The lakes are so close to one another, but so different.  The larger is a crystalline blue, twinkling at me with a myriad of facets like pale sapphires.  It’s beauty is famous and reverie-inducing.  My abdomen froze at its first touch, I clenched my teeth to ward off a shivering fit.  Soon the temperature was kinder.  Either my body temperature lowered a few degrees, or my skin went numb.  It didn’t matter that the water was cold, though.  I was enjoying a peaceful bliss, nestled below forested granite peaks, and cradled in gentle blue water.

It was my sister’s antics that drove me back over the fire-spitting sand.  The grains cooled against the wet soles of my feet, instead of baking them as they had earlier.  Something was off about her.  Her body has filled out in the expected womanly places, but she was sliding over the sand with a squeal and manner that was more at home on a seven year-old child.

The other lake is small, enough that my family and I were able to walk around it in an hour’s time.  It’s depths are a murky brown.  It’s banks are reedy and muddy, littered with goose droppings and swarming with gnats.  A grove of aspens surround it, unlike the ancient evergreens around the other.  It has it’s own beauty.

Hana jostled over the distance on our hips, her eyes large and observant.  Her grabby fingers were still as she absorbed the new landscape, her round face fresh with cherubic wonder.

My knuckles are white against the steering wheel.  Even lake-inspired peace fails to calm me on the road back to mom’s house.  The cliff on my right is more than ten feet away, but it’s still not enough.  Night is falling.  The cliff feels closer in the nearing dark.  My sister has fallen silent in the passenger seat.  Silence is rare for her, but I’m too nervous to take notice.  The cliff rises next to me.  It forms a small hill with the cliff plunging down its right.  In it’s side are crosses mourning those lost on this road.

I remember the crosses placed there when I was a child as well.  Are they for the same people, or have new mourners replaced the old ones?  My foot hovers and taps the brake until the cliff is behind me.  She is still silent.  I glance at her.  Her shoulders are hunched, her neck curved, dangling her head like a cloth doll.

I call her name.  “Are you okay?”  Nothing in her body responds to my voice

“What’s wrong?”  “Do you feel sick?”  Still nothing.  I call her name a few more times.  My right hand reaches for her not knowing where to grab.  My fingers wrap around her hair and tug her face away from the window.

“_____, you better not be messing with me,” I threaten, but it’s too late for threats.  There is no messing around here.  Her head lolls toward me, her body maintaining enough control to keep her from toppling into the dash.  Her eyes stare at the junction between the windshield and the roof, vacant.

It comes with the racing of my pulse.  Her arm clenches toward me; I let go of her hair to paralyze it.  Her legs thump against the floor and the glove compartment, an out-of-rhythm beat more suited to horror movies.   Not much I can do about it.  She slumps against my shoulders, her left arm jerking in my grip.

“Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh.”  I remember someone once saying that she can choke on her tongue when she’s on her back.  I try to determine the state of her tongue, if she’s turned enough, but unlike this morning when she fell on me, her mouth contorting like a fleshy Halloween mask, her mouth is closed.

I honk to alert Mom’s car that something is wrong.  Her car speeds ahead, and I pound on the gas to catch up.  In the back Cadence is laughing.

“Mommy, ____ is silly.”

“No sweetie, ____ is very sick.”

Her giggles cease and she grows thoughtful, trying to understand what is going on.  My sister’s body unclenches all at once, her arm limp in my fist.  I let it go.  Her face is resting against my arm.  She lets out a series of odd snorts and gurgles.  Wetness slips down my skin as spit burbles around her teeth and out of her lips.  Her tongue doesn’t seem to be in the way.  She leans away like a slumberer remedying an uncomfortable position.  Her eyes flutter.

I call for her.  Her eyes swim around the car without focus.  “If you can hear me, look at me,” I demand.  Orders come natural for an older sister.  Her eyes roll around and land on me for a short second.  Good enough.  She sinks back into the chair, asleep, exhausted, but okay.

