Free Sadie-In-Waiting by Annie Jones

in wallpaper fluttered in its intermittent breeze. Foxhunting scenes in vignettes of red, gray and green peeked out from beneath a textured tan background dotted with aqua boomerangs, pink atomic stars and gold flecks. Three whole panels—one of them obviously hung upside down—of a sickly-yellow cabbage-rose pattern on a field of violet stripes had refused to budge. Meanwhile, some seriously ugly seventies disco-era metallic stuff had come off in thin, ragged strips that left shiny bits of silver paper everywhere.
    Staring at the evidence of such mixed and meaningful personal histories, Sadie couldn’t help but wonder about the people who had lived here before her. Had any of the moms of the many families that had sat down to dinner in this very room ever felt the way that she did now? Did those other women of eras past sometimes long for just a little gratitude?
    Recognition?
    Company?
    And what about now? If she went door-to-door in her own neighborhood, would she find a sisterhood of lonely hearts, or would she find herself alone in her feelings, too?
    If other women shared her experiences, she decided, they sure had kept it a pretty good secret.
    In fact, she couldn’t think of a single woman she actually knew ever having admitted to feeling so lost in her own home. Not the older women at church. Not the other moms in the neighborhood. Not even her aunt Phiz, the designated make-do mother figure of the family.
    And since there had never been a subject the twice-widowed, multilingual, single-mindedly self-sufficient archaeologist Phiz didn’t dare broach, Sadie couldn’t help thinking that maybe everybody else had homemaking experiences straight from the mold used on old black-and-white TV shows.
    Hi, honey, I’m home . Corny as it sounded, Sadie would have loved to hear those words shouted from the entryway. And children pitching in to help. No, Mom, that’s too heavy for you, let me get it .
    And the phone not ringing with someone trying to sell them something just as they sat down to eat.
    The silver rim on the good china winked at Sadie in the soft candlelight. She exhaled slowly and picked up a plate from the stack to her right.
    If her family were here, she would certainly have something to say to each of them.
    “For Olivia.” She ladled up a dainty portion. “Regardless of your complaining that the next year’s senior-class commitments commence as soon as the graduating class does—um, commence, that is—you cannot completely ignore your role as part of this family. Got that?”
    The dish clunked against the tablecloth, and some noodles dangled over the rim. Sadie reached to tidy it up, then stopped. Why bother? Who would notice anyway?
    “And Ryan. Dear, sweet, ‘I promised the music minister I’d learn a new piece on my guitar’ Ryan. Earnest, reliable, ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you that I’m learning the piece to back up Amy Furst, and the only time she can get together to work on it is Tuesday and please, please don’t make me ask her to come to our house because have you seen her house? And her parents? You and Dad are great and all, but I don’t think you’re ready to, like, interact with Amy, okay?’ Let’s just hope you don’t get any big ideas of your own about interacting with Amy, because if you think Dad and I are the king and queen of uncool now…” A heaping scoop went sloshing onto another plate, and when she plunked it down, sauce slopped over onto the knife and part of the napkin.
    Clean that up? She thought not.
    “And Ed.” She lifted the ladle as if in a toast to the man who had told her not half an hour ago that he was literally out the door on his way home. On his twenty-minutes-tops-if-you-walk-it-on-your-hands way home, she corrected.
    Pasta and sauce hit gleaming white china with all the elegance of an overripe tomato tossed off a two-story balcony.
    Splat .
    She stood waiting for the sense of satisfaction she thought this futile act of sarcasm would bring. It