Rodent (6 page)
Mom works late, but there’s no reason she couldn’t be with him in the afternoon. Just because government subsidy pays for it doesn’t mean he should spend every waking hour with those morons. What kind of mother doesn’t want to be with her own kid?
I head for the apartment like some kind of speed-walking champion, the rain still coming down in a steady drizzle. Maisie pants behind me.
Evan starts to whimper again once we hit the elevator. “I feel sick.” His cheek is hot against my neck.
“Almost home, Evan,” I say.
When we enter the apartment, there’s no sign of Mom. The logical part of my brain says it’s not fair to be mad at Elaine. Mom probably wouldn’t have picked up if Elaine had called. Still.
I lower Evan to the sagging sofa, and he closes his eyes and curls into a ball. I rummage in the cupboard for the Children’s Tylenol. Of course, there’s none.
The bedroom and bathroom are both empty—bathrobe on the floor and the smell of perfume.
“Where the hell is she?” I slam my hand against the counter, looking at the clock.
“I got Evan a glass of water,” Maisie says at my elbow.
My shift starts in ten minutes. I’ll have to call them and say I’m not coming. And screw up my job too? I’ve only been there for three weeks. In that time, I’ve had money to buy bread when we’ve needed it and coins for the laundry. I can’t remember how many times I’ve had to scrub underwear in the bathroom sink when the money ran out.
I’ll tell them I’m sick. No, they probably just watched me walk by with Evan and Maisie. I could kill Mom.
“Maisie, listen to me.” I take her thin shoulders in my hands. “I’ve got to go now. Do you think you could be a big girl and look after Evan for a bit? Mom should be back soon.” Lies.
“By myself?” she asks, eyes wide.
I nod. “Sit next to him on the sofa and help him like you just did. You brought water, right?”
She looks up at me. “Are you coming back soon?”
“I’ll be right back.” More lies. “I’m going to get Evan some medicine.”
“Okay,” she says, a tremor in her voice.
I tuck them both under a blanket on the sofa and find some sitcom on
TV
—probably too old for them, but it beats the news.
“Don’t answer the door or the phone,” I say before locking the door behind me.
* * *
“Isabelle.” Rupa looks up from the counter as the bells jingle over the door.
I can’t imagine how I must look right now: wet, limp hair, red face, stomach churning. I’ve been at a full-out run for almost an hour. As mad as hell.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “My bus schedule changed. It’s a bit of a rush.”
“Well, you’re here now.” She smiles down at me. I wait for her to give me a job to do.
“Can you do the glass, please?” She motions to the tall windows running the length of the store. “Inside tonight.”
I collect the bucket and squeegee from the back. Somewhere behind the boxes, I hear Arif rummaging and stacking. No sign of Hasan yet.
Things pick up by the time I’ve finished two large panes. Arif brings me a mop and bucket from the back and points to the trail of muck between the door and the counter.
“Keep an eye on this,” he says. Whenever there’s a lull between customers, which isn’t very often, I drop down the sloppy string mop and scrub. More like spreading it around, if you ask me. Arif joins Rupa at the other till to keep the line moving.
I turn back to the windows. I don’t know if it’s from carrying Evan or washing or mopping, but I feel weary to the bone. I raise the squeegee above my head, and my whole arm trembles. I steady myself against the glass.
Right now Maisie’s up in the apartment, watching the door for my return. Unless Mom has come home—then who knows what’s going on? At this very moment the fire alarm could be ringing. Evan could be having a seizure. Maisie could be choking on a cracker.
I left a six-year-old to watch a four-year-old. What have I done? And the thing I hate the most, what makes me squat to catch my breath, is that I’ve just done to Maisie what Mom does to me. The floor lurches.
“Isabelle.” Rupa’s at my side, touching my shoulder. “What is it?”
I take her hand to pull myself up. I realize I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. “Sorry, I’m feeling sick. I have to go.”
She nods, worry in her eyes. “Yes, go home.” As she guides me toward the door, I suddenly remember.
“Rupa, can I buy some Tylenol for my brother?”
“Of course.” She grabs the small pink box from the shelf and puts it in my hand. “Just take it to Arif. He’ll ring it through.”
“Only”—I hate these words out loud—“I can’t pay for it now.” I gave Mom my last twenty to catch a taxi to work the other day. Payday isn’t for another five days.
