my left hand is in a fist, so I
take a few breaths until my fingers relax.
"I
wasn't following you."
"Yes
you were. From when I got off work. And I
know you, you're that lady that stole the body
splash."
"What?
I never-I don't do that. Don't steal." There's no trashcan so
I place the drink down at my feet and try to play sober. It's not working
because my hands are moving, I have no place to put
them. And I can tell Ms. Snarly Nose has caught on because she gives me
the same face I saw the last time something like this happened. I had
gone to the library instead of the mall and picked out some books for Wren
because kids need books, they need to read to grow their brains and the
librarian had that sadness in her eyes like her heart was ripping for me tissue
by tissue by tissue because I couldn't quite stack the books right and walk out
the library without bruising my hip against the double doors.
And Ms. Snarly Nose keeps staring the same way and I start sweating because
Hattie makes us wear pants to work even though it's hotter than a billy goat's
ass in a pepper patch. And I don't know why I think of that saying, of my
mother's face wiping sweat off her doughy forehead on our old front
porch. In my head she's dressed for church, that ridiculous hat with the
fake petunia stuffed under the ribbon. There's pain in my palms because
I'm digging my nails into them, two fists now, and when I look at Ms. Snarly
Nose's "I feel sorry for you" face, I step forward to end my misery,
but a car pulls up to the curb.
"Hey there!" comes a voice from the driver's seat. It's a man
with dark hair and he waves at Ms. Snarly Nose, one of those puny waves you
give a child. And in the back through the window I see a baby.
"Hey,
sweetie," Ms. Snarly Nose says, her eyes still on me. But her trance
is broken when the baby's wail sounds through the passenger side window and she
begins to say, " It's okay, Teddy. Mommy's
here." Mommy.
She
gets in the car and they drive away and I watch the shadowy back of her head,
her arms orchestrating the conversation she must be having about "the drunk crazy lady."
I stumble-walk to my car that's parked
over near the food court. I melt in my pants, in my stupid
pea green ballet flats, another glorious Wal-Mart purchase and hope to God I
get hit by a car before I form a puddle on the side walk.
I
find the GrandAm and drive to St. Bonaventure, windows down, slamming my head
to Metallica. I hate Metallica, but I hate the quiet even more. I
hate the soul crushing smell of old French fries. I hate my mother. That stupid hat.
I
play sober driver to the best of my ability and only skim the walkway a tiny
bit with my front tire in the pickup line, but by the way the kid in the Buzz
Light Year backpack reacts, you'd think I was trying to gun down him and his
whole family.
I
put the car in park, music now shut down to a soft hiss and I try staring at
the sun until Wren pummels the car door with her hand, trying to wrench it
open.
"Mommy!"
she says when she gets into our oil fried car.
Mommy,
I think and try not to cry.
NINE
Mitch
She finds one that meets Wednesday
nights which means a stony silent truck drive into Little Rock. We can’t
join White Smoke’s AA because Elena’s convinced the town already knows the
color of our underwear, and truth be told, I really can’t argue with that
logic.
“She’ll
be okay, right?” she asks and the quiet crumbles, her
voice chipping inside the cave of my ear. I eat the blast of cold coming
through the A/C because she’s always too hot.
“She’ll
be just fine.” Pam and Jimmy are watching Wren while Elena and I are at
“the Spaghetti Factory.” They’ve been given the comprehensive guide on
evening urine clean up which will most likely be Pam’s jurisdiction considering
Jimmy doesn’t “deal with
take a few breaths until my fingers relax.
"I
wasn't following you."
"Yes
you were. From when I got off work. And I
know you, you're that lady that stole the body
splash."
"What?
I never-I don't do that. Don't steal." There's no trashcan so
I place the drink down at my feet and try to play sober. It's not working
because my hands are moving, I have no place to put
them. And I can tell Ms. Snarly Nose has caught on because she gives me
the same face I saw the last time something like this happened. I had
gone to the library instead of the mall and picked out some books for Wren
because kids need books, they need to read to grow their brains and the
librarian had that sadness in her eyes like her heart was ripping for me tissue
by tissue by tissue because I couldn't quite stack the books right and walk out
the library without bruising my hip against the double doors.
And Ms. Snarly Nose keeps staring the same way and I start sweating because
Hattie makes us wear pants to work even though it's hotter than a billy goat's
ass in a pepper patch. And I don't know why I think of that saying, of my
mother's face wiping sweat off her doughy forehead on our old front
porch. In my head she's dressed for church, that ridiculous hat with the
fake petunia stuffed under the ribbon. There's pain in my palms because
I'm digging my nails into them, two fists now, and when I look at Ms. Snarly
Nose's "I feel sorry for you" face, I step forward to end my misery,
but a car pulls up to the curb.
"Hey there!" comes a voice from the driver's seat. It's a man
with dark hair and he waves at Ms. Snarly Nose, one of those puny waves you
give a child. And in the back through the window I see a baby.
"Hey,
sweetie," Ms. Snarly Nose says, her eyes still on me. But her trance
is broken when the baby's wail sounds through the passenger side window and she
begins to say, " It's okay, Teddy. Mommy's
here." Mommy.
She
gets in the car and they drive away and I watch the shadowy back of her head,
her arms orchestrating the conversation she must be having about "the drunk crazy lady."
I stumble-walk to my car that's parked
over near the food court. I melt in my pants, in my stupid
pea green ballet flats, another glorious Wal-Mart purchase and hope to God I
get hit by a car before I form a puddle on the side walk.
I
find the GrandAm and drive to St. Bonaventure, windows down, slamming my head
to Metallica. I hate Metallica, but I hate the quiet even more. I
hate the soul crushing smell of old French fries. I hate my mother. That stupid hat.
I
play sober driver to the best of my ability and only skim the walkway a tiny
bit with my front tire in the pickup line, but by the way the kid in the Buzz
Light Year backpack reacts, you'd think I was trying to gun down him and his
whole family.
I
put the car in park, music now shut down to a soft hiss and I try staring at
the sun until Wren pummels the car door with her hand, trying to wrench it
open.
"Mommy!"
she says when she gets into our oil fried car.
Mommy,
I think and try not to cry.
NINE
Mitch
She finds one that meets Wednesday
nights which means a stony silent truck drive into Little Rock. We can’t
join White Smoke’s AA because Elena’s convinced the town already knows the
color of our underwear, and truth be told, I really can’t argue with that
logic.
“She’ll
be okay, right?” she asks and the quiet crumbles, her
voice chipping inside the cave of my ear. I eat the blast of cold coming
through the A/C because she’s always too hot.
“She’ll
be just fine.” Pam and Jimmy are watching Wren while Elena and I are at
“the Spaghetti Factory.” They’ve been given the comprehensive guide on
evening urine clean up which will most likely be Pam’s jurisdiction considering
Jimmy doesn’t “deal with
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