She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

She goes to work on the eggs as if she hasn’t eaten in weeks.

  * * *

  At least someone’s grateful. I fill her water bowl and set it down beside her feeding frenzy. “Next time, try not to piss on the floor, how ’bout it?” She stops eating, gazes up at me with her big eyes and tilts her head. She’s a good dog. “Or, hell, just piss on the floor. I’ll clean it up. My bladder is pea-sized too.” She goes back to wolfing down her food.

  Finally, I step up the stairs and peek into Chloe’s room.

  She’s wearing a feather boa around her neck, watching herself in the flimsy floor mirror. She does a quick, little tippy-tap dance with her chubby feet, then strikes a pose for herself, throwing her arms out like a scarecrow and sticking out her tongue.

  I shudder, filmy with sweat. Someone walked on your grave.

  That pose, it’s eerily familiar.

  Ava.

  Ava strikes a similar pose in her YouTube video.

  So what? It doesn’t mean anything. Of course it doesn’t. Little kids are silly and expressive. It’s not even the same pose. Ava balanced on one foot, her body teetering, leaning to the side.

  Still, the association is grotesque.

  No one walked on my grave. It was more like Chloe tippytap-danced on Ava’s grave. Or maybe it felt like they were dancing together.

  12

  PUSSY PUSS

  I drive to my babysitter’s house, park haphazardly and crooked in her driveway, and briskly gather Chloe and her daycare bag.

  Walking into Jill’s house, I immediately notice something new.

  He is mid-twenties, attractive, and athletic. He sits on the ground, legs crossed like a kid, building Legos with Dawson and Mandy.

  Chloe stiffens to throw my balance off and break free of my clutches. She wiggles and shimmies down my body and runs over to join them.

  “Who’s this?” I ask Jill.

  “My son, Zach,” Jill says, all delight and serendipity. “He’s in town for the week, visiting for a friend’s wedding.”

  From the floor, Zach smiles at me. Kind eyes. Killer smile. Only problem is, I have been incessantly reading about kidnappings and child predators. Every night after the kids fall asleep, I’m online four or five hours, chewing the wet doughy skin edging my fingernails.

  Who are your child predators? I can tell you. They are family members, stepfathers and uncles. Women, too, but come on, let’s face it: it’s men who are more often fucked in the head. More geniuses, more psychos. Yin and yang.

  Who should you worry about most? Men who enjoy the company of children. This seems harsh until you think about it. Who the hell really enjoys playing with kids? Parents do it only because they are obligated.

  OK, that’s not entirely true. It’s occasionally entertaining. And parents love their kids. More than those reasons, they do it because they want their kids to end up emotionally stable, capable, and intelligent.

  But if you’re not the parent and no one’s paying you, why would you want to hang out with a small child? It’s exhausting. Like doing a comedy act in an insane asylum while you’re frying eggs and vacuuming shattered glass.

  I pull Jill aside. “So, he’s here all day with you?”

  “This whole week! Isn’t it wonderful? He loves kids.”

  Phenomenal.

  “Chloe, I forgot your muggle in the car.” Muggle is our word for pacifier. I can’t remember how that one happened. “Come here, baby.”

  I scoop Chloe up and out we go. I buckle Chloe in and, when she protests, I tell her I forgot it was a special day. I call my mom. When she says she has the day off and of course she’ll watch Chloe, I cross myself, forehead to chest, left and right.

  Chloe whines. “Take me back. I want to play with the big kid. I want to build Legos. Take me back. You a nasty momma. I’m gonna teach you a lesson.”

  “Chloe, quit being a sour puss. You’re acting like Oscar the Grouch.” Negativity isn’t a good parenting technique, but tell me she doesn’t deserve it.

  At a stop light, I call work and tell them I’m going to be late. I am worried about getting fired, but I also occasionally fantasize about it. I have a college degree and make ten fifty an hour.

  From the backseat, Chloe yells, “Mom, you’re like Oscar. You’re being a pussy puss.”

  Don’t engage. I bite my bottom lip.

  Can I avoid calling Jill?

  No.

  Shit.

  I put my earbuds back in and call.

  Make up an excuse.

  You’re too old to waste energy on excuses.

