The Baton Mom Twirled at Homecoming

The bleachers

The noise that came up out of that stadium, I will never forget it.

People who had never met my mother came to their feet. The class of 1966 was standing on the track, clapping over their heads.

But the first one up, before the catch, was Teri. She was standing halfway up the bleachers with her hands over her mouth.

Then she turned and put her face into Kenzie’s shoulder and cried.

Kenzie held her mother. She had one arm around Teri and the other hand up in the air, waving at her grandma, crying too.

On the field, Mom did her last salute and walked on, just like the index card said. Walk on.

The band started the fight song behind her, and Jesse’s trumpet was the loudest one, a little sharp, and I didn’t care.

Mom walked all the way to the far end zone and then stepped off to the side by the track, where Mr. Hensel was waiting to take her arm. She let him, but I don’t think she needed it.

I was crying so hard I couldn’t see the band’s halftime show at all.

Neal came down out of the stands and stood by me and put his hand on my back, and didn’t say anything, which is exactly what I needed.

By the fence

After the band show, I went down to the end of the field where Mom was standing with Mr. Hensel and a cluster of her classmates. They were all hugging her, those old men and women, laughing like they were eighteen.

Then I saw Teri coming down the bleacher steps, with Kenzie right behind her. Teri came through the gate in the track fence, past the folding chairs, and stopped right in front of Mom.

She didn’t say anything for a minute. Her face was a mess, mascara everywhere. Our mother looked at her, waiting, the baton still in her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Teri said. She said it out loud, in front of Kenzie and Jesse and Neal and half the class of 1966. “I’m sorry I laughed at you, Mom. I’m sorry I said you’d fall.”

Mom started to say something, but Teri kept going. “I was so scared. I’ve been scared since April. I keep seeing you on those steps, and I thought if I made it a joke you’d let it go.”

“I know you were scared, honey,” Mom said. “You drove me all the way to Purcell. You held my hand for seven hours. I remember every minute of that. I’d never forget that.”

“But you didn’t need me to bother,” Teri said, very small, and I knew she had carried those words around for two weeks.

Mom reached out and put her hand on Teri’s face, the way she used to when we were little and had a fever. “I didn’t need you to laugh,” Mom said. “I always need you. Both of you.”

Then Teri did something I didn’t expect. She turned and pulled Kenzie forward by the hand, and she said, “Mom, would you teach her? Kenzie always wanted to twirl. I never let her. Would you teach her, in the hayfield?”

Kenzie’s mouth fell open. Mom looked at Kenzie, then at the baton in her hand, and then she smiled the biggest smile I had seen on her face since before Dad passed.

“Well,” Mom said. “We’ll need Dana’s notebook. She keeps count.”