by Ali Bryan
Glen and I exchange frustrated glances.
“I won’t be home tonight,” Glen responds.
“But why?”
“I’m going to an art show after work.”
“Are you taking the winter car or the summer car?” I ask.
Glen ignores me.
Wes asks Glen, “Is it your art show?
“Nope. It’s a friend’s.”
“Does he make paintings?”
“It’s a she and yes; she paints space landscapes.”
“With aliens and stuff?”
“No, mostly just planets.”
“Cool.” Wes wrinkles his forehead. “Can I come too?”
“Next time,” he says.
Mrs. Annie comes out of her office.
“Okay, Wes,” I say, “it’s time to go back to the classroom. Remember what we talked about?”
“Yes.”
“What are you not going to do?”
“I’m not going to pick the staples off the bulletin board.”
I throw my hands up in defeat and hurry off to the Senior Olympics.
The afternoon is long. I eat too much at the opening ceremonies and change into pajamas when I get home. I make Cream of Wheat for supper while the kids watch Antiques Road Show with peculiar interest. A cheerful bald man sits at one of the tables with a leather-bound dictionary. When the appraiser says it could fetch as much as eighty thousand dollars he nearly falls out of his chair. The amount flashes on the screen accompanied by the sound effect of a magic wand. Musical stardust. Wes mimics the sound. Uses his finger as a wand. I wonder what Perfect Meatloaf Pans are going for these days.
“Don’t spill on the carpet,” I caution, placing two glasses of apple juice on the coffee table. “Two hands, Joan.”
I am out of glasses and pour myself juice in a rooster mug. On one side there is a red coq. On the other, in bold letters, Bonjour. It belonged to my mother. I took it home one night filled with chicken soup and never returned it. The only remaining rooster in the house.
Watching Antiques Road Show with the kids, I wonder what my dad will do with my mom’s stuff. Her clothes and shoes, her Avon makeup. Most of it practical and none of it worth eighty thousand dollars.
After the last Antiques appraisal, I put the kids to bed and tidy up. The mug comes with me from room to room even after it is empty. A ceramic souvenir of my mother with an extra large handle. She would be so proud I watered the plants.
Wes gets out of bed and tiptoes down the hall.
“I can’t sleep,” he says.
I tell him to come to the kitchen where I’m loading the dishwasher.
“Why can’t you sleep?”
He shrugs his shoulders. I pick him up by his armpits and hoist him onto the counter. He already has morning breath.
“Sometimes it’s just hard to sleep,” I say.
He nods and crosses his small feet at the ankles. His toenails are long and jagged, so I grab the clippers from the bathroom and cut them. I sweep the trimmings in my hand and dump them in the sink.
“Can I watch TV?”
“For a bit,” I reply.
I wrap him in a blanket and carry him to the couch. He is both small and enormous. Little rib cage, big hair. My boy. I put on a kid’s show and hand him the remote.
“I have to finish the laundry.”
I go to my room to fold and divide clothes. Piles jut upwards from the floor like a cloth city. Three towers; I wonder if there will ever be a fourth. I fold the towels in thirds and notice an odour that resembles a tent city. Down on my knees I sniff each stack. Each one smells a little more like bum. I pull out a pair of Joan’s one-piece pajamas. They are striped and covered in obese gingerbread men. I notice a bulge in the leg and unzip the jammies to investigate. I have washed and dried a shitty diaper. Lodged in the left foot, a piece of poop the size of a Timbit. Fuck. I throw the piles of folded clothes back in the laundry basket and kick it down the hall, leave it outside the closet-laundry-room with apartment-size machines.
Back in the living room, I recognize Alphonse Jr. on the TV: his big sneakers, the tattoos.
“Have you been watching this all along?” I ask, horrified.
“He got shot,” Wes replies.
“Come on, it’s bedtime.”
With my hand on his upper back, we walk down the hall together.
“You shouldn’t watch those shows. They’re for grown-ups.” I take a seat by his pillow.
“Why?”
“Because they’re about death and they’re sad. Death hurts people.”
“But you said heaven was a happy place.”
“Yes, I did say that, but death is still sad because you miss people when they’re gone.”
“Like Grandma?”
“Yeah, like Grandma.”
“Is that why you’re always sad?”
“I’m not always sad!”
I stare at my child and he looks back at me. Brown eyes wide and intense. His lightsaber glowing beside him.
“I am not always sad,” I declare, smiling with effort. “I’m happy.”
“Are you?” he asks. “Are you really happy?”
“Are you forty?” I reply.
He shakes his head and I smile again, this time sincerely. Though I’m also dumbfounded.
“No more shows about death, okay?”
He nods and I hold his head in my hands and kiss him hard on the cheek.
“I love you, okay?”
He nods again but I hesitate to leave. Caught up in the wonder of Wes. Of how I created such an odd mix of human. One both observant and clueless. Endearing and completely irritating. This is Glen and I. It’s why we worked, it’s why we failed. The lightsaber glows red beneath his sheet and makes a droning sound, like a bee.
“You know that show you just watched? They didn’t happen to say who killed him … did they?”
“It was his friend,” he says proudly. “His friend shot him.”
