Chapter Seventeen Present
No one comes. By noon I realize that I have destroyed my marriage and it is Sam’s day off. I break out the Scotch. I don’t even like Scotch, but for some reason it makes me feel bonded to Caleb.
The little brat is finally sleeping. I don’t think twice about taking two fingers of Caleb’s best. She’s so high-strung a little single malt would do her good. I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, as I trudge up the stairs toward the shower. I look like one of those chubby, lank haired mothers who occupy park benches, all the hope drained from their eyes. Is that what I am destined to become? A single mother, wearing ugly jeans and doling out those disgusting goldfish cracker-things at snack time?
No — I square my shoulders. If I am going to do this, I will not go to the damn park. I will go to France, and I will feed her caviar and pâté. I can do better than a stereotype. I can be a Chanel mother.
By the time I climb out of the shower, I feel like a new woman. No wonder Caleb drinks that expensive stuff. I’m practically walking on air. When the baby wakes up, I feed her from the stock of milk I pumped earlier. She already seems fussy, like the bottle is an inconvenience instead of a meal. She screams and thrashes her head around until her skin flushes as red as the troll fluff that’s sprouting on top of her head.
I wiggle it in her mouth, until finally she latches on, grunting with her eyes closed.
“Lost that battle, didn’t you?” I say, resting my head back in the rocker and closing my eyes. “If you think I’m going to be doing that all the time, you’re wrong. Spoiled little redheaded brat.”
I wake up in the rocker. The baby is asleep on my shoulder. I can feel her heat seeping through my clothes, and hear her little breaths in my ear. I lower her in her crib as gently as I can and check my phone.
Nothing from Caleb, but two calls from Sam. I am about to call my good for nothing manny when he sends me a text.
Sam: Stomach flu, need a few days off.
Before I know what I’m doing my phone is spiraling out of my hand and toward my beautiful f*cking marble staircase. I close my eyes as I hear it smash into a dozen pieces. My whole life is falling apart.
The baby starts to cry, I start to cry. I smash a few more priceless antiques and pull myself together. I have a gosh-darn baby to take care of. When I march back into her room, my sobbing has subsided to a whimper and I already have my boob out.
Sam finds me in my usual spot on the floor next to her crib. He nudges me in the ribs with his foot, and I shove his leg away.
“Did you stop bathing?”
When I don’t respond, he pulls me to my feet, casting a quick glance into the crib before ushering me out.
“I didn’t kill her,” I sputter, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He ignores me, pushing me toward my bedroom.
“Just because you’re a mother doesn’t mean you can’t take care of yourself.”
I shoot him a nasty look. Obviously, he has no idea what it is to take care of a baby. He shoves me into the bathroom and turns on the shower.
“Caleb called to say he won’t be coming home,” he says without looking at me. I slap his hands away. “What else did he say?”
Sam won’t answer me. This is bad. This is really bad. Caleb doesn’t air his dirty laundry. If he’s telling the damn manny something, it must be because he’s made up his mind. I climb into the water and let it roll across my face.
God — why didn’t I think of these nasty consequences before I flung that zobmondo at him? Did I really think I’d be hurting only Caleb? I pretty much screwed myself from here to Mars, and now that poor, little brat isn’t going to have a father.
Unless.
I shook my head. How could I even think that?