(U is for umbilical and uncle)


When her water broke, Brenna was napping, unable to get comfortable enough for a deep sleep. The trickle on her leg roused her, and she pushed up from the bed. Maybe now the contractions would start in earnest, and this overdue baby would get born.
“Eight days late,” she scolded her round abdomen. “I’m more than ready to meet you.”
Brenna glanced at the other half of the queen bed, still empty. Isaac hadn’t somehow changed his mind and snuck back home. Three months into this pregnancy—she had just begun to show—he decided he didn’t want to be a father. And just like that, she was on her own.
Except for Russ.
Russ was Isaac’s best friend, and then Brenna’s after Isaac walked out.
“You’ll be uncle to Sebastian,” Brenna told him when he drove her to her prenatal visits. He sat with her at her exams, bought her peppermint patties, which she craved, and rubbed her feet in the evening, after a long day working at the greenhouse. She brought him to childbirth classes and introduced him as her brother. She wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted from Russ beyond his emotional support. He wasn’t her husband. She didn’t think of him as a lover. But she owed him for all he’d done for her.
Russ was at her door by the time she had changed clothes and zipped up her hospital bag.
“They’re five, six minutes apart,” she told him.
He rolled his eyes. “Which is it – five or six? It’s important, remember?”
“Probably more like five—“ She stopped and leaned on him, her right hand supporting her abdomen.
After several long moments, she straightened up.
“Bad, huh?” He helped her into his car and made sure she was belted in.
“Let me put it this way, don’t get a ticket for speeding, but get this piece of crap on the road or Sebastian will be arriving on the shoulder.”
Isaac was waiting at the hospital ER entrance.
“What’s he doing here?” Brenna slowly emerged from the car. The contractions had sped up, and she had to pause again before she could walk.
“I had to call him,” Russ said. “He’s the father.”
“He’s a coward and a jerk and I don’t want him around me right now.” She walked past Isaac without speaking to him, her lips set and a frown on her face.
Eight o’clock became eleven o’clock became three o’clock, and Brenna moved into the second stage. Russ rubbed her shoulders, gave her sips of ice water, and whispered words of encouragement, and she pushed, each groan deep and guttural. Her body quivered with the effort. At four fifty-eight, Sebastian’s head crowned. A few more pushes, and he was out. Brenna lay back, exhausted and exhilarated, grinning at Russ. “We need to call my mom. My sister’s driving down right now. Where’s my cell? I’ll text my brother.” She babbled on, giddy.
The obstetrician broke in. “Do you want me to cut the umbilical cord, or does your friend want the honor?”
Brenna squeezed Russ’ arm. “You do it. You’re practically his dad.” Having Russ cut the cord would sever any last tender feelings she might have for Isaac. When he followed them into the hospital, she had forbidden him from entering the labor and delivery suite. “Where were you when I needed you?” She was near to tears. Russ walked him back to the waiting room and left him there.
The delivery nurse handed her a cleaned-up Sebastian, swaddled in a blue blanket, a tiny white knitted cap on his head. He howled with hunger. Brenna, with the nurse’s help, guided his mouth to her breast. He latched on and suckled vigorously.
Russ kissed her softly on top of her head. “Can Isaac see him?”
Brenna sighed. The peace she felt at the birth lingered. “Ten minutes.” Russ stood up. She studied her new son: Sebastian had Isaac’s sweet mouth. “Half an hour,” she said.

