The Baby Race

by Tara Wylde

  Still. Christmas comes first. One set of sky-high expectations at a time.

  As soon as I’m positive Katie’s not looking, I go through Lina’s pockets. There’s a pack of spearmint gum, a tin of no-nonsense cough drops, an old bus transfer, and—paydirt!—a card with Cyrillic script framing a steaming plate of food. There’s an address in English, and a phone number underneath.

  I flip the card over. Scrawled on the back, I find Mon AM; Weds AM, Thurs-Sat PM.

  It’s a schedule—her shift schedule? This has to be where she works.

  Monday AM, huh? I could swing by tomorrow for lunch. The coat’s the perfect excuse. She’s got to be missing that by now.

  Then again, maybe—

  Katie skates up behind me and throws her arms around my waist. “Race me, Dad!”

  “Aw, no, don’t make me—“

  But she’s already away. I take off after her. Her skates barely seem to touch the ice. I feel like a bear lumbering after a cheetah. Still, it feels good to stretch my legs, and by the time Katie’s looped all the way round and come up behind me again, I’ve decided on borscht for lunch tomorrow.

  There were two of us in that car, and from my perspective, we had a great time. If she felt differently, I want to know. If she didn’t....

  Hell, I just want to see her again. It’s been a while since I did something crazy. And, more than that, I felt something. Those few seconds in her arms, outside the Happy Bean—it felt like coming home. Felt like getting something back that I didn’t even know I was missing. I’ve got to find out if that was twelve years of grief catching up with me at once, or...or a genuine moment of understanding.

  “Why are you carrying that around?” Katie’s eyeing up Lina’s coat again.

  “Forgot my gloves. It makes a pretty sweet muff.”

  “Ugh, Dad! Don’t say ‘muff!’”

  Where’d she learn to be offended by that? “Fine. It makes a pretty sweet...hand-warmer. And people will think you have a vulgar mind if you get grossed out by proper words used in their proper contexts.”

  “People will think you have a vulgar mind.”

  “Come on. Don’t start that.”

  “Come on. Don’t start that.”

  I zip my lips. Katie can do the let’s-copy-Dad thing for hours.

  She conks out on the couch the second we get home. Poor thing must’ve been up all night. I toss a quilt over her and head for my study.

  Concentrating on work proves tougher than expected. I find myself indulging in the kind of time-wasting crap I look down my nose on other people for: a quick peek down the Facebook rabbit hole is on the verge of becoming a full-on spelunking expedition, when it occurs to me to investigate what Katie might’ve said about me on Twitter.

  @gardengnomeparty * 3h

  my dad has old popcorn in his hair and doesnt even know trollolol

  @gardengnomeparty * 3h

  @cinnndyboohoo my dad says u r noveau rich too haha

  @gardengnomeparty * 1h

  skaaaaaating wohoo! thanks dad ur cool for ur age

  Can’t believe I’m getting misty over that. Not that she thinks I’m cool for my age, but that she wasn’t actually badmouthing me in the car. A quick scroll through her feed reveals nothing more than a sweet kid having fun with her friends. Good.

  I should check out the contacts on her phone again. Make sure I still know everyone on there.

  I should check out the contacts on my phone.

  Takes me a few seconds to remember I put zzz in front of all my friends’ names, so they’d drop to the bottom of the list, out of the way of work stuff. The words fucked-up priorities come to mind. I stuff them back down. Not fucked up: practical. Normal. Everyone—

  —and there it is, zzzMark, automatically transferred from phone to phone for the last decade plus. I used to call it sometimes, before his plan expired and the number went out of service. I can still hear the message, if I concentrate: You’ve got Mark Carter. I’m clearly not here. I can see your name in my missed calls, so don’t leave a message unless it’s important.

  I have a vague memory of screaming “Come the fuck back! Is that important enough?” into his mailbox, about a month after he...did what he did.

  A couple of months after that, I called to hear his message and got a “this number is out of service” robot.

  On the first anniversary of his death, I called and got someone else. That was the worst.