Rupa’s face falls, like I’ve just told her a sad story. She doesn’t answer.
“You can take it straight off my check,” I offer, “and I’ll pay you back double.” Who am I to ask her these things? It hasn’t even been a month.
“No, no. Not double.” Her eyes flick toward Arif, who has just turned his back to pick out a carton of cigarettes. “Go now. Just take it. We’ll work it out later.”
I tuck the box close to my body as I head for the door, like we’ve just done an illicit drug deal. As I pass by the counter, Rupa breaks away and calls to Arif. He turns his head in her direction and doesn’t see me leave. There is no urinal I wouldn’t scrub for this woman.
Outside, I take a deep breath in the damp, then break into a run.
Let them be okay. I’ll never leave them alone again. Never
.
I bump some old lady out of the way getting onto the elevator and bang the tenth-floor button again and again. The doors pull shut in slow motion. A few creaks and groans as it creeps from floor to floor. Piece of junk. The stairs would be faster.
“’Scuse me,” I say, pushing past a mom with a stroller who’s blocking the way off, jamming her wheels into the wall. I run away from her indignant cry toward our chipped peach door. My mouth so dry I can’t swallow.
I fumble with the lock and dive through the door. Maisie’s right there in my face.
“What, Maisie? What is it?”
“Evan.” She points to him on the sofa. “He threw up.” Her lip droops as she says it. There are tear tracks on her cheeks. “I tried to take him to the bathroom, but he said he couldn’t.” She chokes up. “He wouldn’t go.”
I look to the sofa and see Evan, who has shifted away from the brown, lumpy mess dripping down onto the carpet. The sour smell hits me now. His eyes are closed.
“Maisie”—I pick her up in a bear hug—“you did such a good job looking after Evan. Now I’m here, and you don’t have to anymore.”
She nods and wipes her cheeks. “Okay.”
“Go make yourself a peanut-butter sandwich while I clean this up.” She pads to the kitchen, freed from her unpleasant duties. “And wash your hands first!”
I haul Evan to the other side of the sofa, away from the mess. Clean his face with a wet cloth and pull the soiled shirt off of him. His ribs burn under my fingers.
“Maisie, bring me Evan’s blanket.” Once he’s settled, falling in and out of sleep, I turn to the vomit. I’m practically an expert at this. Still makes me gag every time.
The shifting mess seeps through the paper towel, making my stomach twist. I clear away the big stuff and then pull out my bucket and rag. At least it won’t stain. You could hide a world of bodily fluids in this rust-colored shag. I do my best with it, then turn back to Evan.
Maisie watches me pour the thick pink liquid into a spoon. “Is that Evan’s medicine?” she asks.
“Yup.” Shame I didn’t bargain for a bottle of ginger ale as well. I wake him up enough to swallow it and offer a sip of water. “Don’t gulp,” I say, pulling back. “You’ll throw up again.”
“More,” he cries.
“Wait and see if your tummy holds it down.”
He whimpers and falls back asleep, his head resting on the arm of the sofa.
Maisie brings me a peanut-butter sandwich too. It sticks in my throat, my stomach still queasy. “Did Mom come home at all?” I ask. Maisie shakes her head. “Did anyone call?” She shakes her head again.
I pick Mom’s work number off the fridge and dial it. Some rough-sounding guy answers.
“Hi, this is Isabelle Bennett, Marnie’s daughter.”
Silence on the other end.
“Marnie had a bit of a family emergency today. I was wondering if she made it to work tonight?”
“She’s not here.” He sounds pissed.
“Okay, I’m sure she’ll be back again tomorrow,” I say.
There’s some kind of grunting sound on the other end. I can’t tell if that was actually a word.
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” I hang up.
As I put down the receiver, the weight of every lie I’ve told today comes crashing down on me. Was it every word? Every conversation? All to protect
this
—this reality show gone bad.
I read Maisie an extra chapter of
Alice in Wonderland
to make up for being a jerk today. Still haunted by what I did, and she’s too young to even know it.
“I think we’ll have a home day tomorrow, Maisie,” I say, tucking her in.
“No! Tomorrow I’m the helper!”
“Well, you’ll be the helper again another time.”
“No, tomorrow’s my first turn. I’ve been waiting a long time.” The whole five days of school so far. Her lip trembles.
I sigh. “What about Evan? He’s sick.”