We roll in front of mom’s house, the blue sparkle of one lake and the murky gleam of the other too far behind to reach us.

The store is crammed with kids fresh out of high school looking for a place to hang out, to update their wardrobe with their first big, summer paycheck. I weave around them with my big stroller and my frumpy Target clothes. The pants slip down my waist, the crotch hanging two or three inches below where it should. It’s just hit me how matronly I’ve become. I feel like fleeing what once was my favorite store and hiding behind racks of Target clothes.

Hana’s head is resting against the side of her stroller, her eyelids thick over her eyes despite the noisy chaos surrounding us. I rifle through the sale racks, coming up for air empty handed. I dive in again, pouncing on a shelf advertising eight panties for $24. Not bad.

I peer, poke, and prod through the different piles. Few catch my eye. Sudden self-consciousness penetrates my reserve, and I become aware that I’m a matronly woman, sifting through piles of teenager underwear with the high school boy employees watching me.

“Are you finding everything all right?” one asks.

I nod too quickly. “Yep.” I pretend to move on and sidle my way back. The boys aren’t fooled. They’re still watching. I grab a pair of each panty that caught my eye. Only three. Crap. My face and neck grow warm as the rest of my body gets colder. I wonder how red I look right now. I stuff the panties on top the stroller and hasten to the register.

I grumble mentally as someone cuts in front of me just as a register opens. Another one opens, and I race to it before it happens again. I splatter the wad of panties over the counter. The high school boy looks over them.

“This all for you?”

“Yeah.”

He rings them up as another employee comes up behind him.

“Actually these are 8 for $24.”

The clerk has put the panties back on the counter and lowers his hands. There they are, sprawled for the world to see. “Yeah, I didn’t see any others I liked,” I answer.

“They’re $7.50 each if you buy them separately.”

I think I’m starting to sweat now. A frenzied panic overcomes my sense and frugality. Just give me the freaking panties! “Yeah, that’s fine.”

He totals the sale and puts the underwear in a bag. I throw the receipt in the bag and weave back out the store. Buyers remorse sets in when I reach the exit. I just bought three pairs of underwear for the price of eight. My bargain shopper status is hereby revoked.

Bleach fumes invade my nostrils as my knuckles scrub into spots staining Hana’s onesies. Her clothes collect stains as avidly as polar fleece attracts dog hair. Her wails penetrate the three sets of doors separating her from me. Breaking into the sound is Cadence’s quick footstep. She’s always hurrying from one room to another. Her excited jabber and footsteps fade away. I twist the faucet knob on and run the clothing under lukewarm water, drowning the bleach out of them. The wailing alters, deepening and escalating. I nudge the knob into the off position, and wander towards the sound, the clothes balled in my left hand.

It isn’t Hana’s cry anymore. It’s Cadence’s.

At some point the clothes leave my hand. I will later find them abandoned on the lid of my laundry basket, set like a breakfast tray of milky cotton on my bed.

Rivers of tears fall down both of Cadence’s cheeks. There’s blood in her hair. My sister-in-law explains that Cadence has fallen down the stairs, breaking her fall with her face. I take Cadence from my sister-in-law and hold her close while taking stock of her injuries. A small patch of skin under her right nostril has been scraped away. Her top lip is swelling, and blood is pooling on her teeth.

A shakiness enters my hand as I prod her lip, remembering the times my brother and I bit through our lips, and the other time the same brother’s tooth was bludgeoned in half. Dotting blood from her skin with toilet paper and a diaper wipe, I comfort myself that her lip is not punctured on the outside. I raise the injured lip, taking care to avoid the stiff, reddened flesh. Her teeth are still intact. Another relief.

She pulls away from my fingers, and I hold her close, helpless to quiet her pain, but trying anyway.

