Play-Doh on the rug by the front door. Right away she starts to wail. Now Mom picks her up. “Well, I guess we know which one of you ate the modeling clay, don’t we? What’s the matter, sweetness? Your tummy hurt?” Kaylee nods and tucks her delicious chin—as small and red as a strawberry—into Mom’s neck.
Mom looks at me. “See what I mean? I don’t blame Kaylee for vomiting on the rug. I blame myself for turning away while she was playing with the Play-Doh. I manufactured this mess. Do you see the difference?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” She blows her bangs off her forehead. “So what do you say? Want to clean up Kaylee or the rug?”
About three hundred and thirty days. Seven thousand, nine hundred and twenty hours. Four hundred and seventy-five thousand, two hundred seconds. That’s when I’ll be in my cozy, Play-Doh–free dorm room at Stanford.
“Andrea? Kaylee or the rug?”
I toss my backpack and hold out my arms. “Kaylee.”
But when Mom tries to hand her over to me, Kaylee turns away and clings more tightly to Mom, wailing even louder. Mom pats her head. “Okay, okay, nothingto cry about. You can stay with Lise.”
Now Kaylee’s bright little eyes look toward me. I tug on her chubby foot. “Does that mean I have to clean up the yuck? Huh, Kaylee? Are you making me clean up the yuck?”
Kaylee smiles and starts to kick, nod her head yes.
“Gross!” I say, feigning disgust. “I have to touch that blue stuff?”
Kaylee squeals, “Yes! Drea do it!”
I tickle her exposed belly now. “You want Drea to do something so yucky? You’re a little bum-bum, that’s what you are.”
Kaylee tries to tickle me back, but in leaning forward, she’s sick again; this time liquid Play-Doh spurts all over my shirt. Her face burns red and she cries as Mom rushes her down the hall to the bathroom before it happens again. “Don’t forget to soak the mat in vinegar after you clean it up, Andrea,” Mom calls back to me. “That way it won’t smell.”
Puke clean-up. That, apparently, is the life I’ve manufactured. Along with not being born Joules Adams.
Mom’s voice. “And make sure Kaia doesn’t get into it!”
Too late. Kaia has seated herself cross-legged in front of the pile of slop and has already driven a car through it. On the floor now, I pull off my already ruined shirt, take the car from her, and, sitting in the hallway in my bra, I clean the toy with my top. “Uh-oh. We got Hot Wheels in the vomit.”
Kaia pokes at my abdomen and laughs. “Drea belly buttin.”
“You’re a belly buttin, Kai-Kai.”
She chortles in delight as I head into the kitchen for rags and water. “No. Drea belly buttin!”
Just then Brayden thunders in with two of his friends. They take one look at me returning with a bucket in my white sports bra—fraying at the edges and rendered dingy gray from an unfortunate incident involving hot water and a black sock—and nearly fall over shouting and laughing as I hide behind the bucket. Brayden squeals, “Ugh, the horror. You’ve burned out my eyes!”
I threaten to swat him with a sopping rag and he stumbles toward the back room with Tomas and Ace in tow, all bumping into each other and the walls as if blinded.
“Morons,” I mutter.
Kaia stands up and waddles after them. She claps her fingers on and off her eyes as she goes. “Owowow, burned a eyes too!”
With a great sigh, I plunge the rag into the bucket and think about cleaning up the rug. I try not to think about destiny, what’s on my shirt, what Brayden will say about my raggedy bra tomorrow at school and, most of all, where Joules Adams’s lips are right this very moment.
Later that night, once the twins are tucked in and Mom is giving Michaela a bubble bath, I lie on my bed and consider what, exactly, is lacking in my mother. I get that she wants to give back to foster kids, but why so many? Why so extreme? And was having
one
natural child part of her grand scheme—so this
Mom looks at me. “See what I mean? I don’t blame Kaylee for vomiting on the rug. I blame myself for turning away while she was playing with the Play-Doh. I manufactured this mess. Do you see the difference?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” She blows her bangs off her forehead. “So what do you say? Want to clean up Kaylee or the rug?”
About three hundred and thirty days. Seven thousand, nine hundred and twenty hours. Four hundred and seventy-five thousand, two hundred seconds. That’s when I’ll be in my cozy, Play-Doh–free dorm room at Stanford.
“Andrea? Kaylee or the rug?”
I toss my backpack and hold out my arms. “Kaylee.”
But when Mom tries to hand her over to me, Kaylee turns away and clings more tightly to Mom, wailing even louder. Mom pats her head. “Okay, okay, nothingto cry about. You can stay with Lise.”
Now Kaylee’s bright little eyes look toward me. I tug on her chubby foot. “Does that mean I have to clean up the yuck? Huh, Kaylee? Are you making me clean up the yuck?”
Kaylee smiles and starts to kick, nod her head yes.
“Gross!” I say, feigning disgust. “I have to touch that blue stuff?”
Kaylee squeals, “Yes! Drea do it!”
I tickle her exposed belly now. “You want Drea to do something so yucky? You’re a little bum-bum, that’s what you are.”
Kaylee tries to tickle me back, but in leaning forward, she’s sick again; this time liquid Play-Doh spurts all over my shirt. Her face burns red and she cries as Mom rushes her down the hall to the bathroom before it happens again. “Don’t forget to soak the mat in vinegar after you clean it up, Andrea,” Mom calls back to me. “That way it won’t smell.”
Puke clean-up. That, apparently, is the life I’ve manufactured. Along with not being born Joules Adams.
Mom’s voice. “And make sure Kaia doesn’t get into it!”
Too late. Kaia has seated herself cross-legged in front of the pile of slop and has already driven a car through it. On the floor now, I pull off my already ruined shirt, take the car from her, and, sitting in the hallway in my bra, I clean the toy with my top. “Uh-oh. We got Hot Wheels in the vomit.”
Kaia pokes at my abdomen and laughs. “Drea belly buttin.”
“You’re a belly buttin, Kai-Kai.”
She chortles in delight as I head into the kitchen for rags and water. “No. Drea belly buttin!”
Just then Brayden thunders in with two of his friends. They take one look at me returning with a bucket in my white sports bra—fraying at the edges and rendered dingy gray from an unfortunate incident involving hot water and a black sock—and nearly fall over shouting and laughing as I hide behind the bucket. Brayden squeals, “Ugh, the horror. You’ve burned out my eyes!”
I threaten to swat him with a sopping rag and he stumbles toward the back room with Tomas and Ace in tow, all bumping into each other and the walls as if blinded.
“Morons,” I mutter.
Kaia stands up and waddles after them. She claps her fingers on and off her eyes as she goes. “Owowow, burned a eyes too!”
With a great sigh, I plunge the rag into the bucket and think about cleaning up the rug. I try not to think about destiny, what’s on my shirt, what Brayden will say about my raggedy bra tomorrow at school and, most of all, where Joules Adams’s lips are right this very moment.
Later that night, once the twins are tucked in and Mom is giving Michaela a bubble bath, I lie on my bed and consider what, exactly, is lacking in my mother. I get that she wants to give back to foster kids, but why so many? Why so extreme? And was having
one
natural child part of her grand scheme—so this
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