Should Have Known Better

“Yes.” She backed up and tried to park the car close to the curb, but we looked around and saw that not one car, not one, was parked in the street.

“You think we should park here?” she asked.

“Where else?”

We looked around again as if we’d find some sign or person telling us it was OK to leave my mother’s little Toyota on the street.

“But it’s such a long walk to the house,” my mother pointed out. “A mile!”

“That’s not a mile, Mama,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. It was a long way.

We looked at the house. The car was still idling.

“Maybe you could call them,” she said.

“I’m not calling them. I’m not pulling into that driveway. Let’s just park,” I insisted, reaching over to the ignition.

“Is that Reginald?” She nodded to the house and I looked to see Reginald skipping down the driveway, waving his hands. He was wearing khaki shorts and loafers. A thin white T-shirt.

“Pull into the driveway,” he said, holding his hands around his mouth like a megaphone.

“See, he said to—” my mother tried, but I snatched the keys from the ignition.

“No!”

I got out of the car without my purse or my thoughts. Seeing Reginald for the first time since he’d left me in our bed, I was past any edge. I wanted to fight. I was beyond asking why or being pleasant for the judge. This man walked out on me.

“Where are they?” I asked, but it was more like a command.

“You should park in the driveway,” he said after a weak wave to my mother, who was standing by my side.

“What driveway?” I asked sternly. “You don’t own a driveway here, so you can’t say where I can park.”

“Oh, Jesus, are you going to be like this? Don’t come inside if you’re going to act like this.”

“WHERE ARE MY CHILDREN?”

My mother grabbed my arm.

“Calm down, Dawn,” she begged.

“Yes, listen to your mother,” Reginald agreed. “That’ll be best. I never knew you’d act like this.”

“Act? I’m acting the way you made me act,” I said. “Just take me to my children.”

We trudged up the driveway and through a little path of bushes to the front door. I was behind Reginald. My mother was behind me. I could hear her praying.

Reginald opened one side of a set of French doors and R. J. and Cheyenne were standing in front of a winding

marble staircase I’d only seen on television. The newel posts were taller than the twins.

I ran to them and sank to my knees like they were still two feet tall. I gathered them into my arms and rocked and rocked, kissing their cheeks and asking if they were OK.

“Let me see you,” I said to R. J., pushing him back and looking at his face.

I did the same to Cheyenne.

They smiled at me pleasantly, but the look in their eyes was more distant.