I had looked past her and all around at the other girls whose mamas were taking pictures of them in their tutus and ballet slippers.
“He must have gotten held up at the church.” Mama grabbed my hand and started toward the exit.
Only he hadn’t come home for supper. And when I went into their bedroom, their closet door stood open, half the space empty where his clothes had been.
He’s gone. And Mama’s gone, too, even though she’s huddled under the covers.
A noise from the kitchen makes me jump. A door closing and heavy steps.
Daddy!
It has to be. He’s back. He’s come home. Mama can get out of bed and cook dinner. I’ve had nothing but cereal for the last two days. Everything can go back to the way it was. I rush to the kitchen, smiling ‘til my eyes squinch at the sides. I round the corner, ready to throw myself up and into his big arms.
Only it’s not him.
I skid to a stop at the kitchen door. Aunt Ruthie hangs her coat over the chair at the table and pulls off her work boots, the ones she uses to go out in the garden. She drops a bushel of collard greens into the sink.
“You remember how to clean greens, Kai Anne?” Her voice is quiet, her eyes sadder than I’ve ever seen.
“Yes, ma’am.” I drag one of the chairs over to the sink and climb up onto it.
She reaches into the drawer, searching through the utensils until she finds the dullest knife.
“You remember how we cut ‘em off the stem?” She hands me the knife. “Be careful with that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I bite my lip, not wanting to ask the question. Not wanting to be a bother. “Am I going to dance class today?”
Aunt Ruthie frowns, her eyes going to the door.
“Where’s your mama?”
“Um, she’s still in bed.”
Her eyes get narrow.
“How was school today?”
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t go to school.” I look down at the dull knife in my hand. “I stayed here. How was church Sunday?”
For the first time in all my years, we didn’t go to church on a Sunday. We’ve never missed except for snow. Once I was sick and I still went. Mama said Jesus died for the sick and the weary. I was sick and she was weary, so we were both dragging ourselves to church. Mama never wanted to miss one of Daddy’s sermons. And even though we missed church, she didn’t miss his sermon. Because for the first time, Daddy missed church, too.
Where is he? The idea that he actually left us, left me, is too big for my head, so I just start cutting leaves off the stem in the sink.
“Don’t you worry about church for a while now, Kai Anne.” Aunt Ruthie rubs my hair, straightening out one of the glittery bows still in my hair from Saturday’s recital. “Did you take your bath last night, child?”
“No, ma’am.” I shake my head. I haven’t had a bath since right before Saturday’s recital. Not since Daddy left.
Her eyes drift over to the table where my box of Fruit Loops is still open on the table.
“What’d you have for lunch, honey?”
“Cereal,” I answer quietly. “It’s all right. I love Fruit Loops, Aunt Ruthie.”
Even at eight, I know it’s not good. I know something’s mighty wrong with Mama if I’m eating cereal for every meal, not bathing, and still have bows in my hair from two days ago. Mama’s picky about most things, but most of all about me. And for the last two days, she forgot I was even here because Daddy’s not.
Aunt Ruthie’s lips get thin and a little knot pops up in her jaw.
“You wait here, Kai Anne. I’m gonna go talk to your mama.”
I nod, using my little dull knife to pull the leaves away from the stem.
“Mai Lin, you gotta get up.” Aunt Ruthie’s voice is a distant rumble down the hall. I climb off the chair and tip toe to the door to hear better.
“Go away, Ruthie,” Mama moans. “Just go.”
“No, I will not go. This ain’t right, Mai.” I’ve never heard Aunt Ruthie’s voice so hard. Never heard her talk to anyone like that, much less her best friend.
“He’s gone.” Mama’s words come out barely louder than a whisper. “Don’t you understand he’s left me? With that whore Carla. Oh, God, Ruthie. How could he? Why? What did I do wrong? I thought we . . .”
There are no more words. Only tears. When I cry that hard it makes me sick sometimes. I just throw right up when I cry like that, and I wonder if Mama will need the trash can by her bed. Or if she’ll make it to the bathroom.
“You did nothing wrong,” Aunt Ruthie says. “You were the best wife he could have asked for. You did everything right, and the fault is not with you.”
It’s quiet except for the sound of Mama sniffling. I haven’t heard her cry since Pops passed not too long after Grams died. She told me then Pops couldn’t stay in a world without Grams. And now I know Mama doesn’t want to stay in a world without Daddy.
“I know it’s hard,” Aunt Ruthie says. “And you know I’m here. I was here before he came and I’m here now that he’s gone. We will get through this. There is a whole congregation behind you. A whole community behind you. But most of all, Mai, there is a little girl in that kitchen who hasn’t had a bath in two days and had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“Kai Anne?” Mama says it like I’m a surprise. Like she didn’t know I was still here. “Oh, God. I didn’t think . . . how long? Two days? Oh, God, Ruthie. I’m so sorry. I would never . . . Ruthie, what am I gonna do? Now that he’s gone and I have to raise her by myself? How will I take care of her? I don’t even have a job.”
“We’ll figure it out, Mai. I’ve told you. I’m here, and you’re not alone. But the first thing you have to do, and this is right away right now, is get up.”