I woke up the next morning drenched all the way to my sheets, my pajamas sticky and soaked against my skin. Both fans had stopped and the air in the room was so heavy I could barely breathe it in. The clock by my bed had gone dark, no green numbers smiling out at me, and I wanted to die right then and there.
The electricity had gone out.
Usually the power only cut in the summertime when a hurricane blew through, which happened pretty often—but this year all the storms had fizzled before they got this far up the coast, and we hadn’t seen a drop of rain for months.
I peeled myself out of bed, leaving a big damp spot where I’d been lying, and padded as quietly as I could over to my closet. Mylie was still sleeping, every bit as soaked through as I was, her wispy hair as wet as if she’d just taken a bath. I eased the closet door open and found my lightest, skimpiest sundress, and changed into it. Mama didn’t like when I wore it; she always said it made me look like I was trying to be five years older than I was, and that children should wear clothes for children, not for teenagers. I’d pointed out at least three times that I was only one year away from being a teenager, and I definitely wasn’t a child anymore, but mostly I left the dress hung up so we didn’t fight about it. Still, a day this hot called for drastic measures.
Even all that bare skin didn’t do a thing to cool me down, and I felt sticky and nasty. I would have given just about anything to spend the whole day standing under a cold shower.
I scraped my sweaty hair into a ponytail and wondered if Mama would let me cut my hair pixie-style, like all those actresses. Anything else was too much, in this heat.
Mylie whimpered again, louder this time, and when I looked over at her, she was sitting up in her crib, blue eyes big and teary. “Dell,” she sniffled. “Ouchie!”
“Shh, little monster, it’s all right,” I said, running over and pulling her out before she could really get going. She was slick with sweat, her pajamas sticking to her skin like papier-mâché on a piñata. I pulled them off and tossed them into a pile with mine. I got her diaper changed but didn’t put any clothes on—sometimes it paid to be a baby. I wished I could run around in nothing but my undies today, too.
Mama was in the kitchen, fanning herself with the newspaper, looking too hot and bothered even to do the crossword. She had that faraway look in her eyes, like she was somewhere that wasn’t quite here. I swallowed hard, feeling the heat drinking away all my energy and all my big plans, leaving me little and alone.
“Morning, Mama,” I said, but she only grunted in reply.
Usually I got the eggs first thing, but this morning I needed something cold and I needed it fast. I strapped Mylie into her high chair and went to the fridge, reaching for the plate piled high with watermelon slices, just letting the cold air of the refrigerator wash over me for a minute.
“Close that door, Della,” Mama snapped, and I pulled the plate out real fast and obeyed. I wanted to hold on to that cold watermelon plate forever, letting the chill sink into my skin, traveling from my hands all the way to my heart.
“Why’s the power out?” I asked Mama. I’d never wished more for those useless, noisy fans to be running. Or, better yet, a fixed-up AC, working like it was meant to.
“Don’t know.”
“You want some breakfast, Mama?” I reluctantly set the watermelon plate on the counter, already imagining how sweet and cool it would be, and pulled down a box of cereal from the top of the refrigerator. I’d meant to cook a real breakfast again this morning—I’d try not to burn the eggs this time, and maybe boil some grits along with them—but no power meant no electricity meant no stove.
“Mm-hmm,” Mama mumbled, still fanning away. Her eyes were closed now, her lips moving just a little bit, like she was off talking to somebody I couldn’t see. Her face was squeezing itself into wrong-looking, upset shapes again.
I concentrated on pouring cereal into bowls for Mylie and me, so I didn’t have to keep looking at Mama. Milk, too, in mine, but not in Mylie’s—she was too messy for milk, and she liked the dry stuff just fine anyway.
“Mama,” I said after a minute, as I carried the bowls carefully to the table and then went back for the plate of watermelon, “I’m gonna help you extra today, okay? I really want to. I know I’ve still got to do my regular chores, but I’ve been thinking that maybe I could take Mylie with me when I go to the stand with Arden later.”
Mama opened her eyes, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead.
“Arden babysits out there lots,” I said all in a rush, before Mama could object. “She watches Rena and Charlotte out there all the time. Once Miss Amanda even let us keep baby Rowan for a while. Between me and Arden, we could definitely keep Mylie out of trouble.”
I tried to sound confident and sure, even though I was the furthest thing from it: I knew full well the reason Mama had never made me watch Mylie at the farm stand was because Mylie was as much trouble as all of Arden’s siblings put together. She’d probably spend the whole time toppling over boxes and throwing things.
Mama opened her mouth, the no resting right there on the tip of her tongue.
“And after we’re done out there,” I said, pushing my words out faster than Mama could, “during Mylie’s nap time I could clean up the house. I could scrub everything real good, just like you do. That way you could rest and wouldn’t even have to worry about the germs being all over anymore.”