  I hover my thumb over his contact, not sure what I’m planning to do—call it? Delete it? Add more zs to the front, till it plunges so deep into bottom-of-the-list hell I’ll never stumble across it again?

  I end up keying in another number, instead, the one from Lina’s business card. Maybe she’ll have a Sun PM scheduled. I could use a friendly voice. I could—

  An aggressive male voice barks something in a language I assume to be Russian.

  “Uh, yeah—hi—you wouldn’t happen to speak English?”

  “English, yeah. What you want?’

  “I’m calling for Elina; not sure if she’s—“

  “I told you once, I told you a thousand times: lose this number!” The guy slams down the phone hard enough I’d swear I feel the vibration on my end.

  Wonder who pissed in his Cheerios?

  I scroll through the rest of my contacts, but there’s no one else I feel like talking to. Not even sure who half these people are.

  Would it be a total dick move to wake Katie up so I don’t have to be alone?

  Yes. Yes, it would.

  128

  Elina

  Should’ve called in sick. Almost did: haven’t had a lazy day of blanket forts and Hungry Hungry Hippos with Joey since...shit; the leaves were still green, my last full day off. He’s been whiny the last few mornings, not wanting to let me go. Hate having to choose between giving him Christmas or giving him every other day of the year.

  Can’t even ask which he’d prefer. Can’t let him live in a world where he knows it’s one or the other.

  At least Mama still had my old bike, rusted all to hell and with two flat tires, but...fixable. Not sure I’ll pass it off as new, but I might manage shiny. Pretty close to the right size too. All I need are the training wheels, and that’s the big present taken care of.

  The bell dings behind me: order’s up.

  Not sure what Vanya’s doing back there, but the level of steam pouring out of the kitchen is out of control. A person could suffocate in that. Worse still, I’m hot and clammy all over, hair wilted flat to my head, damp clothes sticking to my skin. And I smell like a giant cabbage. Won’t even have time to stop home before class; I’ll be stinking up Intro to Digital Integrated Circuits Design like nobody’s business. Everyone’s going to hate me.

  And someone’s snuck into my section, right at the back, cozied up in a booth that’s supposed to fit four people. I’m in the weeds; Katya’s barely breaking a sweat—who thought I needed another table?

  At least he seems to know what he wants. His menu’s still face-down on the table. Dodging a busboy with a tray of dirty plates, I make my way over.

  “Dobryy d—oh!”

  It’s him, it’s Nick, from two nights ago. Bad, not good, so not good! He must’ve followed me, and how weird is—

  “Hey, there.”

  Nope. No way. Shutting this down. I stick out my chin and cross my arms across my chest. “What do you want?”

  He gives me a smile he probably thinks is disarming. “Ah...borscht?”

  Ugh. “It’s borshch. And you can’t have it. The soup of the day’s kislye shchi.”

  “You’ve got me at rather a—“

  “It’s sour cabbage. Want it?” He can flash me that butter-wouldn’t-melt smile all he wants. This shit is stalking. How’d he even—

  He’s holding up my coat.

  Oh.

  Egg on my face. But a little on his face, too: who just shows up?

  “Sorry,” he says. “I know this looks strange. But I figured y
ou might need this, and the address was in your pocket....”

  Right. Okay. Still.... “You could’ve called.” Too harsh? He is kinda doing me a favor. “You’re...kind of lacking elbow awareness right now.”

  He holds up his hands. His eyes are twinkling, like he’s holding back a laugh. “To be fair, I did try calling. Some angry guy slammed the phone down so hard my ear’s still ringing. Guess you didn’t get the message?”

  That...does sound like Vanya. Fine. This might not be totally creepy. “You should have the pelmeni.” I try a conciliatory smile. “It’s basically ravioli. Really popular.”

  “Sit with me. Just for a second.”

  So, this guy was never a waiter. “I’ve got six other tables.”

  “Meet me after, then. When’d you get off?”

  “Four, but I’ve class right after.” I glance over my shoulder. No-one’s trying to get my attention yet. “Look, I’m not blowing you off. It’s just, y’know, lunch rush, and... You really caught me by surprise. I have kind of a history with guys showing up unannounced.”

