by Trish Doller
“Obviously.” She laughs and stubs out her cigarette in the candle again. I make a mental note to get rid of it before Greg sees. “Be careful with those Greek boys, though. They’ll break your heart.”
Except I know better. I’ve seen the photos in the red leather album that tell a different story about who’s heart was broken.
“I have to go to work in the morning,” I say. “You can stay with me tonight if you want, but you should probably be gone before Greg and Phoebe get up at seven.”
Leaving her sitting on the couch, I go into the bathroom to read Alex’s text.
It’s dark out tonight and the sky is thick with stars. I think you’d love it.
I lean against the bathroom wall and close my eyes, trying to picture what he sees. Imagining him at the wheel of his boat as he heads out into the dark water of the Gulf of Mexico. I look out my little window but the sky is obscured by trees and houses. I send a message back, just four words.
I’m sure of it.
The phone buzzes again.
I’m about to lose signal, but don’t make any dates this weekend.
My mouth spreads to a mile-wide smile, as I answer.
Too late. Unless you’ve got plans with someone else on Saturday night.
Buzz.
I’m all yours.
I stand there, attempting to think of a clever response, but my brain has abandoned my head and taken off for the party my heart is throwing in my chest. I’m all yours. I can’t stop smiling as I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas. I’m all yours. I arrange my face into a less incandescent expression so Mom won’t ask questions, but by the time I come out of the bathroom, she’s already tucked beneath the covers of my bed.
Typical.
Most everywhere we’ve lived she’s chosen the best sleeping space, claiming that because she worked, she needed a good night’s sleep. That usually left me with the too-short couch, or the uncomfortable foldout sofa, or the sleeping bag on the floor. That was the worst, especially when it was cold. Although the Airstream’s couch converts to a full-size bed, I climb in beside my mother, something I haven’t done since I was very small. She rolls onto her side and faces the wall, giving me what little room is left.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I’ve got money,” I whisper. “If you can get my computer back, I’ll give you some of it. Just—please?”
I wait, but she doesn’t reply, except for the deep, even breaths that come with sleep. I shift so my back is against hers, stealing a little comfort from the soft vibration of her snores. Except my happiness that she’s here is eroded by worry that Greg is going to discover her in his own backyard, and I can’t sleep. What am I going to do when she’s raised enough money to leave? My life is complicated now and I’m no longer so certain I can just walk away from my dad. And this time I’m old enough to have a choice.
I draw Toot up under my chin and stroke my finger across the soft wales of a brown corduroy patch, the way I used to do when I was a little girl. It’s as soothing now as it was back then and I finally fall asleep.
When my alarm goes off the next morning, Mom is already gone.
“I can’t ask Kat because she’s already left for school.” Phoebe’s cell phone is wedged between her ear and shoulder, as she scoops oatmeal into a bowl on Joe’s high chair tray. He dips his fingers into the steamy mush. “Use your spoon,” she says, before returning to her call. “Are you sure you can’t come home? What about your mom? Do you think she could watch the boys?”
Tucker wriggles off his chair, saying my name over and over until it becomes a string of sound—calliecalliecalliecallie—and attaches himself to my leg. “Pick me up.”
“Greg—” Phoebe stops abruptly when she sees me, and I feel as if I’ve walked in on another private conversation about me. “I just—”
She’s quiet as she listens to whatever it is he has to say. I imagine he’s defending me because he does that. Pretending I’m not paying attention, I reach down for my little brother. As I hoist him up, I groan and strain, as if he’s too big for me to lift. “You must have grown a million inches last night, Tuck. Or have you been eating rocks?”
He giggles. “Yes. I ate a stalagmite for breakfast.” He draws out the syllables in “stalagmite,” with a note of gravity in his voice. I love that about him.
“A stalagmite?” I finally lift him completely into my arms and feign a breath of relief. “You have to be careful not to overdo it on the stalagmite munching, buddy. You might end up stuck to the ceiling.”
