The Baby Clause: A Christmas Romance

by Tara Wylde

  It’ll be fine.

  I’ll make it fine.

  134

  Nick

  An eyeroll emoji. A freaking eyeroll emoji. The dreaded day’s arrived: my nine-year-old’s too cool for her dad.

  My phone chirps again: srsly dad??? pix w/santa? what am i, 5?

  I’ve finished emptying the last of the donation bins. Still got to inventory the contents, weed out the expired shit, but Mac said he’d help with that after the early evening rush. I should touch up the lettering too: how’s anyone supposed to see “PY AN FOO ANT” and get “HAPPY BEAN FOOD PANTRY”? No wonder donations are down!

  I fire off a text while I wait: got ur skates sharpened 2day. or u too grown up for that too?

  wanna see shawn mendes.

  he hottttttttt <3

  Oh, no. Uh-uh. None of that. My thumbs fly: katie, u r way 2 young to be saying “hottttttttt.” or thinking it. and u have homework. or if u don’t u can clean ur room. or my room. clean something and get off the internet.

  The ellipsis icon barely flashes, before another eyeroll pops up. Then two hearts, a sushi roll, and a Grinch head.

  I’m thirty years old, feeling ancient.

  What’s wrong with Santa, anyway?

  It’s not just Katie. People are way too cynical about Christmas, in general. Christmas music, Christmas lights, Christmas decorations: it seems a waste, if you’re only going to appreciate them one day out of the year. So what if it’s barely Thanksgiving? No such thing as “too early. I love those YouTube videos where people turn their whole houses into spectacles, with hundreds of thousands of lights on timers, flashing their way through Silver Bells or Ride of the Valkyries. I love Santa and jingling sleighs. Turkey too. Doesn’t matter the time of year: show me a string of fairy lights, a Rudolph nose, even a bag of oranges, I get a surge of excitement.

  The one thing I could do without is the cold. I’m freezing my ass off in here. I think it’s still attached back there, but it went numb sometime between lunch and the second box of bananas I dropped on my foot, so who’s to say? My fingers are ice cubes, but my palms are on fire with the start of a fresh crop of blisters. The tip of my nose is stinging.

  “Order up!”

  I straighten. My back crackles and pops. I barely suppress a groan.

  “You dying there, man?”

  “Think I need mouth to mouth.” I do an exaggerated hunchback walk to the window. Rich snorts and passes me the order.

  “She’s gonna need help lugging that to the station, so meet her out front, when you’re done.”

  “Got it.”

  The order’s for a first-timer pack: a few staples to tide someone over till we can get ‘em registered—non-perishables, stuff we’ve got plenty of. I pad it out with a selection of our less popular fresh stuff: leeks, Brussels sprouts, those things that look like carrots but taste like turnips—parsnips?—and four ears of corn tied together with string. The corn’s a hot item, but no-one should leave without something good.

  I’m glad for my new scarf when I step out of the pantry. A brisk wind’s gusted in from the north, and there’s a smell of snow in the air. I can feel my cheeks redden.

  The woman waiting on the front bench looks like this is the first time she’s sat down all day. Maybe all week. She’s in a position I know too well: slumped forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, like she could doze off where she sits. I check the name on the order slip.

  “Miss, uh, Petrova? Elina Petrova?”

  She jerks upright—maybe she was sleeping. “Oh! Yes! Lina, though; everyone calls me Lina.” She smiles, and for a second, I forget we’re strangers. She’s got one of those smiles that makes you feel like you must’ve done something awesome to deserve it. Makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole world. “Sorry! Didn’t see you there.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Where you headed?”

  “Brighton Beach.”

  “Whoa, that’s....” I shift the bags from one hand to the other. Even for me, they’re getting heavy. “I mean, you gonna manage all this? That’s a subway and a bus, and quite a walk in between.”

  “I’ll make it work.” Lina conjures up another smile, kind of a watery one this time. “It’s just, it’s kind of an emergency, and you were the only ones open this late. I, uh...really messed up.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “No, I did. I mean, I feel bad even coming here, taking away food from people who need it, after I—after I—“

  I set down the bags. “Hey. Come on. That’s exactly what we’re here for. Emergencies. People in a pinch. You’re not taking anything from anyone.” I pat her arm. She feels too thin, lost in her winter coat.

