Thirty-One
Tuesday
Imagine this. In a brand-new Ocean’s Eleven spin-off, Margot Robbie prepares to go to Bar Gernika to locate an illegal arms dealer, then flirt with him, buy him a drink,
and generally charm him long enough to plant a tiny GPS device on his person or vehicle so she can share his location with
law enforcement as needed. The stakes are high, but as she’s headed out the door to Best Buy to procure the tracking device,
her phone rings with a call from her daughter’s school. Does she ignore it? Or pick up?
“Hello,” I said.
“Tilly,” a familiar voice replied.
I cursed silently. “Principal Cruz.” If she was calling to ask why I’d blown off her darling brother after we had great sex,
I might burst into flames.
“I’m going to need you to come pick up Phoebe. She’s bitten another child.”
Oh, no! Emmylou was right, dammit! My kids were struggling and it was likely my fault. And this was an escalation—Phoebe’d
never chomped anyone before who didn’t share her exact DNA. And while I wanted school to provide my kids an education, I needed it to provide childcare. “Lucia, I take this very seriously. But please can she stay at school? I have a meeting I can’t
miss.”
It was Tuesday and almost noon. The Receiver would be at Bar Gernika waiting for Connor at one thirty.
“We need our students to understand we can’t tolerate biting here at Roosevelt,” Lucia said. “Otherwise we could end up with mayhem. And a Hep B outbreak.”
“Not to be that kind of mom, but why’d Phoebe bite this kid? What’d the other kid do?”
“Phoebe claimed she mistook the girl’s arm for a Pop-Tart,” Lucia said dryly. “Is anything going on at home?”
I understood the unspoken transaction being offered. If I told her how my mother’s death was affecting me and the twins, she
wouldn’t make me come get Phoebe. I was desperate, but not desperate enough to perform Grief Porn.
“Look, Lucia,” I said. “I’m a single mom with no backup childcare today and I literally can’t tell you how important this
meeting is.”
I heard Principal Cruz sigh. And then in a firm but kind voice she said, “I need you here to pick Phoebe up within the hour.”
“From your wrestling moves, I thought you’d be a lot cooler than this,” I said, but she’d already hung up.
My impending lack of childcare made me panicky again, my anxiety latching on to the fact that I still had Idaho Connor’s now-defunct
phone. I’d never been a tech goddess and wasn’t entirely sure if law enforcement could ping it now that it was turned off.
But if they could, I didn’t want them seeing it at my house. I needed to feel in control. I needed to DO SOMETHING. So on
my way to Roosevelt Elementary, I took an impulsive detour, parking in a random lot. Crusty remnants of snow crunched underfoot
as I walked out onto the Ninth Street Bridge. Cars whizzed by and I leaned over the rail to watch the icy river below. I pulled
Connor’s phone out of my pocket, dangled it over the edge, and let go. It landed with a satisfying splash. Soon someone was
bound to notice Connor wasn’t responding to messages and report him missing. It might even be Nate. But at least Connor’s
phone wasn’t at my house anymore.
When I got back in the car, still feeling pleased to have taken some positive action, however small, my own cell was bleating like a drunken sheep.
“Layna!” I said.
“I have my tantric yoga coaching session with Magnus at four o’clock,” Layna said, “and I’m trying to decide between black
tights and pink booty shorts.”
“Black tights,” I replied. “Any chance you can babysit Phoebe for an hour starting like an hour from now?”
“I’ve got divorce mediation till three,” she said. “Then Magnus. But I could cancel that.”
Three o’clock was too late. “That’s okay. I’m just frazzled. You-know-who’s phone got cut off for nonpayment.” I was barreling
over her boundary, but I couldn’t help it—I was freaking out.
“Did you turn it back on?”
“I can’t use my credit card! It would be so traceable.”
“Buy a Visa gift card at CVS,” she said. “Duh.”
“Too late for that,” I moaned, staring toward the river. “I really don’t have a knack for this shit.”
There’s nothing more distressing than looking in the rearview to see your ashamed little kid twisting and untwisting the hem
of her T-shirt.
“Phoebe, why?” I asked as gently as possible. “Why would you bite Johnica?” I glanced at the clock. Twelve thirty p.m. I had
one hour before I needed to arrive at Bar Gernika with a GPS tracker.