“Mom can look after him,” she says. Is she talking about someone else’s mother? Ours took off sometime today and hasn’t come back yet. Still, it’s not a good time for me to miss school either, given my shaky standing with Mr. Talmage.
“We’ll see, okay?”
She smiles and rolls over, tucking her blankets under her feet. “Okay.” In less than a minute her breaths are long and slow. I so envy that.
I pull Evan from the sofa, where he’s been sleeping for over an hour, and arrange him in Mom’s bed. I need to be close to him tonight. Towel over the pillow. Bowl by his side. I climb into bed next to him and lay the back of my hand against his cheeks. They’re flushed pink but not as hot as before.
Thank you, Rupa
. He doesn’t stir at my fingers in his matted hair.
With his eyes closed, he’s a mini Claude—nut-brown hair, narrow nose, high eyebrows. I might be tempted to hate him for that, except that Evan always has a wide-eyed look of surprise, like he just got a puff of air in the face. That soft bewilderment is so different from Claude’s unpredictable rages. Evan cries when he accidentally steps on an ant.
When Evan gasps next to me, I jerk awake and grapple for the bowl. I must have drifted off. Evan sobs, and vomit gushes from his mouth. I lunge to get the bowl in place; there’s a warm splash on my hand before getting it right.
“It’s okay.” I pat his back as his body shudders. Tears leak from his eyes as he continues to heave when there’s nothing left. “Deep breath now.”
When the retching subsides, he falls back onto the pillow, eyes closed. His face a sloppy mess. I wipe him off and mop up the parts that missed the bowl. We have no extra blankets.
“Drink,” he whispers to me, starting to cry when I only give him a sip. I lay my palm on his forehead and then on the small of his back. Hot again. I must have been out for a few hours. Not sure he’ll keep down any medicine at this point.
I hope he’ll sleep again, but he wakes up every half hour to dry-heave. My eyes are two balls boring into my head. Opening and closing my eyelids is a strain. I somehow propel myself to go through the motions: the wiping, the patting, the holding. I could sleep on the kitchen lino at this point.
I hear a key in the lock. A jolt of electricity shoots through me. I find myself in the hallway, carefully pulling the door shut behind me. I reach over and shut Maisie’s door as well. The kitchen stove blinks
4:10
. My head is a balloon floating above a leaden body.
A dark shadow stumbles in the entryway. I wait.
She jumps as she turns and sees me in the living room, outlined in the dim light coming through the window from the street.
“Isabelle,” she says, “you scared me half to death! Did I wake you?” I can smell her from a few feet away—perfume and rum.
“Where were you?”
“I was out with Ingrid,” she says. Ingrid is another drunk she met a few bar jobs ago. They’ve (unfortunately) kept in touch.
“We got a little carried away, lost track of the time.” She starts to laugh, struggling to take off her strappy heels.
“What’s wrong with you?” I say it so quietly that she barely hears.
“What?” She stands up.
“I had to leave my job early and phone your job. Evan’s been puking all night.”
“Oh, poor lamb.” She clucks. “Is he awake now?”
I take a step toward her. “What kind of a mother does that?” I know my words will hurt, but I also want to know. I actually want her to answer the question.
“Isabelle,” she says, “don’t overreact. Even moms need a night out now and again.” Like she’s every other mom. Like this only happens now and again.
It’s the way she brushes it all away, like a fly on her arm. “Don’t!” I’m right in her face now. “Don’t you dare pretend you’ve done nothing wrong!”
She tries to take my hands in hers. I recoil. Then she reaches for me, to hug, console, say it will be okay. I don’t want her touching me. Don’t want to hear her lies. I twist and step away while her hands keep coming, along with her sad words of comfort.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says again and again, reaching.
My hand flies, palm open, across her cheek. A sickening smack, and she staggers backward. My palm stings. Leaning against the wall, she raises a slow hand to her cheek, eyes looking at nothing.
While she’s there, buckled, stunned, I deliver the final blow. “You never should’ve had kids.”
Before I can think, before the horror of what I’ve done can touch me, I bang into our bedroom—Evan finally asleep—and grab the blanket and pillow from my cot. I fly back out to the living room and toss them toward her.
A low sobbing noise rises from the shadow in the entryway.
I run back down the hall, slam the bedroom door, leap across the bed. I reach Evan’s bowl as it all comes up.