1 Chapter 1

1: The Cat’s in the Cradle

Diana

The breeze was perfect: soft and sweet and clean. It had been a long night though—a night full of twisting, turning dreams that had eaten away at her energy and infused her with sadness. She fingered the Gerbera daisies in the crystal vase on her desk…so bright, so beautiful, and yet so darkly reminiscent of the early times…

She hummed at the counter, picking through the daisies, arranging them one by one. They were by far her favorite flowers—the primary colors, the strong stem, the big, beautiful boldness of their design. They had an amazing aura that brightened any space, even the current one. Not that she was complaining. As dreary as it was, they were nice to the children and everyone got along fairly well.

She began to hum as she clipped the ends of the blooms and set them in the canning jar she was using as a vase. The sound of her voice pleased her: the way it bounced off the clapboard kitchen and the stone tile floor, the way it echoed in the air around her. She heard the bubbly laugh before she saw him and turned just in time to see him toddle into the kitchen, chubby baby legs barely keeping his weight, arms extended for balance.

He looked up with a wide smile and big, round eyes and laughed at her again, holding out his hand, fingers pumping in and out, in and out. “What,” she asked him, “you want a cookie?”

He chuckled and shook his head; dark curls bouncing around chunky cheeks. “No cookie? What then?” Again, his hand clutched the air while he watched her expectantly. “You want a flower?”

He laughed and both hands flew together, clapping with glee. She picked out a yellow one, vivid and sunny, like the boy himself, and he grabbed for it, staring intently at the bloom, full of the wonder and surprise that only a child can know. She smiled as he rocked on his heels and went down firmly, sitting with a flump on thick cotton diapers.

Blue eyes sparkled; his smile widened. “Dee-dee!”

She turned her attention back to the counter and continued to clip and sort, sort and arrange, arrange and re-arrange. The sun was bright, the kitchen was still cool with morning breeze, and she lifted her voice to hum again. Soft notes seemed to shimmer off wood and bounce across tile…and she almost missed the first one, lifting her head only when she reached for a pink bloom that she knew was there and was yet, somehow, not.

It hovered over the counter as if lifted by string, spinning playfully. She turned slowly, eyes falling on the pretty baby boy behind her. He sat innocently, arms raised, watching the flower dance for him. Then he caught her eye, grin sliding into mischievous, and in an instant the room was filled with flowers. They spun like tiny umbrellas, swirling slowly and artfully, dancing to the tune she had placed in his head.

Her heart seized with fear, her throat closed with a sudden clutch. God, no, not Doren; not this little baby with so much beauty and so much promise—he couldn’t be.

She rushed for the tiny body, dropping to her knees in front of him. Far rougher than intended she grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “No. Absolutely not. You just stop that, Doren. Stop that right now!”

His mouth dipped at the corners, eyes teeming with sudden confusion. In a single rush, the flowers dropped to the floor: lifeless, dead. Her soul seemed to weep in time to the tremble that started in his lips as baby blue began to well with tears. She lifted him, holding him to her chest, and he wrapped himself around her, clinging to her for comfort. She closed her eyes, rocking, shushing, praying.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. But you can never let anyone ever, eversee you do that.” She hugged him, swaying gently, knowing he was too young to understand, but hoping that the words would find him anyway. “Never, Doren. Never ever.” 2: Send Me an Angel

August

August fidgeted in the hard plastic chair and checked the clock for what had to be the hundredth time. They’d all been there for more than an hour and not a single one of them had moved yet. As if they had all the time in the world to just hang around and wait.

He took a second to let his attentions wander over the rest of the room, also for the hundredth time. So many beautiful people, so many cool ones, while he sat there looking like an overdressed high school kid waiting for his prom date.

But whoever heard of going to a job interview in jeans, for heaven’s sake? In tights? In rips and ruin and leather and pleather, even. It would be laughable if the truth wasn’t so obvious—he was the one who looked out of place. Not Ms. Snake-skin-tights or Mr. Jeans-so-snug-you-must-have-painted-them-on. Not even Mr. Green-hair. Amidst the funky clothing and extra-cool T-shirts that probably cost more than his last week’s pay altogether, it was his conservative navy-blue suit that looked foolish.