Chapter 8: My Mother's Ears

Zach Sorenson knocked on the garage door on Wednesday with a casserole dish in both hands.

The dish was covered in foil, and it was still warm.

I was in the rocking chair in my socks with Gus on my shoulder and the photo from the owner's house still stuck behind my eyes.

I had not told Lyle about it.

I had not told anyone.

"My mother sent it," Zach said from the doorway. "Tater tots and ground beef. She says a new mother can't be trusted to cook."

"Your mother knows about me?"

"Lyle told the whole church."

"Of course he did."

"I didn't come to ask anything," he said. "Term one. I remember."

He set the dish on the kitchenette counter and stood with his hands at his sides, a big man in a small room.

He kept his eyes on a spot above the sewing machine.

"I just wanted to see if you were all right," he said. "I saw the news."

"I'm fine."

"You said it into a microphone with a baby on your chest."

"It was in the contract."

"Janie." He smiled a little. "It wasn't in anybody's contract that you'd be that good at it."

I looked down so he couldn't see my face.

Then Gus squirmed on my shoulder and made the small furious noise he made when he wanted to be moved.

"Can I hold him?" Zach said.

I should have said no.

I knew it.

"Term three," I said. "No touching."

"It's the baby," he said. "Your term says me."

I looked at the napkin I had pinned over the kitchenette, still crooked, and I read my own handwriting.

"Wash your hands," I said.

He washed them at the sink for a full minute.

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