“Callie.” His puts his hands on my cheeks to make sure I’m looking at him, that I’m paying attention. “Stalagmites. Are the ones. On the floor.”
I know this, but it completely knocks me out that he knows, too. “They are? Are you sure?”
He nods.
“Well, either way,” I say. “It’s important not to eat too many rocks, because then I wouldn’t be able to lift you. And that wouldn’t be good at all.”
I put Tucker back in his seat, where his bowl of oatmeal is waiting and Phoebe is staring at me. “Greg, I’ll call you back,” she says and disconnects the call. “Callie—”
“I can watch the boys.” I keep my voice level so I don’t sound like my mother. “I know you think I might be crazy and I get that my past is a mystery, so it makes sense that you don’t trust me, but—”
“It’s not that I don’t—”
“Yes, it is,” I interrupt. “You’re their mom and you want to protect them.” Unexpected tears make my eyes burn, and I’m surprised that what I feel is jealousy. Tucker and Joe will always know what it’s like to have someone in their corner. “I don’t know if there’s something wrong with me, but if there is, I can’t feel it. All I know is that I would never, ever do anything to hurt them.”
Phoebe looks at me for a long moment, as if she’s searching for a sign, for that one thing that will make me trustworthy. If she sees something, I can’t read it in her face.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Here’s the deal: my mom fell down, and even though my dad doesn’t think it warrants a trip to the hospital, I’ll feel better if I know she’s all right.” She gathers her purse and the keys to the SUV. “There’s a list of emergency numbers on the side of the fridge. I don’t think I’ll be very long, but if you need any help at all, call Gre—call your dad.”
“I will.”
“Please don’t let me down.”
Her eyes hold mine and I want to promise that nothing bad will happen while she’s away, but it’s not a promise I can make. Bad things don’t announce themselves. All I can do is assure her that I will do my best. That I will be better than my mother. “I won’t.”
“Be good for Callie.” She kisses the boys, then offers me a smile that’s offset by the lines of worry between her eyebrows. “Thank you.”
Phoebe’s SUV is down the driveway and gone when panic sets in. This is different from playing with Tucker and Joe while their parents hover in the background. I don’t know the first thing about caring for little boys. What made me think this was a good idea?
Kat is already in class, but I send her a text message anyway. I’m babysitting. What do I do?
A couple of minutes later, I’m stirring sugar into my bowl of oatmeal when my phone rings.
“I’m calling from the bathroom,” Kat says. “I told my history teacher I started my period. What’s going on?”
“Phoebe had an emergency with her mom, so she left me alone with the boys. We’re eating breakfast right now, but I’m not sure what happens next.”
“Oh, this is an easy one,” Kat says. “Wash them up, then let Tucker pick out a DVD. That will keep them busy long enough for you to clean up the kitchen. Then check Joe’s diaper—”
“His diaper?”
“Yeah, you might have to change it.”
“Oh, God.”
“Not gonna lie,” Kat says. “It’s horrendous. I’v
e been babysitting since I was twelve, and the smell of baby poop still makes me gag. Also, don’t forget that the tabs go in the back and attach in the front. It’ll make sense when you see it. The first time I ever changed Tucker’s diaper, I put it on backward.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s about it,” she says. “Oh, you might remind Tuck to use the potty. He has accidents sometimes. Aside from that, between the television and LEGOs—piece of cake.”
It doesn’t sound easy, but I’m grateful anyway. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” she says. “Anyway, I’d better get back to class. Good luck and I hope Phoebe’s mom is okay.”
I turn back to the table to find that Joe has rubbed oatmeal in his hair, and Tucker spilled orange juice down the front of his T-shirt.
“It’s wet, Callie.” Tucker tugs at the hem, trying to pull the damp spot away from his skin. “I want it off.”
“We’ll put on a clean shirt after breakfast, okay?”
“No, now.” The serious little man from before is replaced by an irrational, whining toddler. “It’s yucky.”
“God, Tucker, it’s just juice,” I snap. “It’s not going to hurt you.”
