“Hello, Tommy!” Lydia waves a needle back at him.
“I’m on deadline,” Mom says. “No distractions.”
I swallow hard, my smile threatening to slip. “Hungry, Tommy boy?” I ask, turning toward the sink to wash my hands.
“Ants on a log! Ants on a log!” he chants, struggling to pull himself up onto one of the stools that line the island.
“You got it,” I say, staring at the soggy, charred remains of what I think was a grilled cheese for a few seconds before spinning toward the fridge to grab the peanut butter and celery.
“I had a client run late,” Lydia tells me, coming to stand nearby as I search the cabinets for raisins. She drapes the red scarf she’s working on over my left shoulder, judging the length. “I couldn’t get over here until two, and she tried to make lunch …”
“Thank you so much for staying with her.” I stab the peanut butter with a knife, trying to gather enough to spread.
“I just wish I could do more.” Lydia frets, casting a quick glance at Mom’s bent back.
She’s oblivious, lost in a world of her own creation.
“You’re already doing too much,” I say, speaking one of my niggling worries.
Having Lydia come over a few times during the day used to be a solution. But it’s becoming increasingly obvious that needs to change.
“Honey, I’m not doing half as much as you.” This time, Lydia looks at Tommy, patiently waiting for his snack.
I set the plate in front of him. “Do you mind staying for a few more minutes? I need to make a quick phone call.”
“Not at all,” Lydia answers, ambling back toward the table with her knitting. “You’re so tall. I need to add another foot to this scarf.”
“Thanks, Lydia.”
“Of course, honey.”
I hustle upstairs, taking two steps at a time and ignoring my protesting calves.
My bedroom’s a mess, but cleaning is going to have to wait until tomorrow. I kick a shin guard closer to one corner before sinking down in the chair at my desk, toeing the door closedwith my left foot. While the outgoing call rings, I finally fix my ponytail.
“Why didn’t you pick up earlier?” is how my older sister answers the phone.
When Cassidy can’t reach me, she considers it a personal affront. Never mind that I’m the one with a job. Withtwojobs actually. At least through tonight.
I told Blake, the manager of Paul Rebeer’s, that this would be my final shift. I can’t juggle bartending during the season.
“I’d just gotten home,” I tell Cassidy. “I had to check in with Lydia.”
“You picked up Tommy?”
“Yeah, I did. Next time, more than an hour’s notice would be nice.”
Predictably, Cassidy bristles. “If you’re not able to pick him up, just say that, Claire.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, releasing a long, frustrated exhale. I’m too tired to say anything that will spark an argument I don’t have the energy to participate in. “It’s not that. I was at practice. I wasn’t checking my phone. Today was your day.”
“They pushed the interview time. I’m a shitty mother for prioritizing employment?”
I twirl the end of my ponytail, surveying my messy room. “I’ve never called you a shitty mother. And you know you’re not one. I just had a long day. Tommy’s fine. He’s eating a snack in the kitchen.”
Cassidy sighs. “I’m sorry. I had a long day too. Thank you…thank you for picking him up.”
I wait a beat before tentatively asking, “How did the interview go?”
