STORIES: Surprises

Waiting to find out is the worst part. Usually is for most people I guess, but me especially, I just don’t like it. Although I don’t like surprises either—surprises good or bad. I always snuck around and searched the house the weeks before Christmas, though I’ve stopped now that I’m grown. From the day that Daddy told me that they had to run some tests, I’ve been living with balloons afraid to turn or move; listening for the sharp Bam! Bam! that will bring the world and truth in that much closer. And hard, you know, to act like it was normal with the younger ones who don’t know anything could be different yet. Daddy hasn’t said nothing more about it, just telling me because he knew that Mama would be needing help around the house. He never meets me eye to eye now so I know he’s got his own way of keeping distance and don’t want me reaching in and breaking through. But his shoulders aren’t as massive and his back is not as straight, and he looks older and more wrinkled though I iron his clothes with the crispness of sharp creases, just like Mama taught me years ago. Mama won’t mention it at all. She goes about the house in her routine a little slower or sometimes stops to sit at the kitchen table for a little while. It looks to me like she’s wearing her dresses a little longer, but I know she hasn’t bothered letting down the hems. She ties her apron a little tighter and the dress top puckers up and drapes in folds around the waistband where you could see inside the heavy sweater she took to wearing every day. Sometimes when she thinks that I’m not watching she’ll rub her belly; as if another little brother is growing inside. She pretends she doesn’t notice that I sometimes finish what she’d started, as if a “thank you” would expose the whole charade. She’ll look me in the eye though; daring me to speak and make it real until I finally look away because I won’t.