His bottom lip juts out, and I sigh.
“Fine. Come on.”
Leaving Joe in his high chair, Tucker and I go to the bedroom, where we swap the damp shirt for one with Batman wings across the chest. He scampers back to the kitchen and we finish our breakfast, accompanied by his nonstop narrative about how his oatmeal is an island, he’s a pirate, and his spoon is digging for buried treasure.
After I wash up the boys, I park them in front of an animated movie, do the dishes, and then sit down on the floor with them. Joe worms his way onto my lap and leans back against my chest. There’s an oat still stuck in his hair. As I pick it out, he makes a grunting noise and his face turns bright red.
“Uh-oh,” Tucker sing-songs. “Joe is pooping.”
“Poop,” Joe agrees.
Even through his diaper and little stretchy-waist jeans, I can feel the warmth against my thigh and the smell creeps up between us. I dread having to change him and consider pretending I didn’t notice he’d soiled himself until Phoebe gets home, but if he smells this bad now, it can only get worse with time.
I carry Joe into the bedroom and put him down on the changing table. Tucker follows, repeating the word “poop” and giggling every time.
“Okay, Joe.” I unsnap the inseams of his jeans, revealing his chubby little legs. The smell is even more intense now and my stomach roils. “We need to do this really fast, so hold still for Peach, okay?”
He grins and points at my face. “Peach.”
Tucker climbs onto his bed and starts bouncing, arms outstretched as he proclaims himself Batman, Defender of the Universe.
I tear open the Velcro tabs at Joe’s waist and peel back the diaper. A wave of stink curls up my nose and I feel bile rise into the back of my throat. How does Phoebe do this every day without throwing up? How do I get the diaper out from under him? I think about texting Kat, but I don’t have enough hands available and I need to clean up Joe before I puke. I lift him by the feet and whisk the dirty diaper into the trash pail.
“Mommy always makes it in a ball first,” Tucker says, as he bounces.
I ignore him, swabbing at Joe’s dirty bottom with a handful of baby wipes as Tucker informs me his mother doesn’t use that many wipes and that she always straps Joe down so he won’t roll off the table.
“Oh my God, Tucker, shut up!” I snap. “I’m not your mommy.”
He doesn’t stop bouncing, but his bottom lip pokes out and I feel bad for yelling at him as I manage to fasten the clean diaper around Joe—being careful not to put it on backward—and snap up Joe’s jeans.
“Okay, Tuck, let’s go back out and finish watching the movie, okay?” I smile at him, trying to show that I’m not mad at him anymore, but he looks at me with wary eyes.
He bounces once more and leaps off the bed, shouting that he’s flying through Gotham City. Tucker falls as he lands, hitting his head on the corner of a wooden toy box. At first he is silent and I think he must be okay, but then he lets out a howling cry. I put Joe down and kneel beside Tucker. There’s a spot on the edge of his forehead where he made impact—red in the center with an instant bruise around it. It’s not bleeding, but it has already started to swell.
“I want Mommy,” Tucker wails, his words punctuated by gasping breaths as he tries to push me away. “I don’t want you. I want Mommy.”
He won’t stop asking for Phoebe, and I don’t know what to do. It looks like an ordinary bump on the head, but what if he has a concussion? What if he’s bleeding internally? I don’t want to have to call his mother and tell her I messed up, and I don’t want to call 911 if it’s really just a bump, but how can I be sure?
“Oh, God,” I whisper. “What do I do?”
Greg comes into the bedroom—like the answer to some unsaid prayer—and my brother practically throws himself across the room. In his father’s arms, his sobs reduce to sniffles.
“What’s going on?” Greg asks, pushing aside Tucker’s hair to look at the spot. I focus on my bare feet, my face hot with shame. “What happened?”
Tucker sucks in a shuddering breath. “I bumped on the toy box.”
“What were you doing when you bumped on the toy box?” Greg holds Tucker’s face in his hand and looks first into his left eye, then the right, checking for signs of a concussion. I should have thought of that.