A solid block of clouds is camped over the valley. The rain taps on the windows, taunting us with what we can’t do today. Cadence’s feet pummel the floor as she runs from the kitchen like an escaped convict. A half eaten peanut butter sandwich is waving in her right hand, her velvet sleeve bunching at the elbow. It’s one in the afternoon, yet Cadence and her aquamarine Ariel nightgown have yet to be parted.

She turns and smiles at me, at soggy wad of sandwich squishing between her teeth. I take chase, cornering her in Hana’s room with a Kleenex at the ready. She giggles, spraying bits of sandwich from her mouth. Moisture glistens beneath her nose, a leak I have yet to conquer. I battle the mighty snot, squelching it with every pinch of my tissue, trying not to gag as I do. Missing my signal, Cadence blows as I take the tissue away. A bubble forms and pops, before my tissue can save me.

Ew.

I mop up the aftermath and discard the tissue. There are so many things left to be done; getting Cadence dressed would be one of them, but one of the few pluses of being sick is wallowing in one’s pajamas all day. Aside from tucking a couple blankets over her legs, I leave her be.

Note to self: snot-proof my wardrobe.

The only sound is the clicking of Jake’s mouse and keyboard as he engages in a mighty battle of cyber will. The sound is welcome now that both Cadence’s and Hana’s cries have ceased. Hana’s monitor emits low static crackles, but no screams.

My body feels ragged, abused by an excess of tears and shouts, worn by the resistance of childish excitement. All this over a trip to the park.

It began well. Cadence gathered speed over the grass by lowering her head and swinging her arms behind her back. Hana seemed content slurping on her fingers and burbling baby language from her car seat. Cadence’s hair alternated floating into her eyes and behind her head as Jake pushed her ever higher on the swing, and her pink crocs ground into the wood chips as she ran to the slides. Squeals of delight and fear punctuated the impending dusk evening.

Then it was time to leave. Squeals of delight became wails of despair. Even Hana joined in, the grip of the infant seat harness now torture. No manner of calm explaining could sway these two from their torment.

But Mommy has won, calm overtaking the chaotic.  The clicking has finished too. My silence is complete. Why doesn’t it feel like a victory?

All is well at the Schroeder house. Hana is packed in her infant car seat. Cadence is dressed, her hair brushed, her markers tucked into tight little fists. A stray strand of hair falls into my face. I set Hana down, and make one last trip to the mirror to clip it back into place. A few tucks, sweeps with the comb, and plasterings of hairspray do the trick.

Down the hall, Cadence is reprimanding her little sister in a high pitched baby voice she reserves for Hana. My hand dusts over the bathroom door frame, my feet straying to the hallway. She talks again.

“Hana,” she coos, “Hana, don’t color on youwself.”

What? I barrel out of my bedroom, and weave around a guilty Cadence. “What did you do, Cadence?”

“Momma, Hana colored on hewself. I said don’t color on youwself, Hana.” Cadence’s finger waves sternly at Hana, a gesture I’m certain she’s learned from me.

The car seat canopy is blocking Hana’s face. I drop to my heels and peer inside. My youngest daughter is gnawing at her knuckles oblivious to the green marker lines coursing each cheek. An uncapped green marker has been placed by her feet, the tip pointing at the real culprit.

Supressing my giggles without much success, I explain to Cadence that she can’t color on her sister. She bows her head as she listens, tucking her marker filled hands to her chest. “Do you understand, Cadence?” She looks at me, her eyes round and serious.

“Okay.”

Satisfied for now, I snap a few pictures of Cadence gripping her markers over Hana’s seat and of Hana’s green face. I never would have guessed I’d already be getting “the baby did it” excuse.

Cadence twists her fingers over my ear lobes, fiddling with my crystal earring.

“Careful. You gotta be soft,” I say. I wince at her little tugs. My ears were re-pierced a couple weeks ago, and this one is still tender.