(T is for tantalizing, truffle, and tongue)

Is there anything more delicious than hazelnuts enveloped in a thick coating of chocolate? Dark chocolate, preferably. The smooth outside, the crunch of the interior, the slight sweetness of the confection on my tongue—I could eat an entire box, and have on occasion.
The trouble is, the rest of my family feels the same way. No truffle lovers in my house. A gift box of creams stays intact until it goes stale. But if I bring home a dozen hazelnut chocolates from Just So Sweet candies, they are gone by the time I reach for a second helping. I warn my kids and my husband, Hands off. But the chocolates are just too tantalizing.
Toby gives me a box every birthday, but even that present isn’t sacrosanct. I may get one or two pieces to savor with my birthday dinner, but the rest are taken in a post-midnight raid to the kitchen. The family waits until it’s safely no longer my birthday to (over)indulge.
Hide them, you say? I have tried. No cupboard, no drawer is safe. I froze a box once, sure that would discourage the marauders. They were kind enough to leave me one lone chocolate. I guess they felt a twinge of guilt.
I have stashed boxes in the bedroom closet, in the laundry room, in the basement. All found. Putting them under my pillow seems too extreme, even for me. Besides, I would eat them in the middle of the night, drawn by the tempting aroma that reaches my nose despite the feathers and cardboard between me and them.
I admit that the solution would be to buy a bigger supply of chocolates, but frankly, that would probably bring on bankruptcy.
For now, I’ll just have to wait patiently—until the kids are grown and my husband hits the road. Then, I’ll have the box all to myself.

(S is for superstitious, stunning, and sexy)

The four small, round clover leaves, once pliable, now stiff and dry, were pressed flat between the pages of The Hunt for Red October, Will’s favorite book. Hannah found them when she pulled the volume from the shelf and leafed through it. The clover fluttered to the living room floor and lay there between the packing boxes.
“Summer of ’02,” she said aloud, the day crisp in her memory. She felt the lake breeze on her face and the warm sun on her back as she searched the crop of clover for one with quadruple leaves. Will had laughed at her zealous mission. “So what if a clover has four leaves—nothing’s special about it.” Then he gently turned her face toward him. “What’s special is you.”
That day by the lake he said she was sexy, he called her stunning. These were words she never attached to herself, but that he said them must make them true. She did feel sexy that summer, and had her long brown hair cut in a style that accentuated her large hazel eyes.
She saved the clover she finally found, storing it on purpose in Will’s book. She wasn’t really superstitious, but you had to take luck when you found it. Perhaps the clover would keep Will safe.
And it did, on his first tour. He narrowly missed a firefight that killed two of his best friends. Traumatized by their deaths, he was transferred out of Iraq for a time, but the war dragged on and he re-upped. Hannah couldn’t talk him out of it.
“It’s like the Clancy book,” he said. “The enemy’s out there—you can’t see them, but you know they’re there. And they’ve got to be stopped.”
“You don’t have to do the stopping this time. You’ve already given two years of your life.”
Will paused in his packing. “Stan and Jared gave all of theirs.”
Hannah plunged back into her work at the preschool. When Will came back this time, they would start a family. He would enroll in manager training, and by the time their oldest was in preschool, he would be a company vice president.
By mid-fall, the mornings were chilly, and a mist rose in the hollows. With her sweater buttoned against the cold, Hannah pointed out the woolly caterpillars crawling along the preschool fence. “See their thick coats,” she said. “It’ll be a cold winter ahead.”
The school headmaster met her at the doorway, as she marched the children back inside. “Hannah.” The look on his face sent her stomach churning. “No,” she said.
The colonel waiting for her in the school office was polite and respectful, but she wanted him to cry with her. Will had been badly injured in an ambush in Falluja, and they didn’t expect him to live. He had been airlifted to a base in Cyprus, where he was undergoing surgery.
Will died the next day, on a bed thousands of miles from Hannah, with someone else holding his hand. At home, she sat in his usual easy chair. She caressed the armrests and pushed herself deep into the seat, trying to touch some elemental particle he might have left behind. All she felt was emptiness.

