13.

Audrey was a momma’s girl. Always nursing. Always nestled in Misty’s arms or in a sling fitted against her breast. Misty pacing the dining room, unhurried, her expression blissful, a Nature Mother in a field, cool grass caressing her toes, stepping so gently not even a floorboard squeaked. Murray at Hanson Mold, being molded. Mid afternoon, McKenna and Toby home after a half-day of kindergarten, Toby with an ice cream sandwich in the living room, watching The Courtship of Eddie’s Father. McKenna, if not stolen away by Toby to race laps around the house, would be sitting at the table, assembling a puzzle. Misty making her rounds, lulling McKenna with her humming, her gentle sway, “Rock-a-bye Baby” flowing like water.

McKenna closed her eyes so that she herself was being rocked, being serenaded.

Now and then, the spell was broken by Misty whispering, “What will you be, sweetheart? What will you be? Audrey the audacious. Audrey the awesome. Audrey the automatic garage door opener. You can be Audrey anything.”

You forgot Audrey the awful.

“Mom, I need help,” McKenna said.

Misty stopped behind McKenna’s shoulder. Still swaying, still humming. “What is it?”

“I can’t find this piece.” There was a hole in the puzzle, a gap in the center of the swimming pool.

“You know what goes there, right?” Misty said.

“Yeah, but . . .”

“It’s water. Just blue. Fill it in with your imagination. That’s what I’d do.” She patted McKenna’s head the same way she patted Snoodles.

Whenever Audrey got the chance, she bogarted Misty’s lap, curling up on it like a kitten, refusing to budge. She purred, “Sing to me, Mommy.”

Even years later, when Audrey and Misty had their epic battle of Flute vs. Drum, it was obvious that beneath the tears, nasty words, obsessive tapping, and flute chomping, Audrey felt unwavering love. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. No one else called Misty “Mommy.” No one even tried.

And it worked both ways. Audrey was the baby of the family, Misty’s clear favorite.

Oh sure, Misty never said it. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not in words. “Do you think I love my pinky more than my ring finger?” she said once, after McKenna, age eight, asked why Audrey always got away with stuff, why everyone had to clean up after her, why Misty loved Audrey the most. Misty held out her hand. “If I lost any of my fingers, my hand would never be the same. When you’re a mother, you’ll understand.”

McKenna couldn’t sleep that night. Even as a third-grader, she was skeptical of the analogy. In the dark, she felt the fingers of her right hand. Clearly, the pointer was the most useful, with the best reflexes. Much more nimble than the others. And what about the thumb? Was that part of the analogy?

The next day, McKenna tried performing ordinary activities without her thumb. She struggled to brush her teeth, tie her shoes, braid her hair. Writing was nearly impossible.

Was every finger equal? Did McKenna love every one the same? Not even close.

From that day on, McKenna noticed whenever Misty gave Audrey a special smile, or she bought Audrey a new dress at a yard sale, or praised the wonderful job Audrey did in brushing her teeth without swallowing any paste, or lifted Audrey and said, “Gosh, such a big girl,” or brushed Audrey’s hair, or took Audrey to the dentist, or told Audrey to “Please stop banging the table,” or folded Audrey’s socks in front of the television.

From that day on, McKenna noticed everything about Misty and Audrey. Noticing, McKenna realized, or decided (she couldn’t tell which), was her special talent. It was the one thing she did well, the thing she did best, and so she chose to do it often. And often. And often. And often.