Cat (Wildflowers 4)

us her number. My mother kept giving me looks.

"I've go to go," I said. "Thanks for being good listeners:'

"I guess we can all say that to each other," Misty said. "You've got that right," Star added.

Jade fixed her eyes on my mother again and then suddenly, she started ahead of me, toward my mother's car.

"What's she doing?" Star asked but followed. We all did.

Oh no, I thought, if she says something horrible . . .

"Hi, Mrs. Carson," she said. "You've got a very nice daughter. Have a nice day," she added. Then she threw me a sly smile and sauntered toward her limousine.

"That girl," Star said muttering. She looked at my mother. "Hello," she said. "She's right. See you, Cat," she told me and started for her grandmother's car.

"Bye;' Misty said to me. "We'll see each other again. I'll bug Jade until she does what she promised."

"Okay."

"Hi," she sang toward my mother and waved. Then she hurried toward the waiting taxicab.

I opened the car door and got in.

"What was that all about?" my mother asked, a look of astonishment on her face.

"I don't know. Nothing much, I guess," I said. "How did it go in there?"

"All right."

"Aren't you going to tell me anything?"

She still hadn't started away.

"There isn't anything you don't know, Mother. The question is, are you going to tell me everything?" I asked.

She fixed her eyes on me while they grew small for a moment and then she nodded and we drove away, the others right behind us, like a parade or maybe . . . a funeral.

After all, we had buried enough sadness to fill a good-size cemetery.

Epilogue

Mother and I didn't talk about anything significant for a few days afterward. I understood that like me, Mother was trying to find her way through all this. Sometimes, it seemed as if tall weeds and vines had grown from the floors and ceilings in our house and we were hacking our way through to reach each other. I remembered how much importance Doctor Marlowe placed on patience and understanding. I, of all people, knew how bad it was to force someone to open the doors to dark rooms.

Mother attacked her housework and all her chores with a vengeance, searching for something to fill every waking moment so she wouldn't have to stop and think and remember.

It was hardest during our meals. When she finally had everything on the table and we had nothing left to do but sit and eat, there would be that terrible, deep silence. If I looked at her, she would start to rattle off orders, telling me about things she wanted done in the house and then quickly following that with a list of things she needed to do herself.

"He wasn't all that much help around here:' she muttered one night. "I had to do most everything that concerned this house myself anyway." That was her first reference to my father since I had returned from the final group therapy session at Doctor Marlowe's. I offered to be of greater help to her and she promised she would give me more to do. She thought I could handle more responsibility.

She definitely needed more help. Every once in a while, I would notice her stop whatever she was doing, place her hand against her chest and close her eyes. She looked like she was waiting for her heart to start beating again.

"Are you all right, Mother?" I asked.

She hesitated, took a breath and nodded "I'm fine," she said. "As fine as I could be

under the circumstances."

"Maybe you're working too hard, Mother," I