“Flying across Gotham City.”
“Were you jumping on the bed again?”
Tucker nods. “But Daddy—”
“Are you allowed to jump on the bed?”
“No.”
“I didn’t know,” I offer.
Greg puts Tucker down. “You’re okay, buddy. Go out to the freezer, get the bunny pack, and I’ll check on you in a couple of minutes.”
“Bunny pack!” Tucker shouts, his tears forgotten as he rushes out of the room. Joe toddles after him, leaving Greg and me alone.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not your fault, Callie,” Greg cuts me off. “It’s just a bump.”
“Yeah, but I promised Phoebe I wouldn’t let her down.”
He pulls me into a hug and kisses my forehead. “You didn’t let her down. Tucker did. He’s not allowed to jump on the beds.”
“But—”
“Look, accidents happen all the time,” he says. “When you were … oh, maybe seven months old or so, I put your baby seat on the kitchen table. I turned my back for just a second and you rocked forward. The seat fell off the table, landing facedown—your face down—on the floor.” Greg rakes his hand through his hair. “When I turned you over, there was blood on your mouth and I couldn’t tell where it came from. I completely freaked out and rushed you to the emergency room, where I was sure they were going to tell me you’d suffered permanent brain damage and send me to jail. Three hundred bucks later, it turns out you tore that little flappy skin thing inside your upper lip.”
I stick my tongue in the space between my gums and my upper lip and touch that connection. “It’s called a frenulum,” I say.
Greg smiles the way I smiled when Tucker said “stalagmite.” “The point is, Cal, what happened today could have happened on anyone’s watch. Even Phoebe’s.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” I say. “If you hadn’t come home—”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt for you to take a first-aid class so you feel more confident, but you’re a smart girl. You’d have figured out that it wasn’t serious.”
“So, did Phoebe send you to check up on me?”
Now it’s Greg’s turn to look at his feet. “Yeah, well—I’m sorry about that. She was worried, so I told her if I could get away from the office, I’d come.”
Through the open door behind him, I can see Tucker watching the movie, reciting the words along with the characters
as he holds a blue rabbit-shaped ice pack against his forehead. Even though it doesn’t feel great that Phoebe and Greg didn’t completely trust me with the boys, I’m relieved my dad was here when I needed him. Again.
“No,” I say. “I’m glad you came.”
“How about we pretend I was never here?” Greg asks. “Maybe let Phoebe think you handled it all on your own?”
I smile. “Deal.”
He leaves and I return to the living room, settling on the couch with Tucker and Joe. They both fall asleep before the movie ends, Tuck slumped against my shoulder and Joe’s face snuggled into the side of my neck. I can feel his soft breath against my skin. It feels kind of … peaceful.
The ending credits are rolling when Phoebe comes home.
“Hi.” She keeps her voice soft and low so she won’t wake the boys. She peels Joe away from me, kissing his hair as she cuddles him against her. My shirt is damp with baby sweat, but he doesn’t wake as she carries him into the bedroom.
I scoop up Tucker and put him down for a nap on his rumpled-from-jumping bed. He mutters something about wanting to watch the movie, but falls back asleep before he’s fully conscious. Phoebe lifts the side rail so he won’t roll out and gives him a kiss. These little things make it impossible for me not to like her. Her love comes out in all the tiny details and makes me long for everything I never had.
“What happened to his head?” she asks, as we walk back out into the living room.
I tell her, hoping she won’t be angry with me. Instead, she shakes her head and a tiny smile flickers across her lips. “Aside from that,” I say, “and maybe some oatmeal in Joe’s hair, everything else was fine.”
Phoebe chuckles. “If we survive Tucker’s childhood, it’ll be a miracle.” She twists her braided ring around her finger. “Anyway, I really appreciate your being here when I needed someone. Thank you. I’ve been judging you based on your mom and that’s not fair.”
“Yeah, but you don’t really know me,” I say. “So I guess it makes sense.”