The daughter coughed and moaned. “Tell Mom I’m
not going to school. I’m sick,” said the daughter to her older sister.
“Sure,” said the sister as she fixed her hair
and put on her makeup.
The
daughter rolled over in the king size waterbed she shared with her sisters and was
soon fast asleep.
The
daughter sloshed out of the king-size waterbed and trudged down the squeaky
stairs of the farmhouse in her bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers looking for
breakfast. She was hankering for a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar. She was
about to get a bit of excitement instead.
The
mother sat on the edge of the bed with her back to the bedroom door and the
chorded phone to her ear. She was talking with a local printing shop about an
upcoming church project. Her morning had been full of getting children off to
school, feeding the cattle, gathering the eggs, and several other never-ending
chores on the small family farm, and it was only ten o’clock in the morning.
Her heart stopped when she heard someone come down the stairs and into the
kitchen.
“I think
there’s an intruder my house,” she whispered to the lady on the phone.
“Oh my
gosh! Do you want to me to hang up and call the police?” said the lady on the
phone.
The
mother had another plan. “Do you have another line? That way I can keep
pretending to talk,” she asked.
“We sure
do. Hang on!”
The
daughter grabbed a bowl from the cabinet letting the cabinet door snap shut as
she rummaged through the large silverware drawer for a spoon. She pulled out
the bin of quick oats and spooned a few scoops into her bowl. As she covered
the oats with water, her mother laughed from the master bedroom adjacent to the
kitchen. It was a strange laugh, the kind of laugh you make when you’re
watching a scary movie and you don’t want your friends to know you’re scared
but you’re really about to wet your pants. Who
is Mom talking to? She shrugged it off. (Since when do teenagers understand
their parents anyway?)
She slipped
the bowl of quick oats into the microwave and turned the dial. While the
microwave hummed along cooking her breakfast, she hunted for the brown sugar.
“The
Sheriff should be there shortly,” said the lady on the phone.
“Oh yes,
that will be wonderful,” said the mother. Her voice felt strained as she tried
to keep up a cheerful appearance. When I
hear the Sheriff coming down our gravel lane, I’ll slam the bedroom door shut
so the intruder can’t get to me. She kept up the verbal chitchat and
continued the charade.
The
Sheriff pulled the cruiser through the snakelike turns of the country road,
entered the straightaway, and poured on the gas. He was almost five miles out
of town hurrying to answer a frantic call about an intruder in a farmhouse. He
turned down the gravel lane and topped the small hill at breakneck speed. He sent
gravel flying as he slid around the corner in between the big maple trees and
skidded to a stop a few yards from the kitchen door. He threw open his car door
and jumped from the cruiser with his gun drawn.
The
daughter in fuzzy pink slippers stood in front of the microwave with spoon in
hand waiting for the timer to ding when she heard the roar of tires against
gravel. She looked out the kitchen window and saw the Sheriff’s cruiser skid to
a halt. Her mouth dropped open when she saw the Sheriff jump from the car with
gun in hand and run towards the house.
When she
saw the Sherriff’s car, the mother dropped the phone and sprang for the bedroom
door. She slammed it shut in a millisecond and turned to make an escape out the
front door away from the impending clash between the Sheriff and the intruder.
The
daughter stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, fuzzy pink slippers, dirty
robe, spoon in hand, eyes wide as saucers. What
is going on? Why is the Sheriff here? Her teenage mind began to race. The Sheriff is about to burst through the
door with his gun drawn. I know I’m innocent, so he can’t be here for me. My
mother has been acting strange on the telephone this morning. What is she up
to?
Just as
the Sheriff burst through the kitchen door with his weapon at the ready, the
bedroom door slammed shut. The daughter jumped at the sound of the slamming door.
And then it came to her. Oh my gosh! The Sheriff’s after my mother. My mother must be a drug dealer!
“Mom?!”
she shouted.
The
mother hurried for the kitchen when she heard her daughter’s voice. She called her
daughter’s name and yanked open the kitchen door. When the mother saw her
daughter standing in the middle of the kitchen – fuzzy slippers, dirty robe, spoon
in hand, perplexed face – she went weak in the knees and sat on the kitchen
floor.
As soon
as the Sheriff saw the mother rush into to the kitchen he understood, and put
the gun away with a sigh of relief. It was just a false alarm.
Nothing made sense to the daughter and
she stood like a statue in the middle of the kitchen. The timer dinged. Her
oatmeal was ready.
“It’s
okay. It’s okay,” said the mother to the understanding Sheriff. “I guess my
daughter stayed home from school without telling me.”
The wide-eyed
daughter came to life and insisted, “I told them to tell you!”
“Nobody
told me!” cried the mother.
The relieved
Sheriff grinned and pulled out his handcuffs.
“Do you
still want me to haul her in?”
Based on a true family story.