  “Yeah, I might not have thought this all the way through.” He at least has the grace to look sheepish. “What about tomorrow? I’ll come to you. Wherever you want.”

  Tomorrow—Joey’s got a checkup in the morning, and I need to get to the bank at some point, but.... “The Aquatic House at the Botanic Garden. I can be there at one.”

  Nick breaks out in a genuine smile. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to check that out. Orchids, right?”

  “Water lilies too.”

  “It’s a date.” He ventures a wink. I’m not sure whether to be charmed or irritated. His confidence certainly appealed to me in the back of his car. And I can’t say he seems threatening.

  “A date, then.” I finally take my coat. “Thanks for bringing this back. I looked pretty stupid rocking three cardigans on the bus this morning.”

  “Hey, I have it from a reliable source that women’s clothing is all about layering.”

  “Yeah....” My look of disapproval’s somehow twisted itself into a grin. “I’ll be back with your lunch.”

  I catch myself wiggling my ass just a little, as I walk away.

  The rest of the day drags like nobody’s business: having something to look forward to makes it worse, not better. I keep spacing out, having to write down orders I’ve taken a million times before. Vanya yells at me twice. Threatens to report my woolgathering to my mother. She had to go and marry him.

  Class is no better: all I can think about is whether Nick meant a date-date, or if it’ll end up being the “So...that was a horrible mistake” conversation.

  It wasn’t... Was it?

  Nick could’ve let me down easy right there in the dining room, returned my coat and walked out of my life. He wouldn’t have to see me again if there weren’t...more.

  I think I want there to be more.

  I’m still mulling over the possibilities when I stumble home after sunset. Joey’s already in his PJs, and the babysitter’s crashed out on the stack of cushions where our couch used to be. I’ve already paid her and sent her on her way when I notice the thermostat’s cranked to seventy-two. What is this, a sauna? I’ll have to talk to her about that.

  “Joey, honey?”

  “Yeah, Mommy?”

  “Have a good time with Maria?”

  “We made hand turkeys and watched TV on her phone.”

  Not sure I like the sound of that. “What’d you watch?”

  “Difficult People.”

  Are you kidding me?

  “It was boring.” Joey starts going through my purse. Doesn’t take him long to find the Junior Mints I left him. “Can I have these?”

  “Yes—but next time Maria wants to watch TV, you find something else to do, okay?”

  “Yeah...can I get a 3DS?”

  At, what, $200 a pop? Ha, ha...ugh. “Those things are bad for your eyes. How about...a coloring book?”

  “No....”

  “One of those piano things like Emin’s got?”

  “Yeah!” He mimes banging on a keyboard...with a fair bit of force. Maybe not the quietest idea. Hopefully, he’ll forget I offered.

  “Okay—Mommy’ll see what she can do. Don’t eat all those mints before bed.”

  “How many can I eat?”

  “Five. You can have the rest tomorrow, after you’ve been a good boy for the doctor.”

  I stretch out on the warm spot Maria left on the cushions. Feels great to get off my feet. Joey climbs all over me and feeds me a Junior Mint. Wish I had that kind of energy.

  I find myself drifting in and out of sleep. Joey’s heavy in my arms. Someone’s playing country music a floor below us. It’s still too warm. I feel like a lizard on a rock, sleepy and sunlogged. When I come to my senses, Joey’s dribbled chocolate goo down the front of my Griboyedov Café uniform.

  Add laundry to my to-do list.

  I manage to get Joey’s teeth brushed and tuck him into bed without waking him up all the way. He barely manages a sleepy “’Night, Mommy,” when I turn off the light.

  I’d like to hit the sack myself, but I spend the next hour and a half on the fire escape with a toothbrush and a bottle of white wine vinegar, scrubbing the rust off Joey’s bike. Most of the original paintjob comes with it. I pack it in when my fingers are too numb to hold the brush. Few more nights of this, I’ll be ready to paint. Then, I just need to keep Joey from peeking out the window till Christmas.

  I’m just congratulating myself when I see it: a tiny orange light on the stove.

