12 #2
The misery of working all the time to replenish the money we spend, the care of a child, the damp bathrooms and rough bedding, the old clothes, the fucking polyester. It’s making my own coffee, getting my own snacks, doing the grocery shopping—it’s all so exhausting.
But it’s more than that.
This simply is not me.
I haven’t relaxed into this life and world the way Serena has.
And I don’t want to.
Serena thinks that if our families just let us go, then we could live free of illusion and have a better life.
I don’t agree.
Even with my true face and standing still in one place, this world isn’t for me.
Serena’s illusioned face turns to me, freckled and angular. “Any requests for dinner?”
I shake my head.
And I let thoughts of home creep into my mind.
Serena is rough in the kitchen, tossing pans onto the counter, clattering chopping boards, and throwing pots onto the burner.
I drop my head and flatten my palms on my ears.
And I tune her out.
I think about home.
Oliver will have married by now.
I wonder who he married and if he has children.
Dray probably married Asta, since I basically threw a grenade at her engagement with Eric before I left.
He probably replaced me after a few days.
I’m not a pawn on the chessboard anymore.
Also, I did that thing with the article.
I gave Courtney an interview about him.
Gods, I hardly remember it.
A memory bogged down by the sludge of too long on the run in this fucking miserable life.
I want to sink into the feathery embrace of my bed, the one at Elcott.
I want Abigail to wait on me, bring me trolleys of teas and dinners and snacks and sweets.
I want her to pick up the mess I drop on the floor.
I want her to run the best bubble baths I’ve ever known—and can’t figure out how to replicate.
I want my piano.
The Bosendorfer.
I want my fingers to glide over the keys, smell the crispness of the sheet paper parted in front of me, hear the melody dancing around me.
I want to write my own music, follow a melody along the keys that comes from somewhere inside of me.
Then I want for everything else.
My cuticles and nails done. Fingers and toes. Hair trimmed, treated, styled. Massages and spa treatments and facials.
I want to go shopping. With the black card.
I want better clothes. I want to go to nice restaurants again. Go on holidays in Monaco and Saint Tropez. Summer trips on the Riviera.
I run my hands over my face.
Elbows planted on the table, I listen to the hiss and sizzle of food in the pan.
“It’s raining again.” Serena’s voice is interrupted by the sudden loud sizzle of water spilling over a pot and onto the heat of the burner. “You’ll have to pick him up in the car.”
I barely register her words.
For a moment too long, I watch her cook. Then I hear what she said, and I look at the window.
Beyond it, there’s a slight drizzle.
Just a drizzle.
We have both walked in worse.
But since Sal…
I don’t know what is different about Serena exactly, or if it’s everything about her that’s different, but now a light drizzle is to be avoided?
His daycare is only a five-minute walk around the corner.
But I don’t argue.
It’s not worth it.
When it comes to Sal, my mouth is to stay shut.
Because all of a sudden, it’s her child. Her place to make decisions for him. Not mine.
With a huff, I slip the keys off the counter, but my mind is elsewhere, torn between the luxury of home and picking up Sal from that house with the tobacco-spit stains on the porch.
On my way out, I sneak a look at the pots and pans. Satay noodles.
I pretend to like her cooking.
It’s one of the ways we coexist better while permanently living on each other’s last nerve.
But truth is, she overcooks noodles into slush territory, and there’s either too much peanut butter or not enough in her satay sauce.
Also it’s the third day in a row she’s made it.
I tighten my grip around the keys, then clammer out the fire escape.
The coast is clear to the car.
No annoying, chatty neighbour in the carpark. Her car isn’t even here anymore, so she must have gone home for the day.
That means I was too lost in my thoughts to hear the car start and drive off.
That happens more often now. Like seeing Oliver opened a door in my mind, and it’s harder to keep my mind straight.
So much harder.
I toss my bag onto the passenger seat, then start the loud, chugging engine.
The car sputters and chokes to life.
I have time to spare, so I pull over at the bus shelter. It’s at the edge of town, where the phone booth is.
I come here every other day.
I stare at the phone from the car.
But I never get out.
I know some numbers by heart, like Nonna’s.
I called her often from Bluestone, so it printed into my brain over the years.
I wonder how bad it would be if I called her.
Just to talk.
Just to feel her warmth.
I wonder if the sound of her voice would feel the same as her hugs.
I think even if I called Grandmother Ethel, I would break down in tears.
That’s how bad it is, the homesickness haunting me. That I even consider calling Grandmother Ethel.
But really, if I was going to get out of the car and make a call, would it be to anyone but Mother?
Just the thought of her doubles me over.
The steering wheel digs into my forehead—and the violence of a sob rattles me.
I want to go home. I want so badly to go home.
But all I can do is fight back the sobs, and snivel, and wipe my cheeks, before I drive off and head to Ms Brown’s house, the only (unofficial) daycare in town.
We don’t send Sal there too often.
Sometimes Serena needs a break to recover from her lassitude limit.
And I’m working almost every day, so we send Sal to the old run-down house at the end of Fair Street, the house with the rotten porch that’s splintered and stained.
Ms Brown’s house is full of random kids and babies from around town, mixed in with her own three grandchildren.
I’m pretty sure she just smokes cigarettes on the porch most of the day with her son who chews and spits out tobacco.
It’s not ideal.
But there is not always another option when Serena passes out from throwing up for too long.
I’m barely through the door when I hear Sal’s familiar cry, “Auntie Em! Auntie Em, Auntie Em!”
Little legs and all, Sal rushes at me, pen streaks all over his hands.
My practiced smile is empty of the fatigue that weighs me down.
I drop to a crouch and spread my arms—and he smacks right into me.
A sticky, smelly mess.
Kids.
I don’t love them.
I love Sal.
But I don’t love the smell of spilled milk that’s wafting from his overalls, I don’t love the mysterious stickiness on his hands or the warble of his voice as he still shouts my name over and over.
Hooking one arm around his middle, I hoist him off the floor.
I snatch the backpack from the hooks on the wall. The bag is stickered with the faces of characters from a show Sal is obsessed with.
I carry him outside to the car.
Never thought I would be one for juggling, but here I am, a child hoisted onto my hip, a bag slung over my forearm, my own bag hooked over my shoulder, and keys jangling in my hand.
One of the worst parts of coparenting a child?
Car seats.
Bane of my existence.
Sal is warbling on about the pictures he painted today and a movie he watched.
I drone back, “Oh, did you? That’s wonderful. A superhero? Oh my.” I learned it’s best to ask questions, too. Shows I’m really listening. “What was your favourite part?”
His face lights up and he jumps into another garbled spiel.
The buckles lock in, and I slam the door shut on him. Faint agitation follows me into the driver’s seat.
I tug down the rearview mirror until I have Sal in my sights.
The warm complexion of his cheeks is blotched with blue fingerpaint, the brown of his eyes is as deeply hued as rich soil, and he has the same inky black hair as Serena—
Without the illusions we live in.
He prattles on for the short drive back to the apartment, but I don’t listen to a thing he says.
The only words in my mind are—
‘Call when you are ready to come home.’