We’d do like a ha-ha-ha, and then she’d have too too many of them. I guess maybe the sweets were a way of staying kinda connected to my dad. Dessert for the deserted. And I’m not gonna pretend like it wasn’t amazing living in a house that always smelled like cooked sugar—which smelled like him. And heaven. It was great. But eventually, it wasn’t. Because diabetes came and took Ma’s legs. Took most of what was left of her laugh, too.
And that’s when the actual storm reached maximum storminess. And I was pretty messed up by the whole thing, but doing my best to be strong and brave and big, and all the other things I ain’t really feel like being at the time. I’d rather be sneaking lipstick on in the bathroom, sending Cotton selfies of how fly I looked, then washing it all off so my mother wouldn’t see it. Or sitting on the curb at Cotton’s, painting our nails with the nail polish I wasn’t allowed to wear that her big brother, Skunk, would steal from the beauty store, even though I would have to scrub mine clean before I came back home unless it was clear polish, but then, what’s the point? Or trying to convince my mother to let me use cucumber-mango or berry–rose water or kiwi-coconut or any other fruity-flowery good-smelling lotion on her swollen, cracked-up legs. Flipping through magazines, cringing at kitten heels, even though those were the only ones I ever had a shot of wearing in Bev Jones’s house.
That’s what I used to do, what I wanted to be doing, but I couldn’t do none of those things no more. At least, not like I wanted to, because now I had to look out for Maddy, who was just . . . confused. I think she had just turned four, too young to really understand what was going on with Ma’s health. And it was really hard to explain it all to her. So I told Maddy that Ma’s legs had to . . . go away. Looking back on it, maybe it wasn’t the best idea, but at the time it was all I had. And it seemed to help. And that’s when that crazy thing I was talking about earlier, that crazy moment with Maddy, happened.
She asked me to help her write a letter. She said it was for school, so of course, I grabbed a pencil and a sheet of paper from her backpack, set Maddy in the little chair at her desk, leaned over, and asked what she wanted the letter to say.
She wanted it to say this:
Dear Mommy legs,
I remember my hand instantly started shaking, and I was squeezing the pencil tight enough to snap it in half. But I kept writing what Maddy told me to write.
Where did you go, and why did you have to leave? And what are you doing? Are you having fun without us? Are you jumping? Are you dancing? Are you running fast? Please come back. We miss you.
Love,
Madison Jones
I dropped the pencil.
“Maddy, what . . . what you gon’ do with this?” I tried to clear the shake from my voice, and it took me flexing every muscle in my body—even cracked my toes—just to keep the tears inside my face. Thank goodness her back was to me.
“First, I’m gonna bring it to school for show-and-tell.”
“Oh . . . okay, um, and then what?”
“Well, after I show it to the class, I was gonna see if maybe you could send it.”
“Send it?”
“To the legs.” Maddy threw her head back, her big eyes staring up at me.
Hold it in, Patty. Hold it in. “Um . . . yeah, yes . . . I will . . . um, send it.” I kissed her forehead.
“Your legs ain’t gonna run away too, are they?” she asked, worry suddenly washing across her face.
“No, Maddy.” I slapped my legs. “These ain’t going nowhere.”
“How you know?” she asked.
I didn’t have a good answer to that, and instead toothed my bottom lip to keep it from quivering. “I just . . . I just do,” I eked out, barely. “I’ll prove it.”
“How?” she asked. “How you gonna prove it?”
“Well . . . I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.” Don’t say it, Patty. Don’t say it. “I promise.” I said it. And instantly felt like I messed up. Like I said something wrong. I wished I had had an invisible cupcake to stuff in my mouth. Something. Some stupid pretend tea. Anything. I mean, how was I going to prove my legs weren’t going to run away from me? Would this be one of those things I was going to have to hope Maddy just forgot about? But the pressure of it all was worth it, because the worry on Maddy’s face unwound.
She nodded, then hit me with the gut punchiest of all gut punches. “Pinky promise?” Oh . . . no. Pinky promises, for us, ain’t no joke. They’re like contracts. Break a pinky promise and people will make you feel like you in jail or something. Friendship jail, or in this case, big sister jail.
Maddy held her pinky out. I hooked mine onto hers, touched thumbs. Now she knew there was no way I would let her down. Then she got back to business. She tapped the letter. “So, you know where to send this?” she followed—blow after blow after blow. Killing me, Waffle. But this one, I couldn’t answer. At all. I just couldn’t. So I just left, ran to my room, threw myself on the bed, and curled into a ball. Breathe, Patty. Breathe.
Crazy thing was, the next day at school we were having a field day, and I was paired on a relay race team with Lu. I know I said I never ran one, but this wasn’t like a real relay. This was more just slapping each other’s hands and running as fast as we could. And after our race, it was Lu who told me about his track club he was in at the time—the Sparks. That night, I went home and asked Uncle Tony and Momly, and all the dots connected. My first club team. The rest, as they say, is history. Or . . . present. All I know is it just seemed like something somewhere (um . . . legs don’t got souls, right?) was telling me to do it. Pushing me to do it. Not just for me. But for Dad. And for Ma. And for Maddy, who (bonus!) I suddenly—thankfully—had an answer for. Pinky promise and all.
Turkey wings. Momly made turkey wings every single night. Every. Single. Night. So it’s always funny because when Uncle Tony says things like, “Dinner’s almost ready,” I never have to ask what we having. I know what we having. Turkey wings. With rice and a veggie. Usually broccoli. Not even turkey breast, or a turkey leg, or even a turkey sandwich. Wings only. I had never had them before we came to live with them, and the first night Momly cooked them I told her I liked them, and that was it. It was set in stone. Turkey wings for life.