The Deed I Gave on Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day

Heather had asked if I would come to supper at the house on Mother’s Day. She was cooking, she said.

She wanted to do it right this year. I said I’d be there at five, and I’d bring the pie.

I wore my coral blouse. Dale bought it for me the last spring he was alive, and I only wear it on days that matter.

I put the envelope in my purse, and then I took the deed out of the envelope, because an envelope looked too much like a lawyer’s letter, and I didn’t want it to look like that.

When I walked in, the house smelled like bacon and the blinds were up.

Heather had set the table with plain white plates and a plaid runner, and in the middle she had put a vase full of carnations.

I stopped in the doorway when I saw them. “Where’d you get those?”

“I cut them from Grandma’s bed along the walk,” she said. “They came back again this year. They always come back.”

She was wearing a white top and her long blonde hair was loose down her back, and for a second she looked just like she did at sixteen.

Troy came in from the backyard about a quarter after five, in his ball cap and a black t-shirt, with grass on his boots.

He had been mowing so the yard would look nice, and I want to give him credit for that. He said, “Marcy,” and nodded, and went to wash up.

Supper

It was a good supper for the first half. Heather had made breakfast for supper, the way she did when she wanted to please me, and her scrambled eggs were soft and her toast was never burned, and I told her so.

It was evening by then, still light out. The sun was coming low through the front window and laying gold across the table and the carnations, and I remember thinking, if it could just stay like this, I would not need to do any of it.

Then I said, “Heather, I brought you something. A present. For Mother’s Day.”

And Troy said, right on time, “Here we go.” He leaned back in his chair. “The stupid old woman’s got a speech.”

Jace laughed. He is four. He laughs when his daddy laughs. Bella did not laugh this time. She looked at me, and I knew she was remembering the porch swing.

I didn’t make a speech. I had thought about a speech for three weeks and I had thrown all of them out. I only reached into my purse and took out the folded paper.

I slid it across the table to my daughter. I did not say anything while I did it.

I just put it down by her plate, between her and the carnations, and took my hand back.

Troy got up out of his chair. He always has to see what I give her. If I hand her a check for the kids’ school clothes, he has to see the amount.

He came around the table and stood behind her chair, with one hand on the back of it.

Heather unfolded the paper. I watched her eyes move across the top.

I saw her read the words Warranty Deed, and then the address, and then her breath caught a little, and her hand came up and pressed flat over her heart.