Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “I loved to draw because it was creative. It was fun. I loved animals. Still do.”

      I smiled at him with as much confidence as I could muster over my deadly boring answer.

      Aiden stared at me. “I know there’s more to it than that behind your beaming, fake smile.”

      My stomach clenched as if two vises were being screwed into it. I tried to seem perplexed. “No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty simple. Very normal childhood. Normal life here, too. Normal childhood. Normal. Very.”

      I heard the dogs bark in the distance. They loved to run. I wanted to run.

      “Why writing and illustrating? Why that career choice?”

      Because then I could hide like a hot-flashing turtle and live quietly. “I wanted to write books for kids. I wanted them to love my books, love reading. I wanted to teach them what a truthful, kind society should strive for and how we have to take care of each other and the planet.”

      “And?”

      “I wanted to make them think.” That was a raw truth. “We often tell kids what they should think. We dump information on them. We tell them what to do, tell them what to learn, tell them how to be. I wanted them to think about their relationships, their lives, their futures, animals, this country, the world, people that look the same as them, and people that are different, people who have different opinions. My animals in my books struggle with the same emotions people do, but reading it from a fluffy bunny appeals to kids more than if I stuck an exhausted mother of three in there.”

      I stopped.

      “Does that make sense, or do I sound like an inebriated rattlesnake?” I hit my forehead and reminded myself once again to lose the animals out of my conversation.

      He nodded at me. “Completely. It’s admirable.”

      “Thank you.” Must you be so sexy?

      “How did your normal, very normal”—I did not miss his emphasis on those words—“childhood affect your decision to write books with such depth?”

      My childhood had affected every part of my life. It’s only been in the last years that I’ve been able to separate “it” from “me,” and I’m still working on it. I hugged my arms around myself. “My childhood allowed me the time to draw and write.” Lots of time. Times of sheer terror move quicker when one can draw white storks in bikinis while hiding under a bed.

      “Were your parents supportive of your work?”

      “Yes.” My mother was. She snuck me crayons and pencils and pads of paper. My father gave her enough to feed us—barely. He would not allow her to work. It was outrageous, really. We had a fancy apartment on Fifth Avenue in New York, a car and driver for my father, but often no money to buy milk.

      The way my mother got my father to spend money for clothes on us once a year was by implying she was worried about what other people would think of our sorry state. We would live through another rage, he’d leave without us for a charity dinner or fancy ball where his face would appear in the society pages the next day—but by morning my mother would have an envelope on her side of the bed. No telling what my mother had to do to get that envelope.

      “How?”

      I shuddered. “How what?” How come my father seemed to hate me and was much more interested in Christie? How come he often sent me to my room—“Go to your igloo,” he’d order—as if he didn’t want to see my face? How come he was such an angry man and asked me with a sneer if I wanted whale meat to eat? I don’t know.

      His eyes narrowed. “How were they supportive?”

      “My mother bought me pencils and crayons and paper.”

      “And your father?”

      I grimaced, then pulled my arms closer to my body. “He paid for them.”

      “Was he an artist?”

      “No.” He was a nightmare. A black-haired nightmare.

      “Was your mother an artist?”

      “No.” She was a survivor.

      “What did your parents do for a living? Where did you grow up?”

      I was feeling more and more ill. “My father was a businessman.” For a while. Until he made his world collapse. “My mother was a full-time mother. I grew up in … I grew up in … in …” What to say? If I said New York, that would give him another door to open. “I grew up in Connecticut.”

      So that one was a lie. My father had one of his homes there. We visited once. He hadn’t wanted us to go there, ever again, without him. Sometimes he’d be gone for a week, and later he’d tell us he was at the Connecticut house. He’d stare right at my mother when he said this and smirk.

      “Any siblings besides Christie?”

      “No.” Maybe. Probably. None that I know of. Mrs. Zebra licked me. Lightning circled, making sure I was okay, then bounded off into the waves again.

      “What do you most love about being a children’s book writer?”

      That was easy. It didn’t make me feel nauseous with stress. I smelled the sea instead. “I love talking to kids through the stories. I love the creativity, the color, the smell of paint …” I finally unwrapped my arms from the death grip around my worried body.

      “You have lots of dogs and cats here.”

      “I love animals. They were all strays or abused, and I take care of them, then find them new owners who will be kind and loving and appreciate them.” I did not mention my gigantic veterinarian and grooming bills.

      Mrs. Zebra, almost on cue, put her paws on my shoulders and licked my face.

      “Why were you rocking yourself?” Aiden asked quietly.

      “I’m sorry?”

      “When I was asking you questions about your childhood, you had your arms wrapped around your body and you were rocking yourself back and forth.”

      “I was not.” But I was. I knew he was right.

      He waited. “Difficult childhood?”

      “All childhoods have their difficult points.” I tucked my hair behind my ears when the wind blew it across my face.

      “But yours had more than a few.”

      “That’s it, Aiden,” I said, suddenly angry. I was used to my own anger about my childhood, but I smothered it. Now it was being triggered by Mr. Gorgeous Skyscraper getting way too personal. “That’s enough, okay? I don’t want to talk about my childhood anymore.”

      “Hey, it’s okay. I understand.”

      “You do? I don’t think so. I can’t imagine that you could. And would you mind not putting it in your article? Please, one favor. You’ve boxed me into a corner, you’ve forced me to talk to СКАЧАТЬ