“I don’t need rest. Don’t know where you got that idea in your head, Della.”
I wanted to say You’re supposed to be taking care of me, not losing yourself more every single day. I wanted to say You’re never going to get fixed if you don’t let Daddy take you to the doctor.
I wanted to say I need you, Mama.
But I didn’t. I just stood there for a moment, the watermelon plate cool and slippery in my hands.
“I just want to let your brain have a chance to get better,” I said finally, my voice small. “Like Dr. DuBose says. You need rest, so you can get better.”
In her high chair, Mylie tipped over her cereal bowl and watched the Cheerios slide onto her tray in a rush, giggling.
“There isn’t anything in the world the matter with my brain,” Mama said, words snapping like fireworks.
“But—”
“You listen to me, Della Kelly. It isn’t your job or your place to sass your parents like this. I appreciate you trying to help, but there isn’t any need. Nothing’s wrong with me, child.”
I wanted so bad to believe her, wanted her words to clear out all the fear and worry I’d been carrying for almost two weeks now. But I just couldn’t. Not after everything that had happened. Not after Mama thinking she was talking to her dead daddy. Not after her leaving Mylie to scream and poop in her crib.
I set the watermelon on the table and left my cereal to get soggy and wet in its milk, and went to the cabinet under the kitchen sink, where Mama held her cleaning supplies. There was a spray bottle there called All-Purpose Cleaner next to a pile of rags. I pulled the bottle and a rag out and sprayed the faucet and the sink and the counters around them down real good, then started wiping, so careful that not a speck of anything was left after my rag passed by.
“Della Kelly, you sit yourself in this chair and eat,” said Mama. “You know I don’t like you doing that. You’re not careful enough. And I’m sick and tired of everybody thinking I don’t even have control over my own brain. Fact is, I’ve been feeling better lately than I have since Mylie was born.” Her words slithered into me, making that worry roar even louder, making me look extra hard into her blue eyes, like maybe they could tell me all the secrets she was holding inside herself.
Daddy came in the back door then, stomping dust off his feet and kicking his old leather boots off onto the rug. He looked hot and tired, sweat glistening in the little rivulets on his face that were like baby wrinkles.
“Morning, Della,” he said, coming into the kitchen and washing his hands off on a washcloth, leaving a big streak of brown dirt across the sparkling sink I’d just cleaned. All our water came from a well, so no power meant no more water, either, once we’d used up what had already been pumped. Usually Mama filled up every pitcher in the house as soon as the power cut, so we could make the best use of all the water that was left over, but I didn’t see any sitting out on the counter today.
Daddy grabbed himself a bowl and filled it with cereal. “Power back on?”
“Nope,” I said, and Daddy sighed, looking down at his hands, which were just about as dusty as when he’d come in.
“I’ll call in and see if they’ve figured out what’s the matter.” Daddy reached for his cell phone and dialed the power company while he poured milk into his bowl. “Sounds like a pole got hit. The recording’s saying power ought to be back online by this afternoon.” He sighed, wiping his forehead with his shoulder. “Hope it’s sooner.”
“Me too.” I grabbed a slice of watermelon and handed a second to Mylie. Today even the feeling of the juice dribbling down onto my thumb felt good—a tiny spot of sweet cool, even if it only lasted a second or two. I said a quick prayer that God would turn back on our power and maybe fix our AC while he was at it, and then kept my eyes closed and bit into my watermelon, relishing the explosion of chill against my mouth, all those crisp little membranes dissolving as I chewed.
“Della Cordelia Kelly,” said Mama, voice sharp as knives, and my eyes popped open. Watermelon juice dripped down my chin, cool and sticky. “You put that down right now.”
Mama was standing up, her newspaper forgotten on the table, and she’d grabbed Mylie’s watermelon away from her.
Mylie screamed, squeezing her eyes hard until a tear popped out. “Mine! Mine!” she shouted, reaching up and trying to grab the watermelon back from Mama, but Mama held it up out of her reach.
“Suzanne, what’s the matter?” Daddy’s hand had frozen halfway to the watermelon plate.
“I don’t want the girls eating these,” said Mama, and she sounded like her throat was full of tears. Mylie’s screams ratcheted up a notch.
“Suzanne,” said Daddy, in that way that meant he was forcing himself to be calm when all he really wanted to do was yell, “give Mylie back the watermelon, please?”
“I don’t want them eating these,” said Mama again, waving Mylie’s slice. “Those seeds will get into their tummies and make them sick.”
Daddy breathed in and out, hard, through his nose.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, and I could tell he was about to lose it big-time. “There’s hardly even any black seeds in that slice. Swallowing one or two won’t hurt her.”