  She picks up on the first ring. “Grace, what happened?”

  “Sorry, Jill. I didn’t mean to walk out without explaining, I didn’t mean to behave rudely, but I want a female, mom-run daycare environment.”

  “What?” she says, but knows what I’m insinuating because hostility edges her voice.

  “I’m sure your son is an amazing human being, the best, he is probably going to cure disease and solve world hunger. I’m not joking. I’m sure he is a far better person than I am, but I’m just sticking to statistics here. I don’t want my daughter spending all day with any adult males besides her father.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My son is a generous, compassionate person.”

  Of course this is what all mothers say about their sons before they get sentenced to prison. Hell, mothers say it when their sons are in prison.

  “I have a son too, Jill. Wyatt is amazing and precious and brilliant with little kids, but if some mom doesn’t want him babysitting their kid because he’s a boy, as much as that breaks my heart and maybe his heart, I get it. Everyone is looking out for their own kid, you know?”

  Silence for a beat, then her voice crackles loud with static, “You are the only mother who has ever, ever said anything like this to me.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m looking at statistics.”

  “You know what? I don’t think I can watch Chloe anymore.”

  “She’s my kid, Jill. She’s three.” I end the call and pull into my mom’s driveway.

  From the backseat, “You are a pussy, Mom.”

  I am so not a pussy. I want to tell her, but figure saying the word “pussy” might solidify it into her growing vocabulary. So I do the one thing that deflates conflict: I agree. “You’re right. Keep it between me and you, okay, kiddo?”

  I open Chloe’s door. She’s wearing a different face than the one she was wearing when I put her in. “What’s all over your face?”

  “I’m a tiger,” she says and holds up a Sharpie.

  I unbuckle Chloe, and she wiggles out of her seat. She hops out of the minivan and runs toward my mom, who’s waiting in the frame of her open door.

  My mom squints her eyes to make out Chloe’s face. “What happened?”

  “She got hold of a Sharpie while being buckled tight into a five-way harness. She’s a magician maybe.”

  “No,” Chloe says. “I’m a tiger.”

  “That’s what I thought!” my mom says. “You look exactly like a tiger,” which earns my mother a big wrap-around-theleg hug of appreciation.

  “What would I do without you, Mom?”

  “Without me, you wouldn’t have been born.”

  “Succinct.” I kiss her cheek and inhale her scent. Floral, stale coffee, a hint of sour cheese. When I was a teenager, her smell made me queasy. Now it loosens my back muscles and makes me sleepy.

  “I want a lollipop, and Mom’s a pussy,” Chloe yells and runs down the hallway, her feet bare. Where are her shoes?

  My mom’s eyebrows go up.

  I shrug. “I made the mistake of calling her a sour puss.”

  13

  A FUCKING MARBLE IN THE MOUTH

  For being late to work, I get condescending you-are-not-worthy-to-work-with-these-genius-three-year-olds glares from two female supervisors sipping from ceramic mugs and sitting behind the glass wall of the front office.

  As I walk into my classroom, Liz smiles
at me and says in her enthusiastic-teacher voice, “We got to do circle time together, Miss Grace!” The kids don’t notice her sarcasm; they only hear sugar. “And we are getting ready to eat snack together, Miss Grace! All fifteen of us! We brought all of our chairs into your classroom. Can you imagine how fun that was?”

  Liz’s class is next door. Our rooms share a miniature bathroom with a miniature toilet and miniature sink. Bathroom doors leading to both classrooms are always kept open unless someone is using the toilet, and even then sometimes a door is left open. Our three-year-olds combine for music class and playground time, and Liz and I cover for each other. At sixty-five, Liz is the oldest teacher who works this insane asylum. She is the teacher most requested by parents because, according to her, she oozes wisdom and goodwill.

  I once told her, “Nah. You just remind them of their granny. Everyone loves their grandma.”

  To which she replied, “If you need to tell yourself that to explain your glaring lack of requests, you go right ahead, hon.”

  “Hey, that kind of hurts.”

  “Shit looks worse on your own spoon than when you were dishing out.”

  “Wow. Patronizing and disgusting in the same sentence. And yet, I still want to hug you.”