(R is for recluse, respectful, rhubarb, and risqué)


Holding the warped board aside, Marvin motioned Brian and Alex through the wooden fence. “Quiet,” he warned. “Old George has ears like an owl.”
With Marvin in the lead, the three boys crept, low to the ground, through the corn stalks, the rhubarb, and then the wooden trellises lush with grape vines and leaves. They kept to the back of the garden, which covered nearly every inch of the half-acre yard, and slid beneath a protective arbor of blackberry canes.
“Watch the stickers,” Marvin warned. He carried a slim backpack. Settling himself on the grass under the canes, he pulled several magazines out of the pack. The other two boys glanced around fearfully, as if expecting to see Old George peering down at them from above.
“We’re safe here,” Marvin said, grinning. “As long as we don’t make much noise.” He reached over his head for a fat, ripe blackberry and popped it into his mouth. Brian and Alex began pulling berries from the canes, and their hands and lips were soon stained blue-black from the juice.
“How did you find this place?” Alex said, finally sated. He wiped his hands on his legs, leaving streaks of color.
Marvin, too, had had his fill of berries. “Ted dared me to sneak in. I guess he figured I was too chicken to take on Old George. But the old man was clueless, so Ted had to pay up.” The matted grass and footprints told of Marvin’s numerous return trips.
“But Old George found you, didn’t he?” Brian inched farther back under the canes until he felt the stickers pressing through his T-shirt.
Marvin smirked. “Not here. He found me sneaking in. He didn’t know where I was headed ‘cause I’d just come through the fence.” He turned solemn, remembering the reprimand his father had given him when Old George brought him home, holding him tightly by the shirtsleeve. He had been forbidden from returning—and bothering “that recluse,” as his father called Old George. “He wants to be left alone. I expect you to be respectful.” The warning hadn’t stopped Marvin from coming back. He’d just been careful, waiting for the old man to hang up his hoe and straw hat, and shut the back door before daring to enter the yard.
“What’d you bring?” Alex said.
Marvin spread out the magazines on the ground, and the Alex whistled softly. Beyond risqué, the cover photos were raw and disturbing. “Where’d you get these?”
“From my uncle.” As the boys gaped at the pages, Marvin was excited by the images but troubled, too. The grownup women he knew were nothing like these women. Why did they pose like this? Why did his uncle want them?
The boys heard the back door slam. When the back porch squeaked, they scooped up the magazines and stuffed them hurriedly into Marvin’s pack. “Let’s go!” Marvin shoved Alex out of the cane canopy and quickly followed him into the sunshine. Brian’s shirt was caught in the stickers, and when he pulled to free himself, his shirt ripped. “Help,” he called. Marvin turned back, but Old George loomed up before him. With a grunt, Old George clapped a hand on his shoulder. His grip was strong, and his blue eyes fierce.
“Stealing my blackberries,” the old man thundered. “Trespassing in my garden.”
“No, no,” Marvin stammered. He was surprised to see that Brian was free of the canes, his shirt stretched and torn. Both he and Alex stood transfixed by Old George. “We didn’t take any blackberries.”
The old man’s eyes traveled the length of Alex’s stained legs.
Marvin opened up his pack. “No berries. Look.”
Still holding Marvin by the shoulder, Old George’s eyes widened at the magazines. He looked at the three boys, their faces tense and wary. What would he do?
“Come with me,” he ordered. They could have fled then, but they followed him obediently through the garden, up the steps to the porch, and inside the house. Despite the summer heat, he lit a fire in the fireplace, and burned the magazines, one by one. The pages glowed red, curled black, and wafted up the chimney.
Marvin was relieved. The magazines were history now—nothing for Old George to show his parents. “Are you going to tell my dad?”
Old George gave him an intent look. “We’ll see.” He motioned for the boys to follow him into the kitchen. Marvin was surprised to see the floor clean and bright, the counters uncluttered. Old George took three bowls from a cupboard and handed one to each boy. “The birds are eating all my berries. You help me pick them, and you can take home what I don’t want.”

