We Love Harder When We’re Invested in the Story

          I name my egg Betty and draw sleeping eyes, a little open bird mouth, and little swirls for curls in black marker. I wrap her in one of Mom’s fancy hand towels. As she laid an egg in each of our open hands, our Home Ec teacher said, Believe they’re real. We love harder when we’re invested in the story. Other kids, even the girls, stuck their egg babies in their backpacks. But not me. Betty is tucked next to my heart, where love sits. Because I am invested in the story of Betty.

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          My sister Sarah got pregnant at fifteen. I think if she’d carried around an egg baby, she’d have thought twice letting that idiot Kolton tear off her clothes in the bed of his truck. Now she lives with little Kolton Jr over at that dumpy trailer park on the edge of town. Idiot Kolton’s gone, prancing around town with my second cousin Carla, acting like he doesn’t have a baby he needs to be loving.

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          I’m pretty sure it’s Sarah who calls every morning. Mom grabs the phone on the first ring, shoos me out of the room and closes the door. Sometimes Dad yells Who’re you talking to? and Mom yells Just some salesman and Dad yells I can’t hear you and I want to yell Stop yelling through the door already. But that would mean we’re all yelling for no good reason, and that’s all everyone’s been doing since Sarah left anyway.

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          I wear Dad’s shirts with their oversized pockets so Betty is more comfortable. We watch old westerns and baseball together, and during commercial breaks, I whisper into my shirt how happy I am she’s a part of our family. Dad looks at me like he wants to say something. Mom just shakes her head. Rachel, you have a lot to learn how a real family will wear you down. I put my hand over Betty’s ears. Dad concentrates on the game.

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          Sarah only comes around when Dad’s not home, which is practically never since his heart surgery. He can’t stand looking at her and what she’s done with her life. I think that’s why his heart closed up one day. Mom found him gripping his chest and staring wild-eyed at the ceiling. Now he eases the recliner all the way back and naps a lot. I think we could sneak Sarah and little Kolton in anyway if we really tried.

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          I find Dad holding a photo of us from when Sears had those family portrait packages for $29 with four backgrounds to choose from. He just stared at the one we’d all liked best, sunny blue skies and fluffy white clouds behind our heads. The way he stared at that photo, I thought the sun was going to explode through the top of his head and fill up the living room until we all went blind. That’s what a cracked heart is—the sun exploding, making you feel your way forward with outstretched fingers.

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          Betty cracks and begins to smell. Mom crinkles her nose whenever I’m around and orders me to throw her away. But you don’t give up on the story of love. I yell it loud enough for Dad to hear, too. Love as punishment, as score keeping.

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          Mom hangs up and tells me to lower my voice when I complain she never lets me talk to Sarah. She’s always distracted, twisting an earring or running a finger over the lipstick in the corners of her mouth as I follow at her heels. Can’t we go see them? I won’t tell. I’m like a skipping record. Go see if your dad needs anything. I grab at the back of her shirt. I caught him looking at her. I know he still loves her, my fists clutching the hem. Oh, Rachel, Mom says, pulling my hands off. Life isn’t like one of your school assignments.

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          I dream Betty is a sack of sugar. A sweetness I can lick from my fingers, a love I can taste and swallow.

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          Why can’t we all just meet for fried chicken or something? People are always happy and getting along when fried chicken’s around. Sometimes, I can hear them in the other room, their voices rising and falling, talking over each other. 

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          Betty’s buried under banana skins and cantaloupe rinds in the compost pile. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve heard how Sarah’s doing. Kolton Jr’s probably so big now I couldn’t pick him up if I tried. I can almost taste him, I bet he’s so sweet.

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          Mom tells me she won’t be gone long when she comes downstairs wearing her good coat and smelling like roses. Dad’s snoring, out to the world. I watch her drive off. Press *69 like I used to after Sarah got off the phone, just so I could hear that idiot Kolton huff and yell he was going to kick my ass. The other end picks up, and we’re talking over each other. Come home, Sarah, come home, I whisper, and a deep voice I don’t know whispers, I can’t keep going on like this, living without you.