“Greg—” Phoebe stops abruptly when she sees me, and I feel as if I’ve walked in on another private conversation about me. “I just—”
She’s quiet as she listens to whatever it is he has to say. I imagine he’s defending me because he does that. Pretending I’m not paying attention, I reach down for my little brother. As I hoist him up, I groan and strain, as if he’s too big for me to lift. “You must have grown a million inches last night, Tuck. Or have you been eating rocks?”
He giggles. “Yes. I ate a stalagmite for breakfast.” He draws out the syllables in “stalagmite,” with a note of gravity in his voice. I love that about him.
“A stalagmite?” I finally lift him completely into my arms and feign a breath of relief. “You have to be careful not to overdo it on the stalagmite munching, buddy. You might end up stuck to the ceiling.”
“Callie.” His puts his hands on my cheeks to make sure I’m looking at him, that I’m paying attention. “Stalagmites. Are the ones. On the floor.”
I know this, but it completely knocks me out that he knows, too. “They are? Are you sure?”
He nods.
“Well, either way,” I say. “It’s important not to eat too many rocks, because then I wouldn’t be able to lift you. And that wouldn’t be good at all.”
I put Tucker back in his seat, where his bowl of oatmeal is waiting and Phoebe is staring at me. “Greg, I’ll call you back,” she says and disconnects the call. “Callie—”
“I can watch the boys.” I keep my voice level so I don’t sound like my mother. “I know you think I might be crazy and I get that my past is a mystery, so it makes sense that you don’t trust me, but—”
“It’s not that I don’t—”
“Yes, it is,” I interrupt. “You’re their mom and you want to protect them.” Unexpected tears make my eyes burn, and I’m surprised that what I feel is jealousy. Tucker and Joe will always know what it’s like to have someone in their corner. “I don’t know if there’s something wrong with me, but if there is, I can’t feel it. All I know is that I would never, ever do anything to hurt them.”
Phoebe looks at me for a long moment, as if she’s searching for a sign, for that one thing that will make me trustworthy. If she sees something, I can’t read it in her face.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Here’s the deal: my mom fell down, and even though my dad doesn’t think it warrants a trip to the hospital, I’ll feel better if I know she’s all right.” She gathers her purse and the keys to the SUV. “There’s a list of emergency numbers on the side of the fridge. I don’t think I’ll be very long, but if you need any help at all, call Gre—call your dad.”
“I will.”
“Please don’t let me down.”
Her eyes hold mine and I want to promise that nothing bad will happen while she’s away, but it’s not a promise I can make. Bad things don’t announce themselves. All I can do is assure her that I will do my best. That I will be better than my mother. “I won’t.”
“Be good for Callie.” She kisses the boys, then offers me a smile that’s offset by the lines of worry between her eyebrows. “Thank you.”
Phoebe’s SUV is down the driveway and gone when panic sets in. This is different from playing with Tucker and Joe while their parents hover in the background. I don’t know the first thing about caring for little boys. What made me think this was a good idea?
Kat is already in class, but I send her a text message anyway. I’m babysitting. What do I do?
A couple of minutes later, I’m stirring sugar into my bowl of oatmeal when my phone rings.
“I’m calling from the bathroom,” Kat says. “I told my history teacher I started my period. What’s going on?”
“Phoebe had an emergency with her mom, so she left me alone with the boys. We’re eating breakfast right now, but I’m not sure what happens next.”
“Oh, this is an easy one,” Kat says. “Wash them up, then let Tucker pick out a DVD. That will keep them busy long enough for you to clean up the kitchen. Then check Joe’s diaper—”
“His diaper?”
“Yeah, you might have to change it.”
“Oh, God.”
“Not gonna lie,” Kat says. “It’s horrendous. I’ve been babysitting since I was twelve, and the smell of baby poop still makes me gag. Also, don’t forget that the tabs go in the back and attach in the front. It’ll make sense when you see it. The first time I ever changed Tucker’s diaper, I put it on backward.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s about it,” she says. “Oh, you might remind Tuck to use the potty. He has accidents sometimes. Aside from that, between the television and LEGOs—piece of cake.”
It doesn’t sound easy, but I’m grateful anyway. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” she says. “Anyway, I’d better get back to class. Good luck and I hope Phoebe’s mom is okay.”
I turn back to the table to find that Joe has rubbed oatmeal in his hair, and Tucker spilled orange juice down the front of his T-shirt.
“It’s wet, Callie.” Tucker tugs at the hem, trying to pull the damp spot away from his skin. “I want it off.”
“We’ll put on a clean shirt after breakfast, okay?”
“No, now.” The serious little man from before is replaced by an irrational, whining toddler. “It’s yucky.”
“God, Tucker, it’s just juice,” I snap. “It’s not going to hurt you.”
His bottom lip juts out, and I sigh.
“Fine. Come on.”
Leaving Joe in his high chair, Tucker and I go to the bedroom, where we swap the damp shirt for one with Batman wings across the chest. He scampers back to the kitchen and we finish our breakfast, accompanied by his nonstop narrative about how his oatmeal is an island, he’s a pirate, and his spoon is digging for buried treasure.
After I wash up the boys, I park them in front of an animated movie, do the dishes, and then sit down on the floor with them. Joe worms his way onto my lap and leans back against my chest. There’s an oat still stuck in his hair. As I pick it out, he makes a grunting noise and his face turns bright red.
“Uh-oh,” Tucker sing-songs. “Joe is pooping.”
“Poop,” Joe agrees.
Even through his diaper and little stretchy-waist jeans, I can feel the warmth against my thigh and the smell creeps up between us. I dread having to change him and consider pretending I didn’t notice he’d soiled himself until Phoebe gets home, but if he smells this bad now, it can only get worse with time.
I carry Joe into the bedroom and put him down on the changing table. Tucker follows, repeating the word “poop” and giggling every time.
“Okay, Joe.” I unsnap the inseams of his jeans, revealing his chubby little legs. The smell is even more intense now and my stomach roils. “We need to do this really fast, so hold still for Peach, okay?”
He grins and points at my face. “Peach.”
Tucker climbs onto his bed and starts bouncing, arms outstretched as he proclaims himself Batman, Defender of the Universe.
I tear open the Velcro tabs at Joe’s waist and peel back the diaper. A wave of stink curls up my nose and I feel bile rise into the back of my throat. How does Phoebe do this every day without throwing up? How do I get the diaper out from under him? I think about texting Kat, but I don’t have enough hands available and I need to clean up Joe before I puke. I lift him by the feet and whisk the dirty diaper into the trash pail.
“Mommy always makes it in a ball first,” Tucker says, as he bounces.
I ignore him, swabbing at Joe’s dirty bottom with a handful of baby wipes as Tucker informs me his mother doesn’t use that many wipes and that she always straps Joe down so he won’t roll off the table.
“Oh my God, Tucker, shut up!” I snap. “I’m not your mommy.”
He doesn’t stop bouncing, but his bottom lip pokes out and I feel bad for yelling at him as I manage to fasten the clean diaper around Joe—being careful not to put it on backward—and snap up Joe’s jeans.