  “Thanks. Thanks; you’re—that’s really nice of you. It’s just, I did the shopping yesterday. But then my hands were full, so I left some of the bags under the stairs. And I got distracted, and by the time I went back....” She smacks herself in the forehead. “See? Idiot.”

  “Had a student come in last week because he didn’t know he had to plug in his fridge, and everything his mom bought him went bad.” Not true, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  She laughs, but it feels forced. There’s something about her, a look in her eyes, like she’s a million miles away, running down a list of worries that never ends. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror too many times.

  “Just a sec,” I tell her, snatching back one of the bags. “Just realized, uh—this one’s not—grabbed the wrong—be right back!”

  She holds up her hand like she’s about to tell me to wait, it doesn’t matter, but I’m already on my mission. I don’t know: maybe it’s the Christmas music still playing in my head. Maybe it’s that look in her eyes, haunted and familiar. Can’t put my finger on the reason, but I want to give her something nice to come home to.

  Instead of the pantry, I go for my car. A quick rummage through the mess that is my back seat turns up what I’m looking for: a snack basket from the deli. It’s not much—a few champagne truffles; a tube of gourmet crackers; spicy smoked oysters; jars of peppers and olives and grape leaves in oil; a lot of little packs of this and that. I’d planned to gobble it over the sink like a hobo when I got home, but this is better. I scribble a little note to go with it and bury it in the bag, under a head of lettuce.

  Lina’s checking out our Christmas display when I get back. I did a whole Frosty the Snowman thing in the window, complete with flurries of hand-cut snowflakes.

  “Like it?”

  Her real smile’s back, the sunny one. “Love it. Festive, with the snowstorm.” She’s one of those people who talks with her hands. She does a whole finger-wiggling thing, miming falling snow.

  “That was my idea.”

  “Creative and modest, eh?” She picks up one of the bags and starts walking. I fall into step beside her. The trek to the subway feels too quick: before I know it, I’m standing on the platform, watching the train whisk her away. Somehow, I managed to talk about myself the whole way: my questionable artistic talents, my Christmas plans, my job at the food pantry...and I never learned a thing about her.

  This is why I’m single.

  In my defense, she did keep asking questions.

  No. This is definitely why I’m single.

  135

  Elina

  The guy from the food pantry hands off my bags with a courtly half-bow. I want to say something, thank him properly, but the doors are already closing. Can’t even wave with my arms full of food. Normally I’d be too tired to care, but there was something sweet about him. Reminded me of Joey, in a way—probably all that talk of Christmas. Never seen a grown man so excited about...what was he even on about? Snow angels? Hot toddies by the fire? Ridiculous....

  I shake my head. All right for some, I guess. Me, I’m back to square one.

  Well. Not quite. Mrs. Dzhokharova said I could have her artificial tree, and two strings of lights. Must make Joey quit calling her Mrs. Thing. That can be his New Yea
r’s resolution: no more Mrs. Thing.

  My phone buzzes with a text—a meme of a laughing toddler in a box: “Latest toy: $200. Box it came in: priceless.” Pff. Can’t picture Joey being thrilled with an empty box. Maybe a box filled with ribbons and glitter and buttons and beads, everything he needs to turn our place into a disaster area?

  Yeah. I mean, no. He’d absolutely go for the box of messy crap... And it’s never, ever going to happen.

  Maybe I could dig up my old favorites, pass them down as heirlooms. There was some dirty old doll I found behind a dumpster; Mama used to crochet dresses for it. Dozens and dozens of them, each pinker and frillier than the last. That’d be a no. But there was definitely a red bike—what ever happened to that? Maybe Mama still has it. I could fix it up... Would Joey be big enough to ride, if I screwed on some training wheels?

  I feel heavy all over. It’s warm in here. I could drift off so easy, miss my stop.

  I don’t want to, but I get up. Can’t afford any more screwups.

