I request the postpartum depression meds the minute I’m deposited into my recovery room. The nurse tells me she’ll need to consult my doctor. I tell her, “Fuck the consultation, bring me drugs,” with a growl in my voice and narrowed eyes. She exits swiftly, and Seamus returns immediately from the nursery, I’m sure at her urging.
I send him away for a cheeseburger and fries from the fast food restaurant he likes that’s miles away. I never eat that shit, but today I’m going to indulge in every guilty pleasure I can. Speaking of guilty pleasure, the moment Seamus leaves the room I pull my cell phone from my purse next to the bed and dial Loren.
“Miranda.” His voice always makes my belly flutter; and it’s trying to, despite all the trauma it’s been through the past several hours: baby expelled; all the baby housing, gelatinous accoutrement expelled; traumatized, stretched skin sagging in relief; and internal plumbing irreversibly altered to ensure this doesn’t happen again.
“Hi.” It’s a single, pathetic word that sounds flimsy and tinny. Suddenly I’m on the verge of tears. Not an isolated, pitiful tear, but a painful, hysterical breakdown.
“Justine said you weren’t at work today. Is everything all right?” I want to hear compassion and concern in his voice, all I hear is urgency. He’s busy and wants to end this call. I do the same thing…with everyone but him.
I take a deep breath to keep the deluge of emotion at bay and answer, “It’s a girl. She looks like me.”
Silence. The news is met with silence.
“We’re well,” I add, wishing he’d asked the question, instead of offering the answer unsolicited.
More silence.
I swallow hard twice. “I’ll let you go. I just wanted you to know.” I end the call before he hears the sob escape my lips.
I’m still wailing when Seamus returns. He drops the bag of food on the table and crawls into the bed and holds me.
He holds me like I’m worth comforting.
He holds me like I’m not the devil incarnate.
He holds me like he loves me.
All of which I probably don’t deserve, but I soak it up like a goddamn pathetic sponge.
And I think, Fuck you, universe.
All that’s left is we
present
Miranda just picked up my kids from apartment three for her visit today. I refused to deliver them to her. Truth be told, I wanted to barricade us inside the apartment. And not let her in. Or put the kids in my car and drive far away. And never come back.
A court date is set up for two weeks from now to discuss custody. I know she thinks I’m going to give in to her and sign the papers she had delivered to avoid a battle because she knows I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer. I would sell my fucking soul to fight for my kids. Miranda’s always been self-absorbed, selfish, but it seems the more power she gets career-wise and the more money she makes, the more unreasonable she is. She can’t relate. Everything is a competition…that she counts herself the winner of before it even gets underway. Fuck the opponent—half the time they don’t know they’ve been screwed, and should’ve been fighting with everything they have, until it’s too late.
It’s not too late.
I’m fighting.
I’m stir crazy. Trapped by four walls. I need to get out of this apartment for a few hours. I decide a sandwich from Mrs. L’s deli is in order. I haven’t had one in a few weeks. I’ve been living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. They’re cheap. And cheap is what sustains me these days. But today I’m splurging on a foot long roast beef with extra spicy mustard and banana peppers. Maybe it will help soak up the misery I’m feeling.
Mrs. L sold me a foot long for the cost of a six-inch. I feel like a king. And my mood is lifting slightly. The sunshine begs for my company as I walk out the door of the deli. Its warmth is a hug.
Hug.
And now I’m thinking about Faith as I take a seat at the table in front of the deli. And I’m missing her. And her smile. And her good nature. And her brightness—not just her boldly colored hair, but her presence. Everything about her is colorful like a rainbow set against a backdrop of gray.
My world.
Gray.
She’s contrast. She shines effortlessly, unknowingly imploring me to take notice. It’s an attraction I wholeheartedly feel but have unconsciously tried to deny.
Faith doesn’t answer when I knock, so I write on the deli receipt in my pocket, and tell myself this is not a date.
The ground under the apartment building is settling and there’s a slight gap under the right side of her door, so I slip the paper underneath.
Returning upstairs to my apartment, I lay down on the couch and in no time I’m asleep. It’s sleep I desperately need—making up for all that was lost to worry this week.
Rap rap…rap…rap rap.
It’s Faith’s trademark knock, random and improvised. It’s never the same sequence.
I blink away sleep, but the pace of my heart is so erratic it has me sitting and reaching for my cane before consciousness fully engages.
“Coming!” I yell, even though we can see each other because she’s peeking in through the front window next to the door.