Morgan laughed and I felt it in my stomach. I didn’t turn to look at her, though. If I had any chance of making my plan work, I needed to look at her as little as possible. Everything about her called to me, and I needed to keep my distance.
* * *
My mom and Etta played on the floor for over an hour while the rest of us talked about nothing significant. On the surface, the group seemed easy and relaxed around each other, but I could feel the tension in the room. The longer we spent in that small house, the more it seemed like my mom was desperate to soak up as much time with Etta as she could.
I wasn’t sure if Morgan and Stan noticed the way she’d completely checked out of our conversation, but one look at my dad told me that he’d seen the change happen, too. It was almost as if she was deliberately ignoring the fact that we were in the room in an attempt to focus solely on her only grandchild. I understood it, to an extent, but it also made me nervous for reasons I couldn’t really explain.
My mom had taken it so hard when Henry was killed. She’d raised him from the time he was little, so fierce in her attempts to protect him after the abuse he’d suffered as a baby that I sometimes wondered if his death had triggered some sense of failure in her. She hadn’t been able to protect him in the end; she hadn’t even had the opportunity.
“Me hungwy,” Etta said, getting to her feet to toddle toward Morgan. “Mama, Etta hungwy.”
“Okay,” Morgan said, lifting the baby onto her lap.
My mom jerked as if someone had poked her in the side, and my gaze shot to my dad, who was watching my mom intently.
“Does anyone else want something to eat?” Morgan asked, unaware of the strange undercurrents.
“I’m good,” I said, quickly turning to face her.
It was a mistake. She was standing too close. I could smell the lotion she wore and my mouth began to water.
I carefully left my expression blank as everyone else told her that they didn’t want anything, either.
“Get on up off the floor,” my dad said casually, reaching a hand out to my mom.
It was clear that Stan hadn’t noticed anything different, but I had to hold back a wince as my mom slowly nodded and lifted herself up off her knees. She was surrounded by dolls in different stages of undress, which made her disappointment even more depressing to watch.
It scared me.
It had taken my mom a long time to drag herself out of the pit of depression after Henry’s death, and she still wasn’t on solid ground. I didn’t know if she could ever fully come back from something like that, but she’d at least been making headway at functioning again. After watching her this morning, I was really afraid she’d slide back down once we left Sacramento.
We were leaving for home in less than twenty-four hours, and I had no idea when we’d be able to see Etta again. She was one of ours, yes, but her life was here, with her mom. This little girl didn’t belong to Kate or Anita, who would both go out of their way to make sure she had a relationship with my mom. Etta belonged to Morgan, a woman my parents barely knew. She had no sense of loyalty or dedication to us; she had her own family.
“Me wike bananas,” Etta said as she came sauntering back into the room, her blond hair floating back and forth as she walked. She had a banana in her hand and a shit-eating grin on her face.
“Henrietta,” Morgan called sternly, making her daughter pause. “Come back in here.”
Etta glanced behind her, and I could see with absolute clarity the moment when she decided to completely ignore her mother’s order. My mom shifted on the couch, but before she could stand up, I was out of my seat and lifting Etta into my arms. I hadn’t been sure what my mom’s plan was, but could only imagine her playing the doting grandma by ignoring Morgan’s wishes.
“You’re supposed to be at the table,” Stan said to Etta, tilting his head like he was disappointed.
“No table,” Etta replied, her body stiffening.
“Come on,” I said softly, ignoring her attempt to get down as I walked her into the kitchen. “Your mama wants you to eat that in here.”
“No table,” Etta screeched, kicking me in the side.
“Henrietta,” Morgan said warningly, her voice stern. “Knock it off.”
The mom voice didn’t seem to faze my niece in the slightest. She continued to struggle as I handed her to Morgan.
Just as I made the handoff, Etta threw her half-eaten banana on the floor and completely lost it in a temper tantrum that was so loud I was pretty sure my ears popped.