Baby Help

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “No, it’s too deep,” I tell her. “You have to be very careful and not get too close to the lake. Let’s stand back here by the tree and watch people fish for a while.”

  “Okay,” she says, running back to the tree.

  Teresa and I laugh. “She’s precious,” Teresa says.

  We sit on the grass under the tree, keeping watch over Chey­enne, who edges closer to a boy who is fishing with a bamboo pole.

  “It’s safe for Cheyenne down at this end of the lake,” Teresa says. “I stay away from the other end. That’s where the druggies hang out. Not that they’re particularly dangerous, but they leave needles laying around. Late at night, sometimes there’s gang stuff, but mostly, in the daylight, it’s a pretty nice place to be.”

  We get caught up, about Sean, and why I had to get away from Hamilton Heights, and what it’s like to quit the track after all those years.

  I remember how, when I was little, I used to wish Sean and I could trade moms. It was always easy to talk to Teresa, and she seemed to like us. With my mom, it was like we were in the way. But whenever I suggested a trade Sean would laugh and say, “No way, Jose.”

  I’m too old to be making such wishes now, but it is still a lot easier to talk to Teresa. My mom did listen when I told her about Daphne, though. I shouldn’t forget that.

  Cheyenne comes running back to us, excited.

  “Fish! Fish!” she says, pointing to a fish dangling from the boy’s bamboo pole.

  “Cute,” she says, then walks back down close to the boy and watches as he takes the fish off the hook and places it in a bucket. She leans close over the bucket, watching the fish. The boy doesn’t seem to mind.

  “How bad is my mom’s cancer?” I ask Teresa.

  “The doctor says she’s got about a seventy percent chance of beating it if she sticks with the chemotherapy plus follows the nutritional program.”

  “How long has she known?”

  “The official diagnosis was only three weeks ago, when they did the surgery, but she noticed a lump probably over a month ago. She had her first chemotherapy session four days ago. Ac­cording to the doctor, by Friday she should be feeling pretty good, and back to normal for the next week. Then she’ll have another chemo treatment.”

  “How long does she have to do that?”

  “Depends. Maybe four months, maybe a year.”

  “