“Mommy, you have eaws piewced?” I answer that I do as she bounces to the end of my bed. “Can I have eaws piewced?” Jake and I exchange surprised glances that ask do-we-dare?  We’d agreed a long time ago that we’d let Cadence decide when she wanted to get her ears pierced. We never imagined she’d be asking at two years old.

The next few hours consist of debates over whether to buy Jake a used motorcycle we’ve looked at, and trying to convince Cadence that piercing her ears will hurt.

“No, I not gonna huwt. I get eaws piewced.” Yeah, it doesn’t work that way, but she’s not listening. Jake holds her over the jewelry counter, pointing at various pairs of earrings.

“Do you want blue flowers? Do you want hearts? You can have white ones, like Mommy’s.”

I notice that her birthstone is pale pink and point it out to her. “Look Cadence, you can get pink.”

Her finger hovers over a section near the bottom of the case. “I want blue.” It takes us a few moments to figure out the blue she wants is really the aquamarine color I’d mistaken for green. She waits on the ear piercing chair with an excited smile. Her shoulders shrink up, and she turns her head into a cabinet as the jewelry clerks raise their guns to her ears. Jake swings her into his lap and the process continues, the innocent smile glued to her face.

The clerks count: one, two,… three! Cadence’s shoulders are up to her ears, but it’s too late to protect them. Her face looks betrayed, then in pain. Her howls fill the store, tears spilling down her cheeks. Jake cuddles her to his shoulder, and I crowd near to offer my comfort, a sleeping Hana momentarily neglected.

Through the howls we decipher a few words. “I don’t want blue, Daddy. I don’t want eaws piewced.” What is that saying: the best lessons learned are something, something, something…? Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it applies here.

We pile into our car, Cadence sniffling in the back, Hana sleeping, and Jake nervous over his motorcycle purchase.

Bumps and crashes come from Cadence’s room. The mess that was centered by her closet is certainly migrating to the rest of the room. Cadence is never satisfied until Jake and I have to tiptoe over toy debris to kiss her good night. Good nights are already over, though. She is wasting time until her eyes will no longer stay open.

Beautiful silence comes from Hana’s room. Her miniature fists are tucked behind her head in a pose too provacative for anyone under eighteen, but she pulls it off with a peaceful innocence that melts my mommy heart.

The sky, paved with clouds of wet cement, is darkening to a slate gray and on to a dismal gray-black that masks the stars. An occasional plane dots the skies. What could have been a perfect day is lost. Our park plans were abandoned to the same wind that tossed my skirt with immodest declarations and left Hana gasping for air. It is dying down, now that the day is gone.

I feel robbed.

Okay, these stories are going to look familiar. That is because they have been posted before on the blog under the fiction category. I’ve place them on the navigation bar to make them more accessible. So, if you haven’t read “A Lasting Decision” or “The Redemption of Stanley Elliot” before, here’s your opportunity.

It’s a quarter to one, and Cadence’s light is shining beneath her door. The knob twists with my grip and the door opens two inches. A gentle nudge widens the gab by another two inches. Strands of dark blond hair are splayed beneath the bottom of the door’s edge. Just as I suspected, she played herself to sleep again, sprawling where her fun led her. I nudge the door open enough to slip through.

The scent of her sweat is thick, saturating the stale bedroom air. Trapped heat smothers my skin, likely adding the scent of my own sweat to hers. My old pink t-shirt is bunched just over her butt, exposing a cheek that shouldn’t be exposed. A cursory glance finds her discarded diaper across the room. I pick it up, weigh it, and roll it into a harmless cylinder. The diaper is heavy, soiled. It seems the soiled diaper was too unbearable, too wet against her skin to be endured, and I can’t say I blame her. I set the diaper aside, reminding myself to take care of it on my way out.

I lift her from the floor with my arms looped under hers. The contact is unpleasant in the heat, but unavoidable. She curls her knees into her chest as I drape a sheet over her. That should be more than enough to keep her warm tonight.

I contemplate switching the A.C. on, thinking that spring didn’t last long enough.