I check the time on the microwave and survey the damage.  It looks like a parrot was killed in here.  Multicolored feathers are scattered with strings of glue, play dough, and foam stickers clinging to their down.   The mess has stayed in the kitchen at least.

A glance out the window tells me the last mom still has not come.   In her room, Cadence and her little friend are picking through the toys abandoned by the other children as they left.  The porcelain Aurora, Belle, and Cinderella dolls were a big hit, along with the princess dress up shoes. Now the dolls’ synthetic hairstyles, halo from their heads in matted poofs.  Their fragile limbs are intact, a miracle.

Hana bounces again on my hip.  An Autumn cold chases muscous down her lip.  I tack get a tissue on the end of my mental list.  She arches her back over my arm, viewing the bobbing hallway upside down.  I have a perfect view of the roof of her mouth and her vampire teeth.  I nudge her up, closer to me as we pass through my bedroom doorway.  It’s time the dogs were freed.

Roxy shoves her nose into my leg as I open the master bathroom door.  Her tail wags with puppy-ish impatience.  I push against her, forcing her back until I can pull Jules’ pet taxi off the toilet seat.

The two bathrooms share a wall.  The girls have moved into the other, their voices reaching me through it.  Hana squirms in my grip, her coos sounding turning into cries.  Nap time.  Roxy takes advantage of my distraction, darting around me and disappearing, her tags clinking down the hallway.  She’s waiting for me by the back door.

Cadence’s little friend has followed.  Her soft voice tells me to put the dog outside.  Roxy is excited by the smell of someone new.  As Roxy nears the little girl, tail wagging and tongue hanging out, she shrieks.  An expression of panic is on her face, and tears are forming.  The shriek lasts for three long seconds, the girl rooted to her spot and Roxy cowering closer to me.

It’s hard to tell who is more frightened now: Cadence’s little friend or Roxy.   I am amazed a sound so loud came from this girl: the girl who talked in front of me for the first time today, her voice never above a whisper.  I remedy the situation.  The girl recovers in time to smile for her mom, the last mom.

My house is still at last.

The phone peals in the family room.  Jake’s favorite show, Cadence’s phone conversation in the garage, Roxy’s barking are all gone, ignored without effort.  My stomach is fluttering/churning with anticipation, worry, and sorrow.  All I see are the phone, Jake’s concerned eyes, and Dad’s name lighting up the caller id screen.

The call I’ve been waiting for.

“It’s my dad.”  I snatch the phone and retreat upstairs.  My thumb finds the send button.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi. Sarah?  This is your dad.”  It’s his usual intro, despite the facts that I know his voice and that caller id is a universal phone feature.  “Do you still want to talk to Grandma?  I’m with her right now.”

“Yes, Dad.  I’d really appreciate that.”  The fluttering/churning heightens.

“Okay, I’ll just put the phone to her ear.  You know what?  I think she knows we’re talking about her.  She just moved her hand.  Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

I wait until the silence on the phone is tainted by rythmic puffs in the background.  I take a quick breath and smile, hoping she will hear the smile on my face.

“Hi Grandma.  It’s Sarah.  I just want you to know how much we love you.  We miss you so much.  I really wish I could see you right now.”  My voice cracks.  Tears are trying to push through the ducts.  I have to pause.

“I really wanted you to see Hana.  She is doing great.  She’s eight months old now.  She has six teeth, but not the two front ones, so she looks pretty goofy.  She’s crawling too.

“Cadence has curly–” my mind is too distracted to get details right, “not curly.  It’s blond, and it’s getting long.  It’s just below her shoulders now.  She just turned three and got a big-girl bike.  We’ve been having lots of fun.”  A thick tear rolls down my nose.

I want to tell Grandma that Cadence still has the beanie babies that she so painstakingly collected, and the Wizard of Oz Tin Man doll in its original packaging that still bares the oily makeup smear from her cheek.  That we’ll always have them, and always remember her.  But it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say.

What do you say to someone you know is going to die?

“I love you so much, Grandma.”  A good bye without having to say it.

I listen to the soft puffs.  There’s nothing else I can think to add.  Dad is talking to someone in the room, probably my aunt.  I can’t make out the words.

Another puff.

Then, “Sarah, are you done?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Good, I wasn’t sure.”  He tells me that she’d done something with her arm when I started talking.  It’s the most responsive she’s been today.  “You know she always said she looked just like you when she was a little girl.”

My voice is thick.  “Yeah, I remember.  Thanks for letting me do that, Dad.  I really appreciate it.”

We exchange farewells, and I lower the phone.  Downstairs, Jake is waiting.  I curl into his arms and cry like I haven’t cried for a long time.  Inside me is a glass that needs to be emptied, and it’s leaking from my eyes.  The stirring in my stomach is gone, and with it my anxiety.

Later I will bundle up the girls for a trip to the store.  The only jacket in Hana’s closet that allow the seat belt harness to fasten over her will be a cute,  pink pullover that Grandma gave to Cadence for her first Christmas.  A peace will settle over me.

She knows. That’s all I could ask.

Hana is crying.   Sighing, I wrench the towel out of my hair and throw on some mismatched clothes.  A mother’s work is never done.  I try not to disturb Jake, who is sleeping still.  I hear his deep breathes with envy.  Getting up in the morning would be so much easier if we did it together.

Hana looks at me with a tear streaked face as I reach for her.  She’s propped up on her arms, her eyes a picture of baby agony.  Oh the horror.   I pull her out of the traveling tot we use as a crib, and smell the problem.

“Oh boy, Hana, that smells terrible!”

I call this the dark side of motherhood.  Hana cries as I clean her up.  She flails, her mouth forming a startled “o” every time I use a fresh wipe.  Duty done, I scoop her onto my hip, and enter a world that has descended into chaos in the twenty minutes I was bathing.

Clumps of pillow stuffing are strewn across the living room, small chunks of dog poop completing the masterpiece.  My body is frozen, my mouth twitching with all the exclamations I could be using.  Both dogs look at me, wary.  A piece of stuffing is hanging from Roxy’s droopy boxer mouth.

The poop goes first.  The stuffing can wait until I check on Cadence.  I can hear the music from The Land Before Time playing as I bounce down the stairs, cooing back at Hana, imitating her facial expressions.  She grins, her bottom lip revealing her goofy little teeth as we bound up and down.  Her hair is growing now, the bald patches closing up with dark strands.  Even her eyes are darker than Cadence’s.  The centers of her irises grow a deeper golden brown by the month.  There may be some evidence of our relationship after all.

In the basement, Cadence is engrossed with something, but it isn’t the adventures of Little Foot.  She glances at me, her mischievous smile confirming my fears.  Below her is a patch of damp carpet.  Her hands swirl over it, a white liquid buildup making her hands glisten. Beside her is a long tube of baby lotion.  The cap is missing.

And so the day begins…