(Q is for quickly and quince)

From her earliest memories, Quinn knew she was different. Not like other people knew they were smarter or prettier. But somehow, she could see in a way no one else could. She figured out where her parents hid the Christmas presents because when she looked at the door of the locked bedroom closet, she could see right through it. She found her mother’s missing pearl earring because she spotted it in the sink trap. And she had her pick of prizes at the annual grange carnival because she always “guessed” the right number of items in the mystery box.
Her unique ability extended to people, as well. When she was eleven, she asked at dinner one night, “Papa, who is Alice?”
Her father blanched, coughed violently for a few moments, and excused himself from the table.
Moments before, when Quinn had looked at her father, an image of a blonde woman, slender and pretty, floated into her head. Alice, the image whispered. Alice, it turned out, was her father’s mistress.
Quinn quickly realized she should keep her special talent to herself. At best, it was intermittent, although with time and practice, she was able to depend on it more and more. She could call on it when she concentrated, but not always. If she was stressed out or emotionally upset, her vision would intensify, until the world around her was shimmering with hidden objects and unvoiced secrets.
“Migraine,” she said, as explanation for hiding out in her room until the crisis passed.
And then she met Sam. He was in her Psych class at Rowan College, and she liked his laid-back style and his eyes—one was blue and one was green. At least on the surface, his view of the world was also unique.
Quinn tried to shut her mind to Sam. She wanted to get to know him from the outside in, instead of immediately sensing his thoughts. Yet she remembered the easy unmasking of her father’s infidelity and she feared falling in love, because she didn’t want to get hurt. She didn’t want to know everything about Sam—but how could she stop herself?
To her surprise, her feelings overrode anything she might have picked up from him. It was as though her love was a rose-colored lens, filtering out any negative thoughts Sam might have had. By her senior year in college, they had been together for three years. They celebrated by going to the summer carnival. He wanted to ride the ferris wheel, and she planned to impress him by winning a few midway games.
At nine-thirty that night, lugging a stuffed panda bear, a quince pie, and a bag full of caramel corn, they called it a day. Quinn was happy. She kept the strangers’ thoughts that swirled around her at a subdued roar and let a pleasant tiredness take over. It had been a wonderful afternoon. Gradually, though, she sensed a jarring, repetitive mantra.
“Take someone out. Take someone out. Take someone out.”
A young man brushed against her shoulder, and she knew. “Sam, we’ve got to find security.”
The man turned suddenly, pulled out a handgun, and fired into the air. Dropping the stuffed bear, Sam lunged for the man. Quinn screamed, and the crowd around them scattered. A second shot fired, and Quinn sensed a sharp ripple of pain. Was it mental or physical? Sam wrestled the man to the ground, disarming him by pinning his gun arm behind his back. Quinn’s vision turned red and shimmery, then opaque.
“Someone help her,” Sam shouted.
In a swoon, she fell into a stranger’s arms. Feelings of horror and concern washed over her —Don’t let her die.
He’s praying, she thought. He’s praying for me.

(P is for preening, pretentious, and precious)