“The guy with the green jacket?”
“Yeah, that guy!”
I knew it. I give him another kiss goodnight and close the door.
28
Saturday morning there’s an article in the paper about a man charged for extorting his seventy-eight-year-old mother out of her life savings by threatening to kidnap her cat. A picture accompanies the article. The son wears jogging pants and looks like Chef Boyardee. My brother calls and I share the story with him but he tells me he’s not interested.
I want to swear at him, but instead I just ask, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Emma will not stop crying.”
“I can hear that.”
“So what do I do?”
“Have you tried to feed her? Is she hungry?”
“No she’s not freaking hungry. I’ve fed her like six bottles.”
“Well if you fed her six bottles, she’s probably sick.”
“Claudia!”
“Well? What does Allison-Jean think?”
“Allison-Jean isn’t here.”
“Try to burp her.”
“And how do I burp her?”
“You don’t know how to burp her? Didn’t you ever have to burp Hannah or Liam?”
“Claudia, are you going to help me?”
I close the newspaper. “Put her on your shoulder and gently pat her back.”
I pause, giving him time to follow direction.
“I’m putting you on speaker phone,” Dan says.
“Are you okay? Where is Allison? Are you sick or something?”
“I just need her to stop crying.”
“Who? Emma or Allison-Jean?”
“The baby!”
“Keep trying to burp her and call me back in ten minutes if it doesn’t work. Where’s Allison?”
He hangs up.
That was bizarre, I think, dialling my dad.
“Hi, honey,” he answers cheerily. “I only have a minute here. I’m volunteering at the curling club this morning.”
<
br /> “Sure. Anything new?”
He hums for a minute and then replies, “Not that I can think of.”
“Okay. Have you talked to Dan lately?”
“Not recently. He missed swimming this week because he was busy at work.”
“Oh.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just wondering if you talked to him. What are you doing at the curling club this morning?”
“We’re fixing up the change rooms.”
“Cool. Listen, I was thinking the other day about Mom’s stuff. Maybe we should go through it sometime?”
“No,” Dad chirps. “No, no, no.”
“Okay, so no?”
“No. We don’t need to do that.”
“All right then, I just thought it might be good to start going through some of her stuff. Her clothes and things. You know? Her makeup, shoes. Maybe we could have a garage sale in the spring. Or we could donate some of it. Mom would like that.”
“We can talk about that later. I have to get going because I have the key to the club.”
“Okay.”
I hang up.
An hour passes and I don’t hear back from Dan. I assume he was able to settle the baby. The kids and I spend the morning lounging, and while they strip their beds and build forts in the living room, I think about my brother. The cowlicks in his hair, his fleshy wife. I’m embarrassed that he doesn’t know how to burp his daughter. Glen was at least hands-on when Wes and Joan were babies. Took an hour to dress them, but he had the basics down.
The kids take turns crawling through the makeshift back door of the fort and shout unintelligible things at each other. Joan hits her head on the TV stand.
“Don’t throw that!” I warn, seeing her wind up with the remote in her hand.
She hesitates. “Me go throw dis,” she says, holding up the remote.
“Don’t you dare.”
She throws it. A clear pitch. It sails through the air and hits the wall. The batteries empty out and roll in opposite directions.
“Go to your room.” I point.
She makes a beeline for the kitchen. I snare her midway, carry her under my arm, and put her on her bed.
“DO NOT THROW THINGS.”
I close the door and hear the books empty off her shelf.
“Claudia?”
“Dan?” I head down the hall. “What are you doing here?”
“I need you to watch the kids for a bit,” he says, setting the car seat on the floor. Hannah and Liam take off their Crocs.
“All of them?” I ask, staring at the baby.
“Yes, all of them,” he replies irritably.
“Okay … why?”
“Because I need to go into work for a few hours.”
“But it’s a Saturday. Since when do you work on Saturdays?”
He turns and stares at me with his red eyes. He looks slightly deranged.
“Easy,” I say. “What is wrong with you?”
“Hannah, Liam, take off your coats and go over there.” He points to the fort in the living room. They do as they’re told.
“Seriously, Dan. What’s going on? Where’s Allison-Jean?”
“Allison,” he whispers, “is crazy.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has post-partum depression.”
“She does?” I ask, shocked. “Where is she?”
“At her mother’s.”
“Maybe she just needs a little break.”
“It has lasted for weeks. We have an infant!” He gestures to Emma who has slithered halfway out of her unbuckled car seat. “I have missed a week of work!”
“You’ve had the kids on your own for the past week?”
“Yes!” He throws his hands up by the sides of his head, fingers crimped and full of tension.
“Don’t yell at me! You could have asked for help earlier. When is she coming back?” I take a few steps down the hall towards the kitchen, and look in on the kids, playing in the living room. Hannah’s hair is matted, unwashed. Is Liam wearing socks? These kids look like they could be mine.
“Hell if I know,” he says, lingering in the hall, eyeing the baby in the car seat nervously. “She has a doctor’s appointment for Monday. Can you just watch the kids for a couple of hours?”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course. But you should get some rest or something. Take a shower or brush your teeth. Are you hungry?” I look around the kitchen and go to the fruit bowl. “Here, take an apple.”
