Sahm I Am. Meredith EfkenЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Funny that Rosalyn should mention apples…

      We went to my parents’ house today for a cookout—my brother Kevin was there with his family (my other brother Scott and his wife live in Connecticut), and Marianne and Brandon came along, too, with Helene, since all their family lives too far away to come for a three-day weekend. My parents live on a small acreage on the outskirts of Omaha, and in their backyard are three dwarf apple trees.

      Kevin was playing catch with his two younger kids (Emma, 8, and Treyton, 6). His oldest, Abigail, thinks it’s beneath her dignity as an 11-year-old, so she sat on a blanket watching the twins for me. Instead of a ball, Kevin was using apples, which are still small and a tad green here—hard enough to make great baseballs.

      Of course, McKenzie wanted to play, too! But Treyton thought a 3-year-old, and a girl to boot, would ruin the game. However, Uncle Kevin is a sucker for his oldest niece, and said she could play. That miffed his son, and I could see that the game of catch was going to disintegrate in about ten seconds. So I hurried over to Tom, who was helping my dad get the grill started (dad refuses to buy a gas grill—says the charcoal adds flavor). I asked Tom if he would like to play catch with McKenzie.

      It’s weird—at first, he said no. Why would a dad refuse to play catch with his daughter? He must have seen the look of displeasure in my eyes because he quickly changed his mind. We found a nice small apple that McKenzie could hold, but when she tried to throw it, she couldn’t get it to go far enough for Tom to catch. Her eyes got all shiny, like great big melted chocolate kisses, and her bottom lip edged out.

      “I wanna play catch like Treyton and Emma.” The lip bobbled, and I could almost hear the tears making their way to the surface, like a pint-size geyser getting ready to erupt. Haley and Aidan and Marianne’s baby, Helene, had already cried enough that morning, I didn’t want to let another one get started.

      So I scooped McKenzie up and twirled her around. “I’ll help you, okay? We’ll be a team—like the baseball teams on TV.”

      She giggled. “Okay!” And at that moment, I congratulated myself—sometimes, even I can’t believe what a maternal genius I am. :)

      I balanced her on my hip, and jogged back toward the edge of the lawn. We made a big show of flexing our arms and digging in our feet, like the pitchers on television. Tom just stood there, looking really uncomfortable, like he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. He watched Kevin toss an apple to his kids, and then turned back to us. He picked up the little green apple we’d chosen for McKenzie and tossed it our direction.

      It fell about halfway between him and us. So we ran to pick it up and I helped McKenzie lob it back. I thought it was a good toss, but Tom couldn’t catch it. We backed up again and waited for him to throw the apple.

      This time, he tried it overhand and it arched straight up in the air and landed at his feet. He laughed, but I noticed his face looked flushed. I hope he wasn’t embarrassed—do you suppose maybe he was? Now that I think about it, Kevin plays on his company’s softball team, and he’s pretty good. He even tried to give Tom some pointers, but Tom didn’t seem to be interested. Brandon offered to play instead, and let Tom go back and help my dad, but Tom blew him off. I felt he was being rude, and I also was starting to wonder if he was doing such a bad job because he hadn’t wanted to play in the first place.

      So when he finally gave up the overhand and tossed it underhand to us, I picked the apple up and told McKenzie, “Here, sweetie, let’s show Daddy how to REALLY throw!”

      I know he heard me, too, because he scowled, then put on a fake sort of grin, like he didn’t want anyone to know he was upset. I feel bad about it now….

      It’s not technically my fault—and it’s not Marianne’s, either, but just as I let go of the apple, Helene screeched. And when Helene screeches, EVERYBODY pays attention. Tom turned his head just a little bit, to look at her.

      And that’s when the apple struck him—right in his eye.

      The poor guy grunted and doubled over, his hands over his face. McKenzie started sobbing that her daddy was hurted and going to die. That set the twins off, which set Helene off, and meanwhile Kevin had also doubled over—laughing—and Treyton and Emma were clamoring around Tom, wondering if he was bleeding or not. By the time McKenzie and I reached him, and Marianne and Kevin’s wife, Gemma, were quieting Helene and the twins, he shoved us all away and stomped into the house for some ice, my mother in hot pursuit. (She’d never miss a chance to do some mothering.) He wouldn’t even let me help him!

      And now, he just left to go back to Kansas City—with the beginnings of a brilliant shiner. I tried to explain it was an accident. He says he believes me…but I wonder. It’s too bad, really—we’d had such a nice date on Saturday. And now, I think we’re back where we started. All because of an apple.

      Dulcie

From:	The Millards <[email protected]>
To:	Dulcie Huckleberry <[email protected]>
Subject:	Your pitching ability

      Dear Ms. Huckleberry:

      This is Mike Gumble, manager of the Colorado Rockies. After hearing of your remarkable throwing abilities yesterday, we would like to extend an invitation to try out for our team. We have been discussing the idea of having a few good women on the team—it would be great PR, with all the controversy about gender equality in sports. Please reply at your earliest convenience.

      Sincerely,

      Mike Gumble

From:	Dulcie Huckleberry <[email protected]>
To:	The Millards <[email protected]>
Subject:	Re: Your pitching ability

      Dear “Mr. Gumble,”

      Thank you for that…gracious offer, but I am not interested. AND IT ISN’T FUNNY, JOCELYN! SO GIVE ME SOME SYMPATHY INSTEAD OF MOCKING MY PREDICAMENT!!! DON’T YOU HAVE ANY COMPASSION FOR MY POOR, BLACK-EYED HUSBAND?

      Yours truly,

      Dulcie Huckleberry

From:	The Millards <[email protected]>
To:	Dulcie Huckleberry <[email protected]>
Subject:	Re: Your pitching ability

      Oh, come on, Dulcie—Shane thought my e-mail was hysterical! :)

      Seriously, I’m sorry Tom got a black eye. I hope he doesn’t stay mad at you for very long.

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From:	P. Lorimer <[email protected]>