  Fuck. Holy shitting motherhumping fuckfuckfuck.

  The lower right element’s on—barely on, like I must’ve spun it just shy of the click—but on nonetheless.

  No wonder it’s so hot in here. How long...when’d I last...? This morning? Last night? How’s the place still standing?

  I creep up like the hot element’s going to jump up and burn me. The snap of it finally switching off seems impossibly loud: how did I not notice its absence?

  I sink to the floor and sit with my head in my hands, listening to the ticks and creaks of the cooling element. This is what happens when I get distracted. This is what happens when I let myself drift, even for a second. Joey doesn’t have anyone else. I can’t be...can’t be—

  “Gotta do better.”

  I spend the time I’d meant to spend studying going over the kitchen, the bathroom, the child locks, looking for anything out of place, anything that could be a problem. I find a loose nail under the sink, a carton of expired milk in the fridge, and half a bottle of antifreeze I don’t remember buying. It’s on a high shelf, but I toss it anyway.

  I go to bed feeling like shit. No, worse: like a terrible mother.

  I’m standing Nick up tomorrow. He’s one more luxury I can’t afford.

  Nick

  Go in. Talk to her.

  She’s serving heaping plates of—beef stroganoff?—to an elderly couple dripping with Old World elegance. They’re laughing, definitely at something she’s said. She’s smiling too. Relaxed. In her element.

  C’mon. It’s not like she really stood you up.

  The old lady picks up her fork and makes a show of examining it. They all laugh again.

  She had to work. She didn’t have your number. She’s probably hoping you’ll show up.

  Lina leans in conspiratorially and says something that has the geezers in hysterics. The old lady’s still snickering into her handkerchief long after Lina’s retreated to the kitchen.

  She was never like that with me—never that effortless, at ease.

  She’s got a life, and I’m horning in on it. Kidding myself. The other night, that was—hell, maybe she was having a bad day too. Maybe we were both after any port in a storm, and now she’s waiting for me to figure it out and fuck off. Well, this is me. Fucking off. Off I fuck.

  My feet aren’t moving.

  Lina comes out of the kitchen again. She’s got a tray of glasses brim-full of some kind of bright re
d drink. It’s not even sloshing as she walks. Bet she’s an amazing dancer. We could’ve—

  I spin on my heel. The longer I linger, the harder it’ll be to walk away.

  I make it all the way to the end of the block. There’s a weird, narrow storefront I didn’t notice before, hung with carpets and sparkling crystals, screening off whatever’s inside. Got to be some kind of New Age joint: there’s a sandwich board chained out front, with a crystal ball and tarot cards painted on it. There’s one word underneath, printed in stark block letters: FATE.

  If that’s not a sign, what is?

  I don’t believe in signs.

  I turn around anyway. Fate, desire, loneliness—who cares? Worst she can do is kick me out. Or have that angry guy do it, I suppose. Whatever. I can take rejection.

  Lina spots me right away this time. I’d hoped her expression would tell me everything I need to know, but she’s flashing me the customer-service smile. At least she comes right over.

  “Nick! I’d ask what I can get you, but I guess that’d be an explanation.”

  Well, she’s not outright hostile this time. That’s an improvement. I slap on my best confident grin. “Think I got that covered: like an idiot, I didn’t give you my number, so you couldn’t call and cancel when you had to cover this shift.” I add a little brow-waggle. “Somewhere in the ballpark?”

  She nods. “Couldn’t have put it better myself. Still, I do feel bad enough to feed you on the house. You can even have that borshch today.”

  Admitting I’m not a hundred percent sure what borshch even is, that it’s the only Russian dish I could name off the top of my head, doesn’t seem like a great idea. Besides, I’ll probably like it. The thing I had yesterday was great. “Yeah, sure—let’s have that. And a raincheck? After your shift? Probably too late for the gardens, but we could still....”

  Lina’s brow furrows. Here it comes: the awkward brushoff, made worse by the fact that I’ve now committed to lunch. “Uh...can I get back to you on that when I bring out your food? Gotta check with my—check how late they need me.”