True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA. Nancy Thompson Robards

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      As the blue Toyota slows to a stop, a cool breeze rustles the scarf anchoring down my straw hat. I bat it out of my face with a grimy, gloved hand. Land sakes, I must look a sight. I yank off the gloves, stuff them inside the hat and toss the lot onto the porch step, fluffing up my hair.

      I suppose it’s just been too hard for Margaret to come back here to the place where her mama killed herself.

      I take a slow, deep breath and muster a big welcoming smile for them. I will not make this any harder on that child and her little girl than it already must be. Poor, poor Margaret, so young to be a widow.

      I squint to get a glimpse of Sarah through the smoky glass of the car window. Land, that baby’s a teenager by now. She was born the same year as Mary Grace.

      When the door opens, a tall, skinny, blond-headed girl slides out of the car and squints at me as if she’s tumbled out of a cave by accident. The sight of her steals my breath. There in her face is the whisper of Leila. The pale ghost of my sister. Flickers and glints of her in the valleys beneath the apple cheekbones; the curve of her nostril; the rosebud set of that pursed little mouth. Genes have slid down the years, skipping a generation to manifest in this beautiful young woman.

      There’s scarcely a hint of Margaret in her own daughter. Instead, it’s as if Leila’s reached out from the grave and claimed the child for her own.

      “You must be Sarah.”

      The girl stares at her sneakers.

      Leila’s granddaughter. It’s hard to reconcile that my sister would be a grandmother. I mean, I’m a grandma. I don’t know why it’s so hard to wrap my mind around the fact that she would be, too. That’s what happens, I suppose, when one dies young. They are youthfully preserved for eternity.

      Margaret rounds the side of the car and I shove Leila into the back of my mind, to the place where she resides.

      Good heavens, it’s been a long time. Margaret was just a few years older than Sarah the last time I saw her, which means I would’ve been round about Margaret’s age.

      “Just look at you.” I hold out my arms. “It’s so good to see you, honey.”

      I enfold her in a hug. As her bony shoulder pokes into my fleshy upper arm, the reflection of an old crone stares back at me from the car window. The image startles me.

      Who is that? Not me. Surely not me. She’s too fat, too gray, too wrinkled.

      It’s silly, how this passage of time takes me by surprise. But I suppose it’s not just the dead who are forever immortalized. In our mind’s eye we see ourselves in our prime, and it’s startling to realize how much you’ve aged.

      The reflection slips away as Margaret slides out of my arms and wipes tears from her eyes.

      “Barbara, it’s so good of you to—” Her voice breaks. I’m afraid she’s going to start bawling. And if she does, I will too. We can’t have that.

      “Don’t you worry about a thing, baby doll. It is my pleasure. You girls stay as long as you like. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay forevah.”

      Margaret makes a noise like she’s going to protest, but I wave her off and focus on Sarah. “Lord have mercy, child. You are the spitting image of your grandma, Leila.”

      Sarah’s face remains blank, but Margaret flinches, or maybe she’s just pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.

      All I know is awkward silence hangs in the air.

      Sarah doesn’t say anything, just stands there with her arms dangling down at her sides.

      “Sarah, did you say hello to Aunt Barbara?”

      The girl’s expression doesn’t change. She simply shifts her flat, dark gaze to her mother, looking up through lush eyelashes.

      Margaret narrows her eyes at her daughter and gives a sharp nod in my direction.

      “Hey.” Sarah’s single word is as lifeless as a humid August day, as if it took all she had to muster the single syllable. But that’s okay.

      “Hey, darlin’,” I say. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

      Margaret has sad eyes. And as this weary-looking, thin wisp of a woman in her baggy jeans and untucked pink button-down opens the trunk, I want to tell her that this is the prime of her life, that she’s not supposed to look so worn out. But I suppose prime time does not include widowhood. Not by any means.

      I muster the best smile I can manage. “Let’s get your things out of the car. I’m sure you girls are anxious to get settled in.”

      As we start to unload the car, removing suitcases and boxes and bags, Mary Grace’s school bus chugs to a stop at the gate. Since she’s considered special needs, the bus picks her up and drops her off right in front of the house. She doesn’t have to walk the three blocks down the road where the other kids catch the bus. It would be nice if someone would wait with her—someone like the Deveraux girl across the street. There’s no reason she couldn’t catch the bus here. In fact, I mentioned it to her mother, Elizabeth, once, but she said Anastasia meets her friends down the way and likes it that way.

      People are creatures of habit. Once they’re used to something it gets ingrained in their system and it’s hard to do things differently.

      The first day I put my baby on that school bus all by herself I thought I was going to die. I was used to taking her to school, but Burt got it in his head that Mary Grace needed to ride the bus, and well, since I’m always insisting that our daughter is no different than the other kids, I think he was calling my bluff.

      Everything has to be a battle with that man. It’s no skin off his nose if I drive our daughter to school every day. But he was so smug and superior reminding me that this was just one more example of how Mary Grace was not able to function in the real world.

      What he didn’t say, but it was there between the lines, was it’s my fault. That I should’ve never gotten pregnant with her, being in my late-forties and all. Our other kids were grown and out of the house, and here I was with this unexplainable hankering to have another baby.

      Burt adamantly opposed reverting back to diapers and middle-of-the-night feedings. He said I simply feared empty-nest syndrome—as if that could explain it all away. But the need to have this child ran deeper than that. Deeper than I could explain. It was as if this soul had chosen me to deliver it into the world, and I would just die if I didn’t have another baby.

      Two years later, when I got pregnant, Burt accused me of doing it on purpose, which I suppose was true, but I couldn’t tell him that. Especially when Mary Grace was born with Down’s.

      That’s when he started pulling away—from me and Mary Grace.

      “Well, you got your wish,” he said. “This child will never leave you.”

      So to prove him wrong, that this girl was as capable as the next child, I put her on that bus. He didn’t know that I followed her in my car every morning for the first two months. In the afternoon, I’d drive up to the school and make sure she got on the right bus and I’d follow ’em home.

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