“Why are you still here, Sheila?” Martha said, as she strode toward the doorway of the dining room to stand there glaring at her daughter.
Without waiting for a response, Martha turned and looked at me. “Are you alright, Shama?” she asked, worry-lines streaking her face.
Focusing on me and ignoring Sheila, Martha said, “I put the boys down in Carlos’ room. They were completely worn out. I started to read them a story, and they fell into sleepy land before I even got to the end of the tale. Is it alright if they both spend the night in Carlos’ room?”
“Of course,” I told her. “Thank you for putting them to bed. I appreciate it, but aren’t you tired yourself?” I asked.
She chuckled. “It’s funny, Shama. I was, but a bit of Willow’s purring and of the boys’ hugs goodnight, and I feel better than ever. Youth always helps us oldies to smile, especially when we have to deal with grumpy, complaining daughters.”
A terrible silence fell into the room at that point. Sheila didn’t rush in to defend herself and Martha made no effort to soften the insult.
“Martha, would you like some coffee or . . . ” I asked. “I think there might still be some chocolate chip cookies in the canister.”
Martha glared her daughter. Sheila was sitting so quietly, it was as if she wasn’t even present. “Maybe a half a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind,” Martha said, giving me a quick smile.
“Good, I’ll be right back. More coffee, Sheila?” I asked, trying to relieve the tension.
Sheila shook her head. “No, I need to get going . . .”
“Stay awhile,” I urged, mainly because I hoped that mother and daughter would talk to each other and clear the air. Already, Sheila seemed less antagonistic, in spite of the dark looks Martha had sent her daughter upon entering the room.
“Well,” Sheila said, glancing at her mother with a wistful look.
I made a speedy exit as I returned to the kitchen, The coffee pot was down to its last dregs, so I took a moment to start a new pot. Then I checked in the canister for the treats I’d made for the boys when they’d issued their negative opinion of the gingersnaps. Sure enough, there were enough chocolate chip cookies left to fill a small plate.
I poured two mugs, ignoring the fact that Sheila’s cup was still sitting on the table. She deserved a fresh one, I decided, but it was mainly because I didn’t want to disrupt any conversation that the two ladies might be engaging in.
I set up a tray, poured the fresh coffee and set the plate of cookies on it. Then I crept back into the room on cat paws of quiet.
“I’m really sorry, Mother,” I heard Sheila say, and Martha was nodding, some of her tension ironing away the stern lines on her face. In fact, as I set down the tray, Martha actually reached out and patted her daughter’s hand.
I knew then, that it was going to be okay. I left the tray and retreated back into the kitchen, giving them their privacy.