  This’ll be my first time doing Christmas on my own, and the first one Joey’ll be old enough to remember. If I don’t miss a beat between now and then, I might pull it off.

  By the time I get home, it’s starting to come together in my head. Which isn’t the same as coming together in reality, but still feels like progress. I’m almost positive I can get my hands on that bike. And I might have a line on a bag of used Legos, plus an extra-large bubble wand. Not exactly the epic haul I’d been planning, but it’s a start.

  I find the door cracked open again. Panic floods my veins. I almost drop my bags, almost scream for Joey, but I can hear him already. And he’s laughing. I elbow the door open, to find Mrs. Dzhokharova painting over the graffiti in the living room, and Joey... Well, I guess you could say he’s helping. He’s got his own little brush, the one that came with his watercolor set, and he’s following her around, painting scary blue spiders along the edges of her coverup.

  “They’re washable,” she says. “This...the creepy-crawlies. Scrub right off.”

  “Thanks for this.” I squeeze around them and start putting the food away.

  Mrs. D’s really been busy. I managed to deal with the worst of the mess before Joey woke up—even replaced the goldfish, heaven help me—but this is above and beyond. She’s brought over a TV table, a couple of chairs, a pile of cushions, and hung a colorful tablecloth over the window in place of curtains. It’s starting to look almost homelike again.

  “Got to get home in time for my shows,” she says. “But my Emin’s coming tomorrow. Thought Joey might join us for Chuck-E-Cheese and a sleepover? Bed by eight, of course.”

  “Yeah, Mommy!” Joey’s practically jumping up and down.

  I pull out a bag of Brussels sprouts and dangle them in his face. “Choke down four of these tonight, and you’re on.”

  “Aw, Momm-eeee!”

  I nod at Mrs. D. He’ll be there.

  I’m already planning tonight’s dinner as I unpack. There’s enough here to make spaghetti, Joey’s favorite—that ought to help the sprouts go down easier. Or I could be nice and do a salad instead. Sprouts keep longer than lettuce. There’s a good leafy head of Romaine, and underneath—

  —what the hell?

  This fancy basket cannot be standard food pantry fare. It’s...it’s an actual, no-fooling picnic basket, woven wicker, with a checkered cloth lining. Inside, there’s cheese, crackers, jars and cans with fancy labels—even chocolate. Nice chocolate, dark and rich, dusted with cocoa powder. And are those...smoked oysters? My mouth waters. Not sure Joey’ll go for those, but I love them.

  “Joey?”

  He looks up from the cobweb he’s painting into the corner. “Yeah?”

  “Wash your hands and get your red blanket.”

  “My blanket?”

  “Can’t have a picnic without a blanket, right?” I hold up the basket. A scrap of paper flutters loose. Joey’s eyes go wide.

  “No Brussels sprouts?”

  “Not tonight.”

  He runs off cheering. I wait till I hear water running—sometimes, he only pretends he’s washed his hands—and retrieve the receipt. Only it’s not a receipt. It’s a handwritten note, a few scribbled words: Thought you could use a treat. Their stuffed peppers are the best! :-)

  I feel my eyes well up. This must be...this must be what that guy ran back for, when he said he’d grabbed the wrong bag. He was probably looking forward to those amazing stuffed peppers himself... And I didn’t even get his name. Wasn’t even that nice to him. Let him ramble all the way to the station, so I wouldn’t have to come up with anything to say. And the whole time...the whole time....

  I wipe my eyes. Joey can’t see me crying. Not even for joy.

  My stash of emergency candles is still intact, under the sink. I light a couple and arrange them around the room. We’re not eating on the floor in the semi-dark because our lamps are gone and the ceiling light’s down a bulb. We’re having a candlelit picnic, like...like Ratty and Mole, in The Wind in the Willows. Not sure they ever did exactly that, but I’m the mom, and if I say it’s so, it’s so.

  “My friend Rick’s dad made these clay things with holes, and you put a candle in, and they make stars on the wall,” Joey informs me, when he spots the candles. He holds out his hands. “All clean.”

  “Good job.” I smile. “Isn’t this like Ratty and Mole’s picnic on the riverbank?”

