Tami struggled to ignore the way he discounted her worry, but she felt her irritation grow with every swish of his broom. “So what are we going to do?” she pressed.
“What do you mean?”
“We need to go to the hospital and check on Katie. We need to see about the baby, too. Barbara told me just the other day that Katie’s been staying at High Hill Ranch, creating Web sites for a living. But I’m sure she hasn’t had time to save much money.”
“If she wants money from me, she’s going to have to give me the apology I deserve,” he said.
Tami closed her eyes. “Don, haven’t the last few weeks taught you anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“We owe her as much of an apology as she owes us.”
He stopped sweeping to glare at her. “What do we need to apologize to her for?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and it took Barb to make me see. More than anything, we were angry at her for embarrassing us in front of our friends and neighbors, and we were trying to punish her for it. Only she’s a big girl now, living her own life. She’s got a right to choose for herself, without emotional blackmail.”
“We’re not blackmailing her! We’re just trying to teach her what’s right.” He went back to work, but Tami grabbed the broom handle, determined to stop the annoying noise and get him to listen.
“I’m not saying she’s made good choices. But what’s right, Don? What’s right for us to do?”
“The way I see it, the ball’s in her court.”
“You’re wrong this time,” Tami said. “You’re wrong, and you have too much pride to admit it. But I don’t. Not anymore. Some things are just too precious to lose.” She stripped off her apron.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To see our daughter.”
TAMI STOOD IN THE HALL, the new infant car seat she’d purchased slung over one arm. She’d been trying, for the past several minutes, to get her heart to stop pounding so she could step into Katie’s hospital room with an unfaltering smile. But it was no use. She was afraid Katie would tell her to leave, refuse to let her see the baby. In a way, she felt Katie would be justified in doing just that. As Katie’s parents, she and Don had couched the complexity of their reaction—all the anger, hurt pride, disappointment and desire to control—in righteous indignation. They were right, and she was wrong. Period.
Or so she’d thought until she’d had that talk with Barbara…
Tami wanted to believe that if she hadn’t been so preoccupied and worried about Travis, she would’ve come to this point sooner. But at least she was here now. Somehow she had to find some middle ground between taking a stand for the right and being there for her children, even when they did the exact opposite of what she told them.
She just wished it was easier to find that middle ground.
Nodding politely at a nurse who bustled past, she drew a deep breath and stepped into the room.
A game show was playing on the television. Katie was asleep, but she must have heard the rustle of Tami’s movements or sensed her presence, because she opened her eyes almost immediately.
“Mom?” she said, sounding confused.
Tami put the car seat on the floor and stepped close enough to grip the bar on the side of Katie’s bed. Katie looked wan and tired. Tami remembered what it was like when Katie was born, how precious she’d been and still was, and wanted to hug her daughter. But she doubted a hug would be welcomed.
“Hi, Katie. How do you feel?” she said, then held her breath as she waited for her daughter’s response.
“Fine.”
“How’s the baby?”
“He’s perfect, beautiful,” she said softly. “Have you seen him?”
“Not yet. I wanted to check on you first.”
A tear trickled out of the corner of Katie’s eye and rolled into her hair.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Tami said. Then she nearly cried herself when Katie offered her a tremulous smile and held the back of one hand against her cheek.
BOOKER DROPPED THE PACKET of information he’d received at his first anger management class on the kitchen table and went in search of a pen. His instructor, Mr. Boyle, had given each student homework—or improvement exercises, as he called them. Booker had to do all the homework in order to get Boyle’s signature at the end of the seven-week course. And he had to get Boyle’s signature in order to avoid going back to jail. But Boyle treated the entire class as though they were walking time bombs and spoke in a soft, singsong voice purposely manufactured to show how well he’d mastered his own temper. Booker was afraid that if he had to sit through many more lectures like the first one, he would have an anger problem.
“Booker, what are you doing?” Delbert asked, coming in from the living room.
Booker scowled as he dug through the utility drawer next to the sink. “Homework.”
“I hate homework.” Delbert opened the fridge and helped himself to a soda.
“Me, too,” Booker grumbled, but he found a pen, so he returned to the table and slumped into the closest chair.
The phone rang. Delbert answered. “It’s Rebecca,” he said. “She wants to talk to you.”
Booker accepted the handset and propped it against his shoulder so he could still write. Ever since Rebecca had returned from her trip to Austin three weeks ago, she hadn’t really been herself, and Booker was worried about her. “’Lo?”
“What’s up?” she said.
“I just got back from my first anger management class.”
“I know. I talked to Delbert an hour ago.”
“He didn’t say anything to me.”
“I told him I’d call back. What’d you learn tonight?”
“That I’d like to choke the teacher.”
He heard her laugh for the first time in more than twenty days. “Oh, that’s a good start,” she said sarcastically.
“My thoughts exactly. I can already tell I’m going to be one of his top students.” He grinned because she was still chuckling. “I’m doing my homework right now.”
“What does anger management homework entail? Yoga?”
“Looks like I’m starting out with some kind of questionnaire—‘Are you too angry? Find out by answering the following questions as honestly as possible.”’