Joe cradled the cockatiel in his hands, then extended one of the bird’s wings to trim the flight feathers. His flock of birds now numbered eight, and one pair had three eggs incubating. The birds shrieked and twittered around him as the morning sun though the skylights lit up the aviary.
“Easy there,” he said softly, gently turning the bird and trimming the other wing. The bird’s mate was preening on a nearby branch.
After releasing the cockatiel, he surveyed the aviary. Carey was coming by in twenty minutes, expecting a tour. Would she like it? It was important to him that she understand his passion. These birds were precious to him—they kept him sane. He walked with effort to the doorway and looked back one more time.
He had met Carey a month ago, when she sat next to him at a township meeting. He had come to make a statement about the pending municipal budget. She was there to see her friend’s grandson get a community award. They got to talking and discovered that they had both lost spouses. They both read voraciously, he about the Civil War and she about women’s history. And she loved birds. Joe had vowed to himself that no one would ever replaced Amelia, but he was drawn to Carey’s joie de vivre. She wasn’t pretentious, and she seemed genuinely interested in him.
Joe’s arthritic hip wouldn’t let him go bird-watching with her, but she said she was intrigued by his cockatiels.
But now he was nervous. Twice he checked his reflection in the hall mirror, smoothing his thinning hair. When he saw her drive up, he felt as he had all those years ago, when he and Amelia were on their first date. Could love happen twice in one life?
“Joe, you look pale. Are feeling alright?” Carey wore a peach scoop-necked shirt and tan capris. She looked lovely.
“I’m fine, fine.” He ushered her in the door and accepted her gift of freshly baked bread.
“I thought we might have a slice or two after we look at the birds.” She looked around at the modest living room, and Joe was pleased to see her nod in approval.
The aviary was at the back of the house, in a room that had once been the den. He had built a screened foyer that allowed him to look into the aviary before entering it. Most guests got only that far—a chance to see the birds but not handle them. Joe took Carey into the room itself. When a bird landed on his shoulder, he transferred it to her hand. He pointed out the markings that made cockatiels unique. He told her about building his flock after Amelia’s death. He showed her the nest with the three perfect eggs.
“Would you like one of the hatchlings?”
Carey shook her head. “Thank you, Joe, but I think the baby birds belong here, with your flock.” She seemed to sense his disappointment. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the offer.” Her eyes twinkled. “In fact, I will take one of the hatchlings—as long as it stays in the aviary. That will give me an excuse to come here as often as you’ll have me.”

(O is for octagonal)

From the outside, the two-story twin was no different from its other half – the wrought-iron porch railing, the neatly painted trim, a cheery pot of geraniums on the step – but inside, the mood was somber. Detective Mike O’Neill sighed and shook his head. Another senseless death, another young man who might have been saved if he’d only reach out for help. The coroner confirmed what he already knew – suicide. A neighbor, an older man who lived next door, had called police at two-fifteen a.m. to report hearing a single gunshot.
“Any note?” the coroner asked. He finished examining the body – Hugh Palmer, according to his driver’s license – as it lay, slumped over a desk, the wood stained with blood, a handgun on the floor. He nodded to his assistant to move the body onto the gurney and out of the house.
Mike sighed again. “Not that we can find. They don’t always leave one.” He and his partner had carefully searched the house, but turned up nothing except the odd fact that most of the rooms had at least one mirror and that all of the mirrors were covered with black fabric.
The body had been gone only a few minutes when a young woman shoved open the front door. Mike and Tom, his partner, were making one more sweep of the house to look for a suicide note.
“Where is he?” The woman was crying, her mascara streaked down her face.
Mike broke off his search and took out his badge. “Police, miss.” He blocked her way. “We’re conducting an investigation. And you are–?”
She dug in her handbag for a tissue and wiped her nose. “Renee Palmer. Where’s Hugh?” She grew agitated again and tried to slip past Mike.
He gently guided her to a chair off the foyer. “Please sit, Miss Palmer. Hugh Palmer is related to you?”
“He’s my brother,” she sobbed. “He called me last night, late. He was distraught. He said he had a gun. I begged him—“ She stopped, unable for a few moments to go on.
“Your brother threatened to harm himself?” Mike took notes.
“I told him to stop talking nonsense. I told him I loved him. But he goes through these spells when life seems unbearable.”
“Did you call anyone after you spoke with him?” Mike said. “The police? 911?”
The young woman covered her face with her hands. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Tom came in the room then, and held out a small, folded paper to Mike. “This might be it. I found it in the mirror, the octagonal mirror, in the bedroom.”
Mike unfolded the paper. It was a half sheet, with an inked scrawl in two short lines. The lines ran on a downward arc, as though the writer had been in a hurry.
Renee Palmer jerked the paper from Mike’s fingers. “From Hugh?” She studied the paper, then held it to her cheek, in a caress, moaning in grief.
Tom caught Mike’s eye and raised his eyebrow in a silent question.
“The words to a song,” Mike shrugged.
Just walk away, Renee,
You're not to blame.