  “That’s because I’m fat, bitch.”

  In all honesty, I don’t want to get fired. And I don’t work here only for health benefits. I adore Liz. She is a dependable person in my life, a source of humor, a constant.

  I even enjoy the view of her. She doesn’t throw an outfit together; she is one of those women who wears ensembles. Today she’s wearing sleek black pants, one-inch heels, and a black blouse with splashes of large white and red flowers. Her earrings and necklace are eye-catching, but not gaudy. Her eyes are playful. Her dark skin glows. She is a lovely sight.

  I say, “Good morning, children, and thank you, Miss Liz, for being here on time.” I drop my purse on the counter and wash my hands. “You’re the best, Miss Liz.”

  “I am the best,” she says, hands on hips, smile wide open.

  Elsie marches up to Liz. “You are the best, Miss Lizzy.” Students giggle and declare who they think is the best, from their dads to Mickey Mouse to their baby sister’s diaper.

  Some three-year-olds are washing their hands, some are already sitting in their miniature chairs at a long rectangular table, fidgeting and waiting for grub. The bathroom door is wide open, and Mateo sits on the toilet with his pants around his ankles and his left shoe untied, laces dangling. He’s talking with Ivy, who sits on the floor inches outside the bathroom door, trying to get her foot back into her shoe.

  I jump in, helping with hand-washing and shoelaces. “Abbie,” I say, “you are doing a great job pouring today.” Abbie pours water from a small plastic pitcher into kids’ tiny Dixie Cups. Liz sets graham crackers onto paper plates.

  The kids are noisy and wacky and sweet, and it makes me miss Chloe. I enjoy these children, but would rather spend my time with my own three-year-old. Hamilton Academy has a no-way-in-hell-will-we-let-you-teach-your-own-kid policy. I couldn’t afford to have Chloe in this school anyway.

  Abbie hands me the miniature pitcher, I thank her, and she sits next to Shamus to join the cracker feast.

  Abbie has these eye-catching ponytail holders: a single shiny red marble attached to a black rubber band, which loosely holds a pigtail on each side of her head. So loosely I’ll bet my day’s salary those ponytail holders will be on the floor before craft time.

  Shamus, eyeing Abbie’s hair, discreetly slides her ponytail holder from her hair and puts it directly in his mouth.

  “Shamus, take that out of your mouth right now,” I say, calm yet firm.

  He shakes his head: no.

  Abbie’s hand goes to her hair. She searches the ground around her chair for her ponytail holder, oblivious to it being inside Shamus’s mouth.

  I sympathize with Shamus. Girls get all the sparkly, interesting clothes and accessories. Nevertheless, I move quickly toward him. I know he doesn’t actually think it is food, but social norms can be challenging for him. And, a marble in the mouth is still a fucking marble in the mouth.

  “It’s not food and it’s not safe for mouths. Take it out now.” I hold my open palm under his chin.

  He pushes his tiny chair back to make a run for it, but trips onto all fours.

  Please don’t let him swallow it.

  I run around to his chair. His eyes are wide-open, shocked. He’s not coughing, not speaking, his lips are parted. His open-mouthed silence is terrifying.

  “Liz! Call 911!” I say, my voice rising.

  Her dress shoes quickly tap tap tap toward the landline mounted on the wall. Our policy is call first, ask later. With noise and activity abound, she might not even know what happened.

  I already have my arms around Shamus, my hands between his belly and sternum. I clasp my fist with my other hand and I yank back and up.

  Nothing happens.

  I do it again, harder. Hard enough I worry about breaking a rib.

  He throws up graham cracker mush. Something pings the linoleum, and I spot the marble. One long second of silence before he breaks into a coughing fit.

  I crouch in front of him, and my kneecaps crash painfully onto the floor. I hold his shoulders and inspect his face. His skin is splotchy and red. His coughing is tapering off, but his crying is gaining momentum.

  “It’s OK, kiddo.” I pull him into a hug. Wet mushy vomit soaks into my shirt. He smells of graham crackers and snot and chicken nuggets. To my nose, all children faintly smell of breaded, processed chicken. I pull back to check his face again. I hold his sweaty-hair head. He’s crying, but his crying isn’t irritating, it’s refreshing because he couldn’t make all that goddamn noise if he wasn’t breathing.

