Free Yankee Doodle Dixie by Lisa Patton Page A

made it back safely. It doesn’t make sense.
    Before I know it I’ve let my mind run away with me, conjuring up all kinds of neurotic scenarios. I’m picturing him stranded on the backside of a black diamond with a broken leg, screaming for someone to rescue him. That boy can ski anywhere, and he ventures into uncharted areas where he has no business. Maybe he sped too fast over a patch of black ice—I was always telling him to slow down. That little truck of his doesn’t have enough weight in the back to warrant speeding down a bunny slope much less a mountain. Oh gosh, suppose he hit a moose?
    If he’s in the hospital somewhere he’ll wonder why in the world I haven’t checked on him. What’s the matter with me? Punching in his number, I dial it so quickly that the line doesn’t connect, causing me to have to hang up and start over. My fingers are practically shaking as I dial again. After four rings, there’s still no answer. And then … voice mail. What? He should be answering his phone. It’s—I glance at my watch—7:30 A.M. in Vermont. Uh-oh, that’s way too early to call a chef who works nights.
    Even still, I leave a message trying hard not to sound desperate. “Hey, it’s me,” I say, my voice happy and shrill. “Gosh. I, I’m just checking on you. The girls and I are here. We made it safe and sound. Kissie’s helping me to move into a new house this morning. It’s nice and spacious with plenty of room for guests . Hey”—I lower my tone—“will you please call me? I want to know you’re all right. You know how my head gets going, worrying about things that might not be true. I want to make sure Helga hasn’t hijacked you and forced you to become her boy toy. Now that’s an image I’m sure you’d rather not have planted in your brain,” I say, with a giggle. “Seriously, call me. I can’t wait to talk to you.”
    After hanging up the phone I analyze every word I said. It sounded motherly. Too desperate. He’ll think the joke about Helga was stupid. On the other hand, my lightheartedness might convince him to dial my number. Oh lord, Peter. Please just call me back.
    *   *   *
    Kissie and I drop off Sarah and Issie at Virgy’s so we can be at the new rental house by seven, or at least soon thereafter. There’s a whole lot of cleaning to be done before we meet the movers who are due to arrive around ten.
    After kissing the girls good-bye and shutting Virgy’s antique mahogany front door, I notice Kissie in the passenger seat as I walk back to the car. No matter what I say to try and convince her to stop wearing her white uniform, she won’t do it. I tell her all the time that it’s old-fashioned and completely unnecessary and that I want her to be comfortable when she’s at my house but it doesn’t do any good. She insists on wearing a white dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and a puckered waistband in the back that she’s spent time ironing the night before. Her hose are wrinkled around the ankles, and she wears white, lace-up orthopedic shoes, which are bulging over the outsides of the soles, just as they always have been. You can’t cook like she does and not keep on an extra few pounds—and heaven help anyone who mentions dieting. There aren’t enough hmm, hmm, hmm s in the world to express how Kissie feels about restrictive eating. When she bends over too far, her white girdle shows. It extends way down on her thighs, which can’t help but bubble out around it. It’s the kind of girdle with snaps to hold up her stockings. I bought her a pair of tennis shoes for her birthday three years ago and although she was ecstatic when she opened them, she won’t dare put them on unless she’s in her own home.
    For the last sixteen years, she’s been out at her mailbox waiting on the postman the exact day her Social Security check is due to arrive. I try to pay her when she’s helping me but she flat refuses to take my money. “We are family, Leelee,” she