Hate You Not

She nods, her features slightly drawn.

“The good and bad things. Everything.”

She nods again. “I am on it.”

I can’t help a small smile. “Thank you.”

I nod one more time and retreat to my office.JUNECharleigh, Rachel, and Jack—my sister Mary Helen’s kids—tumble out of MH’s van and stop dead in their tracks. Charleigh is 6 like Margot, Rachel is 7, and Jack is 9 like Oliver. Honestly, they’re sort of jerk kids, but they’re family, so they’re our jerks.

They’re jerks mostly because MH isn’t assertive enough. And because MH isn’t assertive, when they stop there in the dirt, gaping at their orphaned cousins through the porch’s screen, MH just stands there looking awkward.

I reach over Margot’s head and push open the porch door. “Hey, guys! Come on in.”

Oliver and Margot are dressed in the nicest of their pricey, hipster clothes. For Oliver, that’s black skinny jeans, Converse All-Stars, and a plain white, long-sleeved T-shirt. For Margot, it’s magenta sequined sneakers, cream leggings, and a long-sleeved pink sweat shirt with fluffy polka dots.

Charleigh, Rachel, and Jack look like they’re dressed for church, decked out in the deep South way, with dresses, hair bows as wide as their heads, and mary janes for the girls, and khakis and a plaid button-up for little Jack.

I wave the three onto my screened porch, and they stand gaping at their cousins.

“Say hello,” I prompt them. Rude asses.

“Hey cousins,” Rachel says.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Charleigh says.

“We met before,” Oliver informs them.

Charleigh frowns as Mary Helen makes it up the porch steps with an armful of bags.

“You were little,” Jack tells Charleigh. “But I remember.”

“Me too,” says Rachel. “Do y’all live here now?” She asks with some skepticism, and then looks up at the porch’s ceiling with wide eyes, as if maybe they live up there with the porch fan.

Mary Helen’s face bends in a look of caution. “Remember, honey? How I told you Oliver and Margot got new bedspreads and a brand new room?”

“I want to see the Batman bedspread,” Jack says. “Mom won’t let me get rid of my fish one.” He rolls his eyes.

The kids stampede through the front door, no doubt headed for the bedroom. The farm house is so old that the hardwood floor shakes under the weight of their steps.

Mary Helen shakes her head. “Better stay right on them. No telling what Jack will say.”

“Or Rachel,” I smile.

“How are they today?” she murmurs. We step into the living room, and she takes off her sweater, hangs it on the coat rack.

“Margot has been pretty steady. Lots of big-eyed looks and not too much talking except to ask me questions about when we were all kids. I think Oliver is struggling more. He’s said a few things about how he’s from San Francisco. I’m pretty sure I overheard him telling Margot that California is their real home,” I say quietly, glancing toward the hall, “like they’re just here for a visit.”

Mary Helen’s lips purse in concern.

“The fact is, there was no way for them to stay. I just can’t live in San Francisco. The money that’s in their fund now seems like a lot until you really think about how much it costs to raise two kids.”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “It costs a shit ton.”

“And college. You know Sutton would want Ivy Leagues for both of them.”

Mary Helen smirks a little. She knows.

“I don’t know what she would have wanted me to do exactly, since she never told me I was listed as their guardian.”

“I think she would want us to do this,” MH says in a soothing tone. “You’re doing everything right.”

I heave a silent sigh. “Thanks.”

We head into the bedroom, where the girls are piled on Margot’s bed and Jack and Oliver are bouncing on his.

“Hey, no jumping. We don’t want to break the bed’s boards. Then it’ll collapse.” I mime a collapse with my hand, and Oliver’s eyes widen.

For the next half hour, all five kids play as Mary Helen and I unload the toys she brought from her and her husband Tom’s house. Margot and Oliver have plenty, but it’s going to be weeks before their belongings arrive—they’ve been shipped as freight—and they need something in the meantime.

Margot goes bananas over four wonked-out, barely-clad Barbies and a small, pink Barbie house.

“This one got a haircut,” Rachel explains, touching a blonde Barbie’s hacked-off bob. Mary Helen makes a face behind her raised palm.

“I’ve never had a Barbie,” Margot says.

“What?” It’s echoed by all of us.

She nods. “Mommy let me play with Calico Critters. But not little people dolls.”

Mary Helen shoots me a what-the-hell look, again behind her hand. She and I drift to the other side of the room.

“Because of the image of Barbie, Mary Helen,” I say.

“What image is that?”

“You know. She’s long and skinny, like some alien or something. Real women aren’t proportioned like that.”