by Amy Matayo
But for now, Alan is crying and Maria is pulling on my leg and Pete hasn’t quit asking for a peanut butter sandwich since I gave him the last one less than an hour ago. And now we’re getting a new kid. A new kid for me to freaking take care of, too, because my so-called foster parents are too busy being deadbeats—angry deadbeats who sleep all day, complain all night, make messes for me to clean up, and only get happy when it’s payday.
What teenage girl wouldn’t want to be me?
Still, someone has to take care of these kids. Someone has to teach them that the outside world isn’t necessarily as frightening as the world inside these walls, even though I might not be the best person to do it. But someone has to make sure they aren’t abandoned. Because abandonment is the worst feeling in the world. It’s itchy, like a wool sweater in a summer heat wave. I know this firsthand. For years now, that sweater has clung to me like a second skin I’ll never be able to remove.
I sigh and make myself focus.
“What’s the matter, Alan baby?” I remove the tray from the high chair and bring him to my hip, not taking the time to wipe a sticky glob of oatmeal from his hands even though it is guaranteed to wind up down the front of my t-shirt in the next few seconds.
“More,” he says in his not quite two-year-old voice, opening and closing his hand as though he wants me to drop more cinnamon raisin oatmeal straight into it. My heart sinks just knowing that I can’t give him what he’s asking for.
“We don’t have any more, baby,” I say. And this is the part I hate: the disappointment that crosses the face of every kid who lives in this house when bad news is passed down, which happens often. Some kids get hugs or high-fives or at the very least a smile to let them know everything’s okay. Here, letdown and criticism are the only things handed out on a regular basis. On cue, Alan’s tiny face scrunches up and a piercing cry like shattered glass is released into the air. It doesn’t take long until my head is throbbing.
“Make that kid shut up.” I jump when Carl Bowden walks into the kitchen, then take a couple steps away. His shirt is missing—the sight turns my stomach though I force my face not to show it. His gruff attitude is firmly in place as he shuffles toward the cabinet in search of a coffee mug, not hard to find since we own exactly three and two are sitting in the sink still unwashed from yesterday. I need to clean these dishes before trouble hits in the form of a yelled foul word or three, but a having a baby on your hip and another hanging onto your leg isn’t exactly conducive to making headway on dirty dinner plates.
He slams a cabinet door. He slams another as I cautiously sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye to judge his mood. Some might consider him handsome in a ruggedly average sort of way with his dark hair and four-pack abs that are the direct result of daily sit-ups and almost non-existent beer consumption. I thought so when I first moved in three years ago.
It didn’t take long for my opinion of him to change.
Now, I spend most of my life holding my breath against the smell of his overpowering cologne, demeanor, and general presence.
“He wants more oatmeal, and we’re out,” I explain, knowing it’s a waste of good words.
“Well, tell him he can’t have any. It’s another three days before we get a check, and I’m not spending what I have left on stupid kid food.” He grabs a mug from the sink and rinses it with water.
I don’t say that he’ll spend the money on lottery tickets and dinner out with friends. Or that oatmeal is one of the healthiest things a person can eat. Or that he needs to spend it on kid food since we are, in fact, getting another kid within the hour. It wouldn’t accomplish anything except to set off his already tenuous temper. And that’s a risk I just can’t afford to take.
“I have told him. It didn’t work, hence the crying.” It’s the snappiest comeback I can gamble, but it can’t be helped.
Carl holds the mug to his chest and takes a step toward me. I feel my breath catch when he reaches for a strand of my hair and holds it between his fingers. He was drinking last night; the leftover scent is still on his too-close lips.
“Like I said, make him shut up.” He looks at me in the eyes until he’s satisfied I understand his meaning.
And I do. I wish to God I didn’t…but I do.
I set Alan on the floor next to a few scattered toys and brace myself for the inevitable verbal torrent—or worse—but the only sound I hear from Mr. Bowden is the stream of hot coffee pouring from the cloudy carafe. Then the source for his uncharacteristic silence walks in bringing a cloud of Marlboro’s with her, and I breathe a rare sigh of relief.
“I can’t ever sleep in anymore what with all this noise,” Tami Bowden says. She’s only thirty-two but looks fifteen years older. A wide girth, permanent scowl, and a hate-hate relationship with moisturizer and hair color will do that to a woman. Mrs. Bowden is overly wrinkled and almost entirely gray. Not too long ago I looked up the cause for such premature aging. The number one reason the website gave was chain-smoking; number two was a bad attitude. Check one, check two for her. Nice to know the Internet is correct at least occasionally.
“Shaye, keep those kids quiet. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. Not that it ever does me any good; you don’t listen, anyway.”
And this is how I start my mornings. Every single day, without fail. My own personal April Fool’s joke on repeat. The only thing that helps is the occasional trip to the grocery store, which always makes me feel guilty for leaving the youngest kids behind to fend for themselves, even for an hour. But until the check comes or Carl takes it upon himself to hand me some cash, there’s no escape.
“Alan was just hungry, but he’s better now.” I glance down to see the baby sitting next to an oscillating fan, shaking a string of brightly-colored plastic rings. Every time the fan makes a pass at his face, strands of wispy hair fly backwards and he sucks in a hard breath. I smile a little at the sight.
“He might be better, but that doesn’t help me get any more sleep,” Tami speaks up, effectively ruining the moment. “I’ll have you know that—”
The doorbell chooses that exact moment to ring, and everyone goes still. Then my feet start moving and Mr. Bowden sets down his mug and Alan blinks up at me and Peter asks for another sandwich and Mrs. Bowden lets out a labored sigh and says, “Hopefully this one comes with his own toothbrush.” That gives me pause, because of all the things she could have said, this seems the most random.
After all, we have toothbrushes. Tami buys them in bulk. I’ve always suspected it’s her way of preparing for more kids, but at the same time—other than this poor kid showing up today—I’m praying this is the last kid we ever get.
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