Chapter 2 Georgie
Georgie
Four Hours Earlier
Only half-dressed, I’m bent over the sink scrubbing my armpits when a middle-aged woman enters.
She freezes as her eyes go wide, catching mine in the mirror.
Here, under the flickering lights of the dingy Wal-Mart bathroom, is the moment when I’m forced to admit the truth: my life has gone totally to shit.
Several emotions flash across the woman’s face before she slips into a stall, but the one that sticks with me the most is pity. Seeing myself reflected through her judgmental gaze, I feel like the failure I am.
The failure my ex-boyfriend always told me I was.
Fat, lazy, worthless.
I’ve been working hard to mute his voice in my mind, but it still resurfaces in times of stress. And since my ex left me, my life has been one gigantic stressor after another.
I never expected this to be the route my life would take, but here I am, sleeping in my truck and taking sink baths in Wal-Mart bathrooms.
College dropout. Basically homeless. Unemployed.
And currently thirty-four weeks pregnant.
How did I get here, and how am I going to climb out of this hole?
Is this what an existential crisis feels like?
My cheeks flame as I carry on with my task, cleaning myself as fast as possible, so I can leave before the woman returns to wash her hands.
Mere minutes later, the store’s automatic doors slide open, and the humid morning air smacks me in the face as I walk through the parking lot. Despite smelling like cheap hand soap and despair, I feel cleaner than I have in days after my Wal-Mart pit stop.
Ha! Not many people can say that, I think with a dark chuckle. But the stores that are open twenty-four hours a day have become my lifeline after I got kicked out of my last motel for not being able to pay my bill in full.
When I scoot into the front seat of Big Bertha, my old truck, the cracked leather seat creaks comfortingly beneath me.
I tip my forehead forward, resting it on the steering wheel, and let out a shaky breath.
Still feeling the sting of my earlier embarrassment, tears prick my eyelids, but I blink them away. No time for crying.
Fake it till I make it. That’s always been my motto. Since I have yet to make it, I’ve had a lifetime of practice faking it. You’d think I’d be better at it by now.
But I’ve got a plan. It’s not a great one, but it’s something. And right now, something’s all I’ve got.
I’m on waiting lists at a few women’s shelters, hoping a spot opens before the baby comes.
Worst case scenario, I’ll bury my pride and beg my mom for help.
After six years of silence and decades of dysfunction, maybe a grandchild will be the catalyst we need to mend fences.
She finally has her life together, so I hope she’ll help me get mine sorted out. She owes me that much.
I just need a few weeks to recover and care for a newborn, and then I’ll find another job, start saving, and get back on my feet.
Dear Lord, please help me figure out my life. I promise I’ll swear off men forever and focus on giving my child the best life possible.
Swearing off men won’t be much of a challenge. All they’ve ever brought me is heartache and trouble.
Especially the man who made me a mother-to-be.
None of my ex-boyfriends would ever get nominated for a boyfriend of the year award, but my last ex was truly awful. Leaving me alone and pregnant was the worst thing he did—but it was far from his only terrible misdeed.
I reach across the long bench seat and grab another packet of peanut butter crackers out of my purse.
Ripping them open with my teeth, I shove a crumbly cracker in my mouth, wishing it was something fresh and green, but healthy food is outside of my budget.
Taking a swig of water, I wash down the last of the crackers.
Waddling out of the truck, I throw away my trash and swing open the door to Big Bertha.
My old teal and white Ford truck is my pride and joy.
I worked odd jobs between classes, scrimping and saving, to buy her.
She’s the only thing in this world that’s really mine.
She’s built like a tank and more dependable than any person in my life has ever been, apart from my Nana.
If life doesn’t go according to plan, which it rarely does in my experience, I might have to live in Big Bertha for more than just the occasional night here and there.
God, I’m a shitty mom already, and my child hasn’t even been born yet.
My chest tightens, and I press a palm against my belly, like I can apologize to the baby through my skin.
All my life, I’ve assumed that I’d be a better mother to my future children than my mom was to me, but in this moment, my doubts mount.
I’m overwhelmed and alone… and fucking petrified. As a few treasonous tears drip down my cheeks, I wipe them away, frustrated with myself. Crying won’t solve any of my problems, so there’s no use wasting time and energy wallowing.
Instead, I focus on remembering the route to the Homesboro Public Library. I’ve been in Homesboro for the past few days, and I’ll probably stay for a few more before I move on to the next small town.
With a deep breath, I turn the key in the ignition and steer Big Bertha out of the parking lot and toward the library. I need to check my email and browse the online job listings. Maybe I can find some kind of work to bring in a little money.
If my ankles weren’t swollen, I’d consider selling foot pics.
Hell, if my underwear wasn’t size extra-large and ugly as sin, I’d even consider selling my used panties.
Even if I don’t find any job leads, at least I can hang out in the library’s air conditioning for a few hours.
Stretching in my seat, I try to get comfortable, but that’s nearly impossible at this point in my pregnancy. There’s always a twinge of discomfort, and since I’ve been sleeping in Big Bertha for the past few nights, those aches and pains have only multiplied.
I can’t keep living this way, especially while pregnant. Something’s gotta give.
I just need a job. A break. A freaking miracle.
One of those has to show up soon.