Cinnamon (Shooting Stars 1)

I understood why Mommy once told me he was the most attractive man who had ever looked at her twice. When she did speak about the early romantic days between them, she emphasized his solid, eventempered sensibility and how she had come to rely on him to keep her from going too far in one direction or another. Whatever happened to that? I wondered. It was almost as if he had abandoned ship.

"Your mother could be here a while," he said. "Or, she could be moved to a more comfortable place, a place that specializes in her problems."

"You mean a nut house?"

"No, a clinic," he corrected sharply.

I looked away. Tears didn't come into my eyes often, but when they did. I held them over my pupils tightly, battling to keep them locked behind my lids. I took deep breaths.

"We've got to be strong," Daddy said. "For her."

I looked at him. He was checking the time and looking toward the doorway.

"I haven't even learned about today's market results. I hopped on the train as quickly as I could," he muttered.

"Where were you. Daddy? Why weren't you in your office? I thought you have to be there to call your clients while the market is open."

"Sometimes. I go to visit a big account," he explained. "Ifs good politics. I have an assistant who does a good job covering for me."

"How come you didn't leave a telephone number where you could be reached?"

"I just forgot." he said. "I left too quickly."

Lying is an art form. I thought. Good lying, that is. It requires almost the same techniques, skills and energy that good acting requires. When you tell lies, you step out of yourself for a while. You become another version of yourself and yet, you have to do it so that the listener believes it's still you talking because he or she has come to trust you, have faith in you. I like making up stories, exaggerating, changing the truth a little-- or maybe a little more than a little- sometimes just to see how much I can get away with. It's all in how you hold your head, keep your eyes fixed on the listener and how much sincerity you can squeeze into the small places around the lie.

Maybe Daddy was a bad liar in person because he did mast of his lying over the phone. He didn't have to be face-to-face with his customers. He could quote statistics, talk in generalities, blame his mistakes on other people, other businesses or agencies than his own. It's much easier to sound convincing when you talk to an ear and not a pair of eyes.

I knew Daddy was lying, but I didn't know why. It never occurred to me what the reason might be. Maybe I was spending a little too much time in my make-believe world,

"We'd better head home," he said. "You've got schoolwork to do. I'm sure, and there is really nothing else we can do here tonight."

"I want to go see her one more time." I said. "You might only disturb her more."

"I might help her be comfortable in an uncomfortable place," I countered.

I could hold my gaze on Daddy so firmly that he would be the first to look away. Mammy taught me how to do that. You actually think of something else, but keep your eyes fixed on the subject.

"All right, but make it quick," he said. "I'm going to make a few phone calls."

He left and I went back upstairs. Mommy had been given a sedative to help her sleep, but she was still moaning and turning her head. I took her hand in mine and spoke softly to her.

"Mammy, it's me. Don't you feel a little better now?"

"Baby... born too soon," she muttered.

"What?"

"Little Sacha." She open

ed her eyes and looked up at me. Then she smiled.

"Cinnamon! How is she?" she asked. "What have they told you?" I shook my head.

Now she believes she has given birth, I thought, but to a premature baby.

"I know she'll be all right. I know it. She's in the prenatal intensive care unit, but premature babies can do fine. You tell me how she's doing, all right? Tell me," she insisted, squeezing my hand tightly.

If I told her the truth. I thought she'd come apart right before my eyes, her hand crumbling in mine like a dry fall leaf.