Free Waiting for Christopher by Louise Hawes

of
Mama’s Music
. She couldn’t understand the attraction, didn’t think the book was nearly as exciting as the stories about gorillas attending grand balls, or lost dogs who grew wings, or laughing hyenas who told knock-knock jokes. But Christy clearly had his own opinion.
    He begged her to read his favorite over and over, until she had it memorized.
I have a singing mama
, the first page read.
I have a singing, dancing mama
, said the second.
I have a singing, dancing, piano-playing mama
, announced the third and fourth, across a double spread. And it was here he always made her stop, pointing to the drawing of a round jolly woman who tapped her tap shoes and opened her O-shaped mouth while she pounded away on an upright piano. “Ma,” he said each time. “Ma.”
    Feena was mystified. Could Christy’s mother possibly be a musician? She tried to picture the harsh, loudmouthed woman she’d seen at Ryder’s, seated calmly at a piano, a tinkling fountain of music spilling from under her fingers. She tried, but it was so unlikely, so preposterous, she nearly laughed. “Does your mother play the piano?” she asked Christy three different times. Three different times, he tore himself from the picture, looked up at her with his new-moon smile, and nodded.
    He wouldn’t let the book out of his sight, persisted in moving it to the top of the pile, where he could reassure himself that it was still within reach. When it was time to go, he refused to unhand it, coming close to crying the way he had at Ryder’s.
    They had to pass the circulation desk on the way out, and the librarian, who had obviously spotted Christy’s puckered countenance, stopped them. “Why don’t I check those out for you?” she offered, not unkindly. But Feena told her they couldn’t, that she’d forgotten her library card.
    “I can look it up,” the woman said, smiling at Christy, who hugged
Mama’s Music
and two other oversize picture books to his chest. “I’d hate to lose such an eager reader.”
    Feena didn’t like lying, knew she was pretty lousy at it. She persevered, though, on the theory that practice would make her better. “Actually, I don’t think the card’s on record,” she said, stalling for time. “We just moved here from out of state, and I’ve been using my aunt’s old one.” She lowered her eyes. “It’s expired.”
    “Oh.” The librarian’s sharp intake of breath and hushed tone suggested she understood how much such a confession must have cost Feena. “Well, why don’t I just make a new one for her?”
    Feena panicked. “You can’t,” she said, swallowing hard, thinking fast. “She died.”
    “I see.” The librarian looked at the two of them as if they’d been orphaned. “I’m so sorry.” Then she brightened. “How old are you?” she asked.
    “Fourteen.” It was a relief to say this one true thing.
    “Then I’ll just issue
you
a card. You can take the books home now and come in tomorrow with a proof of address. How would that be?”
    Feena looked at Christy, crushing the three books against the lace front of his jumper as if he’d never let go. “Okay,” she agreed. She sighed as the woman pulled out a form, then leaned across the desk.
    “Name?”
    “Jane,” Feena told her, inspired. “Jane Rochester.”
    Before lunch, they went back to the Pizza Hut. Feena had run out of money and decided to ransack the house for loose change. She found four dollars in quarters and nickels, most of it in the pockets of her mother’s cream-colored linen jacket, the one Lenore claimed went with everything. Thankfully, it didn’t go with whatever she’d put on that morning.
    Christy and Feena ate the little hot dogs at the playground, which was empty now, except for a large man who stood behind the swings, shading his eyes with one hand. Feena worried that he might be an undercover cop, like the ones on TV, but after a while, he turned and walked back to the mall. Probably a clerk on break, she