  I say, “That was scary, wasn’t it?”

  He says something, but a sharp pain explodes deep inside my head. His mouth is moving, Liz’s mouth is moving, but there’s no sound. My pulse is pounding brilliantly behind my eyes.

  I let Shamus go and carefully sit in his miniature chair. I close my eyes and lower my head—as if it were a fragile, flaking wasp nest—into the cradle of my arms.

  Children. One way or another, they will be the death of me.

  Liz’s warm palm slides across my back. Her feminine, older scent bathes my senses. Powdery perfume and a hint of Vagisil. She smells like love.

  My hearing comes back online abruptly, as if I had been underwater and I am now emerging. Some kids are crying. Several teachers are inside my classroom, talking in that hushed tone reserved for emergencies.

  An ambulance siren blares at a steady, incredibly loud decibel. Its volume isn’t getting louder or quieter. It must be parked outside the building. I lift my head as two paramedics walk briskly into the classroom.

  14

  OH, THAT KIND OF MONSTER

  The paramedics spend more time with me than Shamus. My pulse and blood pressure are on the high end of normal. They ask me questions. I answer in the semi-truthful way a person does when they want to avoid a trip to the hospital. I do not mention bat scratches, rabies vaccines, neurostimulants, stress-induced insomnia, or sleepwalking. This information may be relevant, but seems like it could cost me my job.

  The middle-aged paramedics, a woman and man, both have ponytails drooping down their backs like raccoon tails, fatty sacs under their eyes, and the puffy faces and bellies of alcoholics. They look like they’ve been on a hotdog-and-beer diet for years, but their professionalism, stamina, and alertness remind me that something about me isn’t quite right. Either I inherited the worst possible combo of Mom and Dad’s DNA or ate too much flaked lead paint as a toddler. There has to be some explanation for my subpar brain function.

  My semi-truthful answers pass their litmus tests. They advise me to see an auditory specialist, then pack up an array of mostly unused supplies. In the classroom’s miniature bathroom, with the doors closed, I throw away my vomit shirt (an outdated, crummy sh
irt not worthy of washing), clean myself up, and pull on a T-shirt.

  The day proceeds at a calmer volume and pace than usual.

  Hours later, after the children have been collected and taken home, I head to the front office. Incidents related to child safety must be documented.

  Liz is already there, coffee in hand, telling the story of Shamus and the red marble ponytail holder to several wide-eyed teachers. Liz is not gossipy or calculating. They had probably asked; she was just answering their question.

  Liz looks at me, deadpan. “You were a monster, Grace.”

  “What?” Maybe my hearing is still malfunctioning. Even so, I feel like a wounded animal, defensive and exposed.

  “A damn superhero,” she says.

  Oh, that kind of monster.

  She says, “Your reaction time was insane. You moved so fast. That Heimlich was the shit.”

  “Says no one ever.” Melanie. Quick-witted, she always draws a laugh. She’s fair-skinned with a powdering of freckles. Her hair is auburn and shaped with intent. Her makeup never smears or vanishes like mine.

  Come to think of it, most of the women I work with seem to wear non-smearing makeup. I need to ask what they buy. As a group, my co-workers are well-manicured, professional, organized, friendly, and attractive. All of them. Even the ones that don’t wear ensembles or polish their nails. I’m lucky to work with such pleasant, conscientious women. Or maybe they’re lucky to work with me because I prop them up.

  “We’ve been trained so many times,” I say. “I guess it’s a muscle memory thing.”

  Melanie says, “Grace, you look good. You’ve lost weight.”

  It’s true, I’m down five pounds in less than a week. Not a healthy pace, I know.

  A ball of nerves. That’s what comes to mind. You are a ball of nerves, Grace Wright.

  “What I’m losing is my mind,” I say.

  A few of them laugh because they think I’m joking. Liz gives me a quizzical look.

  Jazmine says, “Liz told us you felt dizzy and had some issues with your hearing. Do you feel back to normal now?” Jazmine wears her dark hair in two immaculate French braids. Like her hair, she is a perfect balance of sugary sweet and stern.