Cross My Heart Read Free Page B

moves .
    “ Phillip, c an you please not say that ?” Sarah, Daniel’s fiancée , begs . “ I don’t want Josh picking up those things. Because it would be pretty horrible to have to document his first word and it’s not ‘ Mama ’ or ‘ Dada ’ but ‘ shup . ’”
    The four of us watch as Joshua examine s a glob of oatmeal on his fist, his eyes crossing momentarily. He shoves the entire thing in his mouth, then pulls it out, covered in spit.
    “Impressive,” Phillip says , mouth full .
    “Takes after his uncle,” I say .
    My dad , an older, grayer version of Daniel, si t s down in his chair at the head of the table, scooting it closer as Mom enters with the rolls. I ca n’t quite pin-point when it happened—the wiry, gray wisps of hair and creases around the eyes—if they’ve always existed and I never noticed, or if becoming grandparents somehow triggered the changes automatically.
    “Is this everyone ?” she asks , swiping he r auburn hair (same shade as mine) away from her face. She frowns. “Phillip, can’t you wait for the rest of us?”
    Every seat at the table is occupied, and Joshua si t s in his high chair between my mom and Sarah: a typical dinner at the McEntyre house. There a re seven of us in all. My mom and dad, of course; Dani el, Sarah, and Joshua, who stay in the middle bedroom upstairs; me; and Phillip , who’ s yo unger than Daniel by two years, and two years older than me . A true middle child. We’re nothing if not a full house.
    “Daniel, Phillip, how was work?” Mom asks .
    “Good,” Daniel replies . “The house on Oak Street is almost ready to be painted.”
    She stabs a pork chop with her fork, and passes the plate on to Sarah. “That soon ? It went up fast,” she marvels .
    “Chalk it up to the good winter weather we’ve been having. I don’t think we’ve had to take off a single day,” says Dad.
    My eyebrow lifts instinctively as I reach for my sweet tea. I don’t know what he means by “goo d winter weather,” but the days we’ve been having lately— cold, dark, and miserab le —a re not good, in my opinion. I mean, I’m generally a glass hal f full kind of girl, but I ca n’t remember the last time I saw the sun shining. And since when did he ever take a day off?
    I clear my throat. “You know, Dad, the faucet o n my bathroom sink is still kinda screwed up.” “ Kinda screwed up ” is an understatement. There’s a pipe instead of a nozzle protruding from the porcelain . I can’t get cold water unless I use a wrench, and who wants to brush their teeth with hot water?
    He reaches for his knife an d cuts carefully, tearing off another piece of meat . “ I kn ow , s weetie . It’s on my list,” he assures me, chewing.
    My dad’s the owner of McEntyre Construction. It’s like, a family thing. His dad started it, my dad took over when he retired, and eventually, when they grew old enough, my two brothers climbed aboard. My grandfather could fix anything. He built houses by hand then taught my dad everything he knew. Only, when my dad became president, he adopted a “why do something yourself you could pay someone else to do?” attitude.
    Be cause of this, Mom and I change every burnt-out light bulb; replace d the front steps after Daniel stepped through one, splitt ing it completely in half; and took a flat-head screwdriver to all the windows painted shut by the famil y before us. This is why, ev en after living in our Victorian “rest oration” home (where nothing is rest ored) for several years, I can still only get cold water by using a wrench. And even then there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to tighten the pipe enough to keep the fa ucet from leaking, which i s a pain a t two in the morning, when I awa ke to an incessant: drip . . . drip . . . drip. . . .
    This is why the hardwood floors in my bed room still need bracing, wh y the front living room stay s closed off during the winter ( there’ s an insulation problem, and the cold air