Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Can I come in?” she asks hesitantly.
Can she? I have no clue what to do, but the decision is taken out of my hands when I hear Bowie Jane exclaim with joy behind me, “Mom!”
Footsteps run our way so I step to the side, motioning Sandra in. Just as she crosses the threshold, Bowie Jane flies by me and leaps into her mom’s arms. Sandra’s a tall woman, has me by several inches, and easily catches her daughter to swing her around in a hug.
Part of me is so happy for Bowie Jane right now, but a part of me is slightly jealous. I’ve had this little girl to myself for weeks now and I didn’t realize how much I’d become accustomed to her love for me until she shines it on her own mother.
That’s horrible thinking and I chastise myself for it.
“What are you doing here?” Bowie Jane asks as Sandra lowers her to the floor.
“I thought I’d surprise you,” she replies, then looks to me. “Any chance you might have a cup of coffee for a very weary traveler?”
“Of course,” I reply as I motion toward the kitchen. “Come on in.”
While I make Sandra a coffee, she sits with Bowie Jane at the kitchen table and they chatter away with excitement. I pour a glass of milk, plate up chocolate chip cookies and place them on the table with the coffee.
“Thank you,” Sandra says gratefully, ignoring the cream and sugar to sip the black brew. “That flight from Singapore is a killer.”
“How long are you staying?” I ask.
“Not long,” she replies, refusing to provide a number of days, which sounds evasive to me.
In an attempt to put a time limit on the visit, I look pointedly at the kitchen clock and remind Bowie Jane, “Don’t forget… you need to start your homework at four thirty.”
She gives me a toothy grin. “I won’t forget.”
I want to give them some measure of privacy so I walk into the living room, sit on the couch, and pull out my phone. Should I text Foster to let him know Sandra is here? I don’t want to do anything to distract him from his game, so I probably shouldn’t.
“Mommy wants to see my bedroom so I’m going to show her,” Bowie Jane says, and I look up to see her holding her mom’s hand.
“Um… okay. Holler if you need anything,” I say, my gaze cutting back and forth between Bowie Jane and Sandra.
Bowie Jane talks nonstop as they ascend the stairs and as their footsteps recede, I worry if I should have let them out of my sight. Maybe I should’ve insisted they stay down here or maybe I should’ve followed them up.
But no, I don’t want to mess up this experience for Bowie Jane. She’s obviously happy to have her mom here and Sandra has successfully parented her for years, with the exception of her recent nuttiness.
I busy myself cleaning the remnants of the coffee, milk, and cookies, handwashing the glasses and plates rather than putting them in the empty dishwasher, just to have something to do. The house is spotless and our dinner is uncomplicated, so there’s no prep there.
Because I’m nervous and it’s producing a need to expel energy, I walk over to the guitar Bowie Jane left propped against the couch. Sitting down, I prop it on my thigh, check the tuning and make a few adjustments. I pick at the strings, tiny little melodies here and there. New ideas to teach Bowie Jane circulate in my head.
I wonder why Bowie Jane didn’t play for her mom or show her what she could do? Sandra wanted to see her bedroom, but wouldn’t the guitar be more important and well… it was right there.
An unease prickles at the back of my neck and I set the guitar down. Slowly rising from the couch, I tilt my head and listen, but I can’t hear anything from upstairs. Did they close the bedroom door when they went in?
I make my way to the base of the stairs and listen again.
Nothing.
Lifting my foot to take the first step up, determined to check on Bowie Jane, I’m startled when I hear a door open. Sandra says, “Come on. We’re going to be late.”
“But I don’t want to go,” Bowie Jane whines.
Something cold sweeps through me, but not in a way that weakens me. Instead, the ice in my veins clarifies things and I brace hard when Sandra appears at the top of the stairs. She’s got Bowie Jane by the hand, pulling her along, her small rolling suitcase in her other hand.
What in the actual fuck?
Sandra halts at the top, stares down at me first with surprise to see me there, then determination.
“What are you doing?” I demand before my eyes cut to Bowie Jane. My stomach curdles when I see a mixture of confusion and fear on her face.