Noah's Rainy Day by Sandra Brannan Page B

swearing,” Elizabeth said.
    “Again? How many years has that been, CM?” Frances added.
    “Quit calling me CM or you’ll both really hear some swearing. I’ve finally gotten the family to stop calling me Boots and now you’re starting in on CM. What’s wrong with calling me Liv?”
    “Too easy,” Elizabeth said.
    “And what’s wrong with Boots? You are the proverbial ‘boots on the ground’ sort of person and I would think you’d take that as a compliment,” Frances said.
    “We’ll stop calling you CM if you quit yelling at us for calling you Boots,” Elizabeth offered.
    That seemed fair to me. I nodded.
    “And Michael’s cheek? The scratches? Are those from pine needles too?”
    I ignored Elizabeth.
    The roast in the oven smelled divine. I loved Christmas Eve dinner. And Frances was almost as good a cook as Mom. The screen door slammed in the other room. Noah’s body jerked, his uncooperative limbs pulling toward his core, his lips curling into a giggle.
    “Don’t slam the door!” Frances, Elizabeth, and I said in unison.
    Noah laughed. Within seconds the screen door slammed again and Emma ran back downstairs through the kitchen after retrieving yet another tool.
    We scolded Noah again. He never seemed to tire of Frances or anyone pretending to yell at him, as if he had just returned from outside, climbing a tree, or riding his bike, slamming the door behind him. These are things he can never do, only dream about. He’s all boy.
    He was still giggling as Frances stooped to wipe the drool from his mouth. Her knees cracked when she stood, which, for some strange reason, made him laugh even harder. Boys. Boys and noises.
    “What’ve you been eating, Noah? Is Auntie Liv sneaking you midnight snacks again? You must weigh at least forty pounds. That’s why your mom’s knees are cracking,” Elizabeth said.
    Noah was still. His mood had shifted. It appeared he took his aunt’s comment too seriously. I knew Elizabeth was joking but we all wondered how long Frances could handle Noah as he grew. Frances was nothing like me. I must have had at least forty pounds and three inches on her. If it weren’t for the Irish optimism and Norwegian stubbornness we shared, you’d never know we were sisters. Those two traits were instrumental in Frances’s steadfast decision to keep Noah at home, despite the experts’ unanimous recommendation to put him in an institutionalized home. Not a chance, according to Frances.
    And Noah worried about it. Worried about his mom. I had seen it firsthand. Like the time that lady in the grocery store had asked Frances if Noah was retarded. Frances had smiled and Noah had felt bad for her. It had been written all over his face and I had asked him later about it. He had always been an expressive boy. I, on the other hand, didn’t take the comment so graciously, remarking to the lady, “Not as retarded as you for asking such a stupid question,” which made Noah smile and Frances blush.
    Then there was the time that idiot substitute teacher at school asked Frances what she was going to do when Noah got too big for her to carry. What was she thinking, saying something like that right in front of Noah? She acted like deafness accompanied severe cerebral palsy or something. I was so mad. Noah was crushed and worried, refusing to eat for days after that, thinking if he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t gain weight. Instead, not eating caused his blood sugar to drop, triggering yet more seizures. Some of his worst seizures. The grand mal seizures. His reaction to the comment only made things worse.
    Noah concentrated and rolled his eyes up to find his mom. I knew that look, the look of concern he had for his mom. He was struggling to bring Frances’s gray, shadowy shape into better focus with his good eye. He must have lost his contact already. Sometime between being upstairs with me earlier and now. Probably when Emma and I were roughhousing with him, during the tickle torture.
    I