“I’m fine,” he says, waving it away.
I shrug and take a bite. “Did you bring a bag for them?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like a diaper bag with formula, bottles, that kind of stuff.”
“I assumed you had bottles.”
“Joan’s almost three. I have a few sippy cups, but I don’t have any bottles, and I definitely don’t have any formula.”
“Do you have milk?”
“Yes, I have milk, but you can’t feed an infant skim milk.”
“Why not?”
“Because you just don’t! She’s only a month old!”
“What about water, then?”
“Holy shit, Dan. I will have to go get some formula.”
I pick the baby up from the car seat. She smells of artificial milk and feet. I allow my nose to adjust and fix her sloppy socks. She jams her fist in her mouth.
“Hi, baby,” I say.
Dan returns to the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Yeah, clean yourself up, will you?”
I am alone with five kids on a Saturday. I feel like a Duggar. It occurs to me that I can’t even go to the grocery store because I don’t have enough seats in the car. I dial my father but he has already left for the rink. He has not changed the voice-mail recording and it’s my mother who informs me that no one is home. Her voice and the tiny body now settled in the crook of my arm throw me. I need to smoke something or eat a whole cake. Instead, I ram my feet into Hannah’s fuchsia Crocs, peel a blanket off the top of the fort on my way through the living room, and swaddle it around the baby. I carry Emma out to the back deck. The cold shortens my breath. I adjust her to an upright position on my chest. My fingertips just fit between her shoulder blades. Wind blows her wispy hair into tall stalks that I smooth down. I kick up the barbecue cover, but the spare booster seat isn’t underneath. Glen probably has it. I consider taking the double stroller but I remember the wheels are flat.
Back inside the house I call Cathy. “Can you come over for a bit?”
“You okay?”
“Dan dropped off his kids and forgot to bring formula. I need to run to the store.”
“I’m at the shop this morning, but I can get out of here. Give me fifteen minutes.”
She talks to someone in the background before hanging up. I can’t make out what she says over the sounds of the garage. Clinking and whizzing. A robot dinner party.
When Cathy arrives in her coveralls and greasy hands, the kids are all playing in the fort with the TV blasting, while I’m wiping crusted formula off of Emma’s face.
“Hey kids!” she yells from the front door.
Wes pokes his head out of the fort. “Cathy! Come in our fort!”
Cathy unties her work boots. “I just need to wash my hands.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, changing Emma from one hip to the other. “I won’t be long.”
She washes her hands in the kitchen sink with PEI red dirt soap she must have found under the sink; I forgot I even had that. “I’m in no rush,” she says. She dries her hands on the back of her coveralls, while I strap the baby into her car seat. By the time I put the seat in the car without its base, Emma is asleep. I pause before closing the back door to observe. The downy hair on her ears that are small and perfectly round. Her lips pale and flutter-sucking. I stroke the top of her nose and shut the door.
I race to the baby section in the grocery store with the car seat weighing down my arm and ba
nging against my thigh. There are ten thousand kinds of formula. Soy-based, kosher, lactose-free, ones with rice starch, ones that fight acne, ones that play music. I buy the one with the happiest looking baby on the label, some bottles, and a package of diapers. The lines are long and I tap my foot impatiently.
On my way to the car my phone rings but I can’t get to it. I put Emma in the back and see it was Dan. I go to call him back but the bag with the formula in it splits and cans of Happy Baby roll underneath the car. I kneel down and collect them and toss them onto the front seat. The Happy Babies are assholes but I still let them ride shotgun.
When I get home, Dan’s car is in the driveway. What the heck? Inside, he and Cathy are talking in the kitchen.
“What are you doing back so soon?”
“I forgot my proxy card at home. I couldn’t get into my office.”
“I just spent like fifty bucks on this stuff,” I say plunking the diapers and formula on the counter.
He bends down as Emma starts to whimper in her car seat, her eyes still closed, and mumbles, “Sorry.”
“You should change her,” I suggest. He stares up at me. “Give her to me.” He takes her out of her car seat and passes her to me. “Let’s go change your bum,” I say grabbing the diapers from the counter.
Cathy excuses herself from the kitchen. “I told them I’d go in the fort,” she says.
I lay Emma in the hall, pull off her leggings, and watch Cathy in the living room open the fort’s side flap and crawl in. Hannah and Liam go around the back and attempt to do the same but there’s not enough room. Liam’s legs and Hannah’s head stick outside, her ponytail draped behind her like spilt milk. They look dejected. They want their mom. The fort begins to move. The roof slips off exposing Cathy attempting to stand.
“Cathy!” Hannah calls out, “You can’t stand up.”
“Now we have to start all over,” Wes whines.
I look at my brother standing in the kitchen. Hair unkempt, a week’s worth of stubble, shirt un-tucked, no belt. “Go home,” I tell him. “I’ll keep them for the night.”
“Even Emma?”
“Get some rest, Dan. I got her.”
He looks completely pathetic and like he might try to hug me, but instead he gives me fifty bucks for the diapers and formula and kisses each of his kids goodbye.