Home Again

“And no-shit weeks,” Susan added with a laugh.

Madelaine turned to Susan. It was the first time she’d ever heard the woman swear, and it surprised her. “What do you mean?”

“Tom was gone—or sick—a lot of the time while the kids were growing up. Sometimes I used to tear my hair out. The kids were far apart in age, and they were each so different. It took me a long time to get the upper hand. But in the end, I started doing my ‘no-shit’ weeks. I would start on Monday, taking absolutely no crap from the kids. I didn’t yell or scream; I just quietly, flatly let them know that I was the boss. Usually a week was all it took. After that, they were so tired of bucking the rules, they just toed the line.” She grinned. “A good no-shit week would keep them on track for six months or so. Then it would start all over again.”

“Really?” Madelaine said.

“Of course, I was often talking to a teenage boy with blue hair. But you’ve got to fight the big battles and let the little ones go.”

Madelaine set the chart back in its sleeve and smiled at the two of them. “Well, I’ve got rounds to make. See you tomorrow.”

Smiling to herself, she walked out of the room.

No-shit weeks. It had a certain appeal.

* * *

Lina sat in the passenger seat of the cushy Volvo, her arms crossed, her jaw set mutinously. Things were not going well.

She cast a surreptitious glance at her mother. Madelaine sat as she always did, erect, chin up, eyes on the road, her hands at the invisible ten and two positions on the steering wheel.

Lina had tried every trick in her arsenal this morning to get to ride her bike to school—she’d screamed at her mother, begged her, stomped out of the kitchen and slammed her bedroom door. She’d refused to eat breakfast and refused to pack a lunch. Heck, she’d even cried.

None of it had worked.

It was as if an alien had invaded her mother’s body. Suddenly Madelaine was Dr. Hillyard all the time. Cold, detached, sure of herself. Not like her mother at all.

Lina didn’t know what to make of it, how to act. It scared her, this turnaround on her mother’s part. For years Lina had prided herself on running the household, on knowing how to wrap her wimpy mother around her finger with ease. All she’d ever had to do was cry—heck, just tear up—and Mom would give her the world. Lina had always been able to stay out too late, come home whenever she wanted, eat whatever she wanted. A tear here or there at the right moment, and Mom turned to jelly.

Until yesterday.

Madelaine eased the car up to the curb and shifted into park. The soft hum of the engine filled the interior. She turned. “I’ll be here to pick you up at three-thirty.”

Lina bristled at the order. This was getting ridiculous, and embarrassing. How was she gonna tell Jett that she couldn’t go to the mall after school? That her mom had to pick her up like she was a baby or something?

“Mom, it’s not like shoplifting’s a felony. Lighten up. Jett’ll bring me home after we go to the mall.”

“I’ll pick you up at three-thirty sharp. If you’re not here, I’ll call Mr. Spencer.”

“And tell him what?” Lina snorted. “You’ve got a felony failure-to-pick-up-at-school situation?’

“I’ll tell him you ran away.”

Lina’s jaw dropped. “They’d send me back to detention.”

“Would they?”

Lina just stared at her mom, feeling as if she were suddenly falling and there was no one there to catch her. “You’d let them do that to me?”

“I have no choice, Lina. We’ve got some changes to make, you and I. You know we do.”

“You want to make changes, Mom? Quit lying to me.” With satisfaction, she saw her mother flinch.

“You’re going to make everything about him, aren’t you?” she said quietly.

“Everything is about him. It’s your fault I shoplifted. I wouldn’t have done that if you’d told me my father’s name.”

“I’ll be here at three-thirty to pick you up.”