“And today is the first track meet. You know what that means. Potential humiliation. I’m worried,” she said to Michael that morning. He was beside her in bed, reading.
She waited for him to respond, but it quickly became apparent that he had nothing to say, or he wasn’t listening. “Michael?”
“What? Oh. That again. She’s fine, Jolene. Quit trying to control everything.” He put down his newspaper and got out of bed, heading into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Jolene sighed. As usual, she was on her own for family matters. She got out of bed and went for her run.
When she was finished, she took a shower and dressed quickly, tying her wet hair back in a ponytail as she awakened the girls. Downstairs, in the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee and started breakfast. Blueberry pancakes.
“Morning,” Michael said from behind her.
She turned and looked at him.
He smiled, but it was tired and washed out, that smile; it didn’t reach his dark eyes. In fact, it wasn’t his smile at all, really, not the one that had coaxed her so completely into love once upon a time.
For a moment, she was struck by how good-looking he was. His black hair, still without a trace of gray at forty-five, was damp and wavy. He was the kind of man who drew attention; when Michael Zarkades walked into a room, everyone noticed—he knew it and loved it.
“You’ll make the track meet, right? I know how busy you are at work, and normally I get that you can’t come home, but just this once I think it’s important, okay? You know what a daddy’s girl she is,” she said.
Michael paused, the coffee cup inches from his mouth. “How many times are you going to remind me?”
She smiled. “I’m a little obsessive? What a surprise. It’s just that it’s important that you be there. On time. Betsy is fragile these days and I—”
Betsy shrieked “Mom!” and skidded into the kitchen. “Where’s my orange hoodie? I need it!”
Lulu ran up beside her, looking sleep-tousled, holding her yellow blanket. “Hoodie, hoodie.”
“Shut up,” Betsy screamed.
Lulu’s face crumpled. She shuffled over to the kitchen table and climbed up into her chair.
“I washed your good-luck hoodie, Betsy,” Jolene said. “I knew you’d need it.”
“Oh,” Betsy said, sagging a little in relief.
“Apologize to your sister,” Michael said from his place at the counter.
Betsy mumbled an apology while Jolene went to the laundry room and retrieved the hoodie—a gift from Michael that had become Betsy’s talisman. Jolene knew it wasn’t unrelated—the source of the gift and the magic that went with it. Betsy needed attention from her father, and sometimes the hoodie was all she got.
Betsy snatched the orange-sherbet-colored hoodie from Jolene and put it on.
Jolene saw how pale her daughter was, how shaky. She glanced over at Michael, to see if he’d noticed, but he had gone back to reading the newspaper. He was in the room with them but completely apart. How long had it been that way? she suddenly wondered.
Betsy went to the table and sat down.
Jolene patted Betsy’s shoulder. “I bet you’re excited about the meet. I talked to your coach and he said—”
“You talked to my coach?”
Jolene paused, drew her hand back. Obviously she’d gone wrong again. “He said you’d been doing great at practice.”
“Unbelievable.” Betsy shook her head and stared down at the two pancakes on her plate, with their blueberry eyes and syrup mouth.
“I want pancake men,” Lulu yelled, irritated not to be the center of attention.
“It’s natural to be nervous, Bets,” Jolene said. “But I’ve seen you run. You’re the best sprinter on the JV team.”
Betsy glared up at her. “I am not the best. You just say that because you’re my mom. It’s, like, a rule or something.”
“The only rule that I have is to love you,” Jolene said, “and I do. And I’m proud of you, Betsy. It’s scary to put yourself out there in life, to take a chance. I’m proud of you for trying. We all are,” she said pointedly, her words aimed at Michael, who stood by the counter, reading his paper. Beside him, tacked to the wall, was Jolene’s calendar that listed everything she needed to do this week, and everywhere she needed to be. TRACK MEET was written in bold red on today’s date.
Betsy followed Jolene’s look. “Will you be at the meet, Dad? It starts at three thirty.”