Phoebe sniffled. “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t do it on porpoise. My teeth felt mad.” She paused. “Since I can’t go
to school, can I stay home with Emmylou?” She looked at me, sad and hopeful.
“Did you bite Johnica because Emmylou and I aren’t getting along?” I said.
Phoebe shrugged a helpless shrug. “My angry teeth bit her,” she insisted. “Not me.” But the look in her eyes told me all I
needed to know.
After I made Phoebe a snack, I asked her to stay in her room for a few minutes to think about ways to express feelings of sadness that didn’t involve sinking her teeth into another kid’s flesh.
Twelve forty p.m. Fifty minutes. I shut myself into the pantry and pondered babysitting options as I stress-ate potato chips.
My pants wouldn’t fit soon if I didn’t stop eating like this.
At the very least I needed to start going to the gym.
The gym! That was it! My emergency babysitting solution.
The price to pay for entering the Boise downtown YMCA was a Stop-and-Chat with the front desk attendant, Wendy Lou, my mom’s
former coworker and frenemy, who wanted to ooh-and-ahh over Phoebe, and perhaps compare her unfavorably to her own progeny.
(“To hear Wendy Lou tell it,” my mom would say, “one of her grandkids is Simone Biles, the other Greta Thunberg.”)
After waving a cheery goodbye to Phoebe—who was already starting a round of Just Dance with the YMCA Kids’ Club attendant—I ducked into the women’s locker room, where I stripped off my workout gear and pulled
on tights and a sexy little black dress. I topped it all off with the Little Mermaid wig and managed to sneak out the front
door without being recognized by Wendy Lou.
Behind the wheel of the Impala, I yanked off the red wig. One p.m. I had thirty minutes to rush to Best Buy on Franklin, buy
a GPS tracking device, zip downtown, park, and hustle to Bar Gernika to meet the Receiver. He’d be waiting for Idaho Connor.
But hopefully I could spot him, chat him up, get him to buy me a beer, and slip the GPS tracking device into his pocket. A
tall order but not impossible.
The icy wind nipped my flesh as I hustled down the Basque Block at 1:39 p.m. in my short black dress, so it felt good to slip
through the side door into the warmth of Bar Gernika.
The place hadn’t changed—the Basque dive was still dishing up croquetas and lamb grinders greasy enough to stop a triathlete’s heart.
A group of university professors shared a boozy lunch while making eyes at a gaggle of co-eds obliviously giggling into midday beers.
But at the long bar, two rough-looking guys sartorially inspired by lumberjacks perched on stools.
One had a stern face dominated by a massive unibrow that would put Frida Kahlo to shame.
The other sported a raised scar along his temple, shiny and pink as a newborn hamster.
One of them must be the Receiver, the other his muscle.
They studied me like a juicy pork chop in a meat case, and I flashed a smile I hoped was dazzling. I hadn’t expected to have
to try to charm two men, but that also gave me more options for where to slip the quarter-sized GPS (ostensibly designed to
track errant suitcases).
That’s when I spotted Miranda’s awful mother, Mrs. Carson, sitting alone at a table in the corner, looking prim and mean as
ever, if a little frail. Shit! I absolutely could not stand a Stop-and-Chat with Belinda Carson. Not after I’d accidentally
framed Miranda for blowing up two snowmobiles with a hand grenade!
A woman hustled out the front door, head ducked, as if to avoid being recognized. Under her unzipped navy peacoat, she wore
one of those front-facing dog slings, so popular in LA. But with her red hair, she was unmistakable. Miranda Carson! Why in
the hell was she rushing out of here without her mom? Nate told me he’d be tailing Miranda. Last thing I needed was him seeing
me bellied up to the bar with a couple of arms dealers. Mrs. Carson glanced my way and, panicked, I rushed out the side door.
Heart pumping with adrenaline, I ran full tilt down the Basque Block, darting across Sixth and cutting down an alley to the
side street where I’d parked the Impala.
One hour and nine minutes after I’d dropped Phoebe off, I raced into the YMCA dressing room.
My half-baked mission to plant the GPS on the Receiver had been a total failure and now I was late to pick up my kid.
After stripping off my disguise and yanking my workout clothes back on, I hustled to the Kids’ Club to find Phoebe shaking it to RuPaul’s “Sissy That Walk.”
“Workout went long?” the Kids’ Club attendee said, pursing her lips.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, wiping actual nervous sweat from my forehead. “I was on the treadmill and got into the zone.”