Staff Feature: Laurie Ingram Sibley
Last mom to pick up her child from day care. Again.
Even though she wasn’t actually a mom. Aunt. Guardian. Replacement. But not a mom. And certainly not a timely one.
Two-year-old Logan had been happy enough to see her, but Rachel could read the judgement behind the teachers’ tight smiles.
Hot sun beat down on them as she lugged Logan, his heavy diaper bag—and her failures—to the car. She dug in her pocket for her keys.
“Down!” Logan arched his body away from her and the bag slid off her shoulder and caught in her elbow. Her back twinged as she counterbalanced him.
Finally, finally, she got the car unlocked and shoved Logan and the bag inside, dumping everything onto the floorboards. “Okay, climb up.”
She leaned into the broiling hot car and fastened the straps over his chest. Time to get the A/C blasting.
Logan squirmed. “Tight, Ray.”
She dropped a kiss on his nose. “It’s not too tight. Just right so you can ride home safely.”
Logan kicked his feet in frustration. “Tiiiiight!”
“It has to be a little tight, buddy.” She pretended to adjust the straps. “There. You’re all set. Ready for a snack?”
“’Nack!” he crowed as Rachel dug in the diaper bag on the floor under his seat. She straightened with a wince. This time of day might be the hardest as a single aunt-turned-parent. Picking Logan up from day care after a long day of work, when he was hungry and cranky and dinner still needed to be cooked . . . She sighed and handed him the plastic snack cup of pretzels.
“Fank ’oo, Ray.” Logan eagerly jammed his hand through the flaps of the lid.
Rachel trailed her fingers over his soft brown hair, so like her sister’s. When Becca and Liam were killed in the car wreck, and she abruptly became Logan’s guardian, she hadn’t fully understood what a treasure they’d left her, despite the hardships. “Let’s go home. I’ll start your songs.”
“Songs,” Logan agreed around a mouthful of pretzel.
Rachel swung his door shut and reached for her own. Her elbow jerked as the handle pulled, but the door remained firmly closed. What? She yanked on the handle again.
Her chest hollowed. No.
Desperately, she patted her pockets. But she’d dropped the keys on the floorboard and there they still sat as she pressed her forehead against Logan’s hot window, hands cupped around her eyes.
“Ray!” Logan laughed, waving his snack cup at her. “Ray peekaboo!”
Rachel kept her forehead on the glass as her eyes slid shut in defeat. How could she have—? What kind of aunt—? Her sister would have never done something like this. The only key lay behind a solid wall of steel and glass. Sweat trickled down her back. It was an oven in that car.
“Everything all right?”
She turned to see two teachers heading for their cars. Before Rachel quite knew what happened, a fire truck was pulling into the parking lot, and a small crowd of onlookers had gathered to witness her shame.
Firefighters in full gear poured out of the truck and surrounded her Nissan Altima. One of them took off his helmet. Bright blue eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. “Is that your son in there?”
“My nephew. I can’t believe I did this.” Rachel choked back tears. “Poor baby’s parents are dead, and he’s left with an aunt who locks him in cars. I’m the worst.”
The fireman put his large hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Hey, now. Accidents happen. I’m sure you’re a great aunt. We’ll have him out in no time.” He tapped on the window. “Hi, buddy. My name’s Patrick.”
The other firemen were busy sliding a thin rectangle of metal down between the driver’s window and door frame, attempting, Rachel assumed, to pop open the lock.
Logan had run out of pretzels and was growing restless. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. “Sonnnng!”
Rachel pressed her hand against the glass. “I told him I’d turn on his music right before I locked myself out.”
“That’s easy to fix.” Patrick leaned close to Logan’s window—and Rachel—and began to sing. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Auntie’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”
His voice was warm, rich syrup sliding down a stack of pancakes. The accusing voice in her mind began to quiet.
After a few verses, Patrick raised his voice and sang a question to the other firefighters, who conferred a few paces away. “Hush, little baby, what’s takin’ so long?”
“Can’t get the lock pulled up from the front. Gonna force the trunk open and climb through that way.”
Logan howled.
“Almost done, sweetie.” Her voice broke.
Patrick put his hand back on her shoulder, his steady presence calming her. “Time to bust out the big guns. Baaay-bee shark, doot-doo . . .”
The other firemen groaned, but at his dark look, they joined in, an off-key chorus of doots. Logan giggled, despite the tears standing in his eyes.
In a flurry of activity, her trunk popped open, and the backseat and Logan’s car seat tipped down. Rachel rushed to the trunk as a fireman emerged with Logan in his arms.
She dove for him, weeping as she cuddled her sweaty boy. The bystanders applauded, chuckling as Logan clapped along.
“Thank you for rescuing him.” She turned to Patrick. “For comforting him. And me.”
As the other firemen headed back to their truck, Patrick pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Do you mind if I get your number?” He winked. “In case of emergency.”
“Oh.” This kind, reassuring man was interested in her? “If you haven’t noticed, we’re pretty much a hot mess.”
“As a matter of fact, I did notice the hotness factor. But don’t worry. I’m trained for that type of situation.”
Maybe having a hero on call wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
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Spark Flash Fiction 