3. Wren #2
By 7:22, Mom texts that she’s stuck late because the ER is slammed.
By 7:23, I text back, telling her we’re good and not to worry.
We are not good.
But we are functional, which in this house is basically the same thing.
The twins get baths. Justin complains through his entire shower because between the twins’ baths and me washing dishes, we used up the hot water. Holden takes the trash out without being asked and pretends not to notice when I almost thank him too intensely.
By the time the girls are in pajamas, the house has shifted into its softer nighttime chaos.
Daisy is sprawled across my lap while I sit on the edge of her bed, her damp curls smelling like strawberry shampoo. Lily is arranging stuffed animals in a specific order along the wall of her bed.
“Mr. Buttons will sleep by the penguin tonight,” Lily says.
Daisy lifts her head. “Mr. Buttons hates penguins.”
“He does not.”
“He told me,” Daisy argues.
I look down at Daisy. “Mr. Buttons is starting drama again?”
She nods solemnly. “He has issues with sharing.”
I snort at that. “Relatable.”
Lily sighs and moves the stuffed rabbit two inches. “Fine. But if he falls off the bed, I’m not saving him.”
Daisy snuggles closer. “Can you read one chapter?”
I sigh, wanting nothing more than to go curl up in my own bed, but knowing I still have to clean the kitchen and look into the work-study jobs. I really don’t want to take the time to read, even though I know it’ll make them happy.
What’s five more minutes, I guess. “Fine, but just one book tonight.”
“What about two short ones?” Daisy asks.
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve been negotiating with Holden.”
“She has,” Lily says. “He’s weak. Puppy eyes win every time.”
“I heard that,” Holden calls from the hallway.
They both collapse into a fit of giggles.
I read one book about a very pouty fish. Then, because I am also weak, I read another about a very dramatic llama and his pajamas.
By the time I turn off the light, Daisy is already drifting to sleep, her hand curled around the plastic cat we definitely did not spend twenty minutes looking for. Lily is doing her best at fighting sleep, but seems to be losing the battle.
“Wren?” she whispers as I reach the door.
“Yeah?”
“Are we okay? Everyone seems sad.”
I turn back. In the dark, I can just make out her eyes, too open and too serious for six years old.
“Of course we’re okay,” I say. The lie comes easily. That’s the worst part. “We’re always okay.”
Lily studies me for a second, then nods and rolls over.
I stand in the doorway for a breath longer than necessary.
Then I close the door.
Downstairs, the kitchen looks like a small pasta-based tornado moved through it.
I clean without thinking. Plates in the dishwasher.
Counters wiped. Lunch boxes rinsed. Permission slip signed.
Justin’s project reminder added to my phone.
Daisy and Lily’s hundredth-day penny bags placed beside their backpacks for tomorrow, because if I have to hear the word pennies before coffee again, I will drive myself to the beach and walk straight into the ocean.
Holden sits at the table with his laptop open, pretending to do homework while watching me move around the kitchen.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That was a loud nothing.”
He shrugs. “Have you rested at all today?”
“I sat down during class and while I was driving.”
“That doesn’t count.” He pushes back from the table and takes the towel from my hand. “I’ll finish.”
“No, you have homework.”
He shrugs casually. “I’m finished.”
My eyes narrow with suspicion. “You were just typing when I walked down here.”
Holden tries to push me out of the way, but I stand firm. “I was making it look convincing, but I finished while you were getting the girls down.”
“Holden.” I use my stern voice, which works on the twins, and sometimes Justin. Seems as though this one has outgrown the fear.
He turns to me, giving me his full attention, crossing his arms. “Wren.”
We stare at each other. He wins because I am tired, and he has Dad’s stubborn jaw, which is unfortunate because I used to like his face.
“Fine,” I say. “But don’t put the plastic water bottle lids on the bottom rack.”
“I know.”
“And don’t use the lemon soap on the cast iron.”
“I know.”
“And—”
He pushes me gently out of the kitchen. “Hush and go sit down.”
Bossy little traitor.
I take my laptop to the living room and collapse onto the couch. For a full minute, I do nothing but stare at the blank TV screen and listen to the sounds of Holden cleaning in the kitchen.
It should feel good to sit down, and it does, at least a little.
Mostly it makes me feel guilty.
Guilty for the time I missed while being abroad for most of the last year. Guilty that my mom was drowning, and I didn’t know, but I also feel guilty over how quickly I put myself on the back burner and have become utterly consumed by everyone else’s needs.
Which is annoying, because guilt is not one of my scheduled activities for tonight. I’m already overbooked.
I reach into my bag on the floor beside the couch, finding the financial assistance paper folded inside my notebook, exactly where I shoved it after leaving campus. I pull it out carefully, as if it could bite. Feels like it could anyway.
Work-Study Employment Portal.
I open my laptop.
It takes forever to load because our Wi-Fi is spotty lately. While I wait, I check my phone.
Harlow sent a meme of a raccoon lying face down on a deck.
Harlow: You?
Wren: Looks a little too rested.
She sends back a heart.
I don’t answer, because the portal finally loads and immediately asks me to log in three separate times, as if one password can’t capture the full depth of my suffering.
Dining Hall Assistant — Evening Shifts.
Nope. Evenings are dinner, homework, baths, and preventing Daisy from using glitter unsupervised. Depending on Mom’s schedule for the week, I never know if she’ll be home or not. Some evenings would be fine, but not every single one of them.
Welcome to the lovely life of a nurse who doesn’t have a set schedule and also picks up any and every shift she can.
Originally, she was supposed to be working four tens, followed by three days off.
So far, that’s happened once. Most of the time, she’s picking up overtime on her days off, leaving just one or two days off per time period.
Hopefully soon, she’ll get a more permanent rotation and not need to pick up the overtime as often.
Library Circulation Desk — Weekends Required.
Weekends are grocery shopping, laundry, Justin’s games, Holden’s practice, twins’ birthday parties, and occasionally lying on my bedroom floor.
Tutoring Center Reception — Tuesdays and Thursdays, 3 p.m. to 7 p.m.
Pickup hours.
Campus Bookstore Associate — Position Filled.
Rude.
I scroll. And scroll. And scroll.
Each listing is either filled, pays basically nothing, or requires hours that would involve leaving six-year-olds to raise themselves, which seems frowned upon.
My eyes burn.
I rub them with the heels of my hands and look toward the kitchen.
Holden is humming under his breath while loading the dishwasher. Justin is probably upstairs pretending to sleep while actually watching basketball clips.
Everyone is okay.
For this second, everyone is okay.
So why do I feel like I’m standing under a ceiling that keeps lowering one inch at a time?
My phone buzzes.
9:18 — LOOK AT WORK-STUDY. DO NOT PANIC. PANIC IS FOR THURSDAYS.
I snort.
“Too late,” I mutter.
The next listing loads.
Athletics Equipment Assistant — Men’s Hockey.
I blink.
No. Absolutely not. There is no way in hell.
I scroll past it.
Then immediately scroll back up because apparently I enjoy a little sprinkle of torture.
Athletics Equipment Assistant — Men’s Hockey