  Joey pokes at the basket. “They had cold tongue.”

  “Oh, you want tongue?” I stick out mine.

  “Ewwwww!”

  I lean in like I’m going to lick his face. “Bleh-leh-leh!”

  He ducks and curls into a ball. “Mommy, stop!”

  “Okay, okay; no tongue at this picnic.”

  Joey insists on calling the oysters mouse brains, and dissecting the stuffed peppers to see how the cheese got inside, but most of the food ends up in his stomach, and he doesn’t throw, squish, or spit any of it. As meals with four-year-olds go, this one’s a success. By the time we’re done, every almond crunched, every chocolate savored, there’s barely time for his bath. He falls asleep while I’m picking out a book for storytime.

  With Joey safely in the land of Nod, I settle in to check my e-mail. I’ve got a freelance offer: $400 to troubleshoot the UI for some kind of text-to-speech app. Seems low, and I’m not sure how I’m even going to do it, with my laptop on the casualty list from the burglary. I accept anyway. There’s always the library.

  The rest’s spam, and a message from Mama, who’s already heard about the burglary. Mrs. Dzhokharova must’ve ratted me out. That’s it: she’s Mrs. Thing again.

  It occurs to me that I’m not scared to open my e-mail any more. Haven’t been for a while. Joe Sr.’s been quiet for almost two months: no threats, no pleas, no drunken poetry. Not even an “accidental” mass mailing. My phone’s been silent too. The restraining order must be working.

  I glance at Joey’s door. It hurts my heart, seeing him miss his dad. Everything that happened... He doesn’t understand. Shouldn’t have to. But it kills me, knowing his dad’s gone, and I can’t tell him why. What could I say? “Well, sweetheart, your daddy said some things that weren’t true, and Mommy lost everything she had, and—and—”

  Yeah—and have him think I’d abandon him, the second he told a fib.

  Maybe... “Your father is a selfish, selfish man, who’d see his own family starve, sooner than grow the fuck up.”

  No. Not that either.

  In a way, it’s better he doesn’t know. Better his daddy’s a hero, and Mommy’s a mean old witch. When he’s a little older; when “Daddy had to go on an adventure” stops working....

  There’s never going to be a right time.

  And now, I’m doing exactly what I swore I’d quit doing: letting my dumb, lying ex cast a pall over a perfectly fine day.

  I plug my phone into its charger. Time to get ready for bed. Got a long day tomorrow, and I think I might swing by that food pant
ry one more time. That guy should know what his gift meant to me. Maybe I’ll even get his name.

  He was kind of cute for a bagboy. Exactly the opposite of Joey’s dad—black hair instead of blond; gray eyes instead of brown. Smile lines instead of frown wrinkles.

  Very cute, now that I think of it.

  136

  Nick

  I’d hoped to coast through today with a minimum of angst. It’s not always so bad: when I can keep busy, when Katie’s around, when there’s no time to stop and think....

  But I couldn’t let Katie be the only one left out of her best friend’s birthday party...much as I still think they’re too young to be out at some concert till midnight. Coming up through foster care, I didn’t get too many parties—but even I know ten-year-olds with front-row tickets to the latest hot act, not to mention birthday registries at Barney’s and Tiffany’s, can’t be normal. It’s all too adult, too...boring. What happened to cake and balloons and pony rides?

  “The fun part’s just hanging out with their friends.”

  “Huh?”

  Rich plops his ass down next to mine. “You’re obsessing over that party again. Look—it doesn’t matter if they’re doing whatever rinky-dink shit we did as kids, or some twinkletoes princess fantasy, uh...whatever girls do when they get together. They’re kids. They’ll have a good time.”

  “What’d you do for yours?”

  Rich laughs. “Well, mine were all boys. Uh, lemme think—bowling was always a hit. And pizza, or Red Lobster. Oh, and we took ‘em all skiing, for Jimmy’s fourteenth. But that was a disaster. Simpler is better.” He catches himself. “Oh, but I’m sure yours’ll be fine. A concert doesn’t involve spiky poles, or slippery shit, or getting trapped in a giant swinging chair fifty feet in the air.”