I thought about bringing up the time Grandpa Case had told me that if I ate a watermelon seed a plant would sprout in my stomach and grow out my ears, but now didn’t seem the time.
“Now,” said Daddy, “give Mylie back her melon and let’s sit down and finish breakfast. Have you taken your pill yet this morning?”
Mama shook her head, and Daddy took a tablet from her pill bottle and handed it to her. Mama sank back down into her chair, reaching for her glass of water and taking a big long drink, brushing something invisible off her shorts as she did so.
“Wait a minute,” said Daddy. “What did you just do?” Mama didn’t answer. “Suzanne, what did you just do with that pill?” Daddy’s voice was going up and up, like a firework right before the blast.
Mama just sat there in her chair, staring at the newspaper in front of her, not saying a single word.
Daddy’s whole body was quivering, and I swore I could feel the heat coming off him in waves, pulsing through the kitchen and sizzling everything it touched.
“Did you swallow that pill just now?” he asked. Even Mylie was silent, staring at Daddy with big scared eyes. I probably was, too. “Suzanne, answer me!”
Mama shook her head, a tight little movement that made her hair bounce. Daddy walked over to her, every step wound up like a clock, like it was taking everything he had to walk and not explode in a shower of sparks. When he got to Mama, he lifted up both her hands from her lap. The pocket of her shorts was smeared with white, where she’d rubbed her hand against it.
Ignoring Mama’s attempt to bat him away, he stuck his fingers into her pocket.
A minute later, they came back out, holding that little white pill.
The kitchen was silent, quieter than it had ever been in my whole memory, not even the whir of the ceiling fan or the hum of the refrigerator to break it up. Even Mylie, frozen in her high chair, didn’t make a peep.
From the Hawthorne farm, a rooster crowed.
Daddy let go of Mama’s hands. They dropped, limp and lifeless, into her lap.
“I don’t need those pills anymore, Miles,” Mama whispered, so quiet I could hardly hear it. “I don’t need them. They make me feel funny. They make me fat and foggy. I’m better without them. I haven’t been this clearheaded since Mylie was born.”
Daddy’s mouth worked up and down.
“Can’t you see?” Mama asked, not whispering anymore. Her regular voice in that dead-silent kitchen sounded loud as a bullhorn. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m myself again. I can see things, understand things, hear things I couldn’t before.”
Hear things like your dead daddy. See things like armies of germs crawling all over everything. Like evil watermelon seeds.
“All I’ve seen is you getting sicker and sicker,” said Daddy, finally, the words tearing out of him. “All I’ve seen is you ignoring your kids and worrying all of us half to death. And now I’m seeing that you did this yourself? How long you been skipping your pills, Suzanne?”
Daddy was close to yelling now, and Mylie was crying again, big scared sniffles that sent snot rolling down her face. I hunched down in my chair, wishing I was anywhere else in the world.
“I don’t know,” said Mama. “Few weeks. Maybe a month or two. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
Daddy reached for the pill bottle and shook another pill out, holding it out to Mama. “Well, you start taking them again right now. You know what Dr. DuBose said! You know what a difference this medication has made for you, Suzie!”
He was begging now, the pill white and shiny on his hand, but Mama didn’t move.
“I feel better without it,” said Mama again, her chin set tight, her mouth a thin line. “I don’t need it, Miles. There isn’t anything wrong with me! Those pills make me sick.”
“Are you even hearing yourself right now? You haven’t been this sick in years!” Daddy was really yelling now, every word he said landing on my skin like acid, making my hands shake until my spoon was clattering against my bowl ting-ting-ting. I dropped it, but Mama and Daddy were too busy fighting to look at me.
“Damn it, Suzanne, this is not an okay time for you to lose it!” said Daddy, and my head shot up to look at him, my eyes big as melons. I’d heard Daddy swear a few times on the farm, when the bugs got into his squash or the tractor broke down, but I’d never heard him swear at Mama. Mama looked shocked, too, her mouth hanging open in a little round O.
Mylie’s crying was starting to get louder, sniffling turning into little sobs, but I couldn’t make myself move to stand up and get her from her high chair.
“Della, take Mylie outside,” said Daddy without looking at me. “Go ahead and get started picking for the stand today.”
My legs felt like noodles as I stood. Mylie stopped crying as soon as I’d gotten her up, and she buried her face into my neck, leaving a trail of snot across my skin. I didn’t bother to find her shoes, just slipped on my flip-flops and opened the back door. As it swung shut, I could hear Daddy’s voice rising again.
“I just can’t take this stress on top of already worrying that I’m going to lose my daddy’s farm,” he said, and then the door slammed shut behind me.
I could hear Daddy’s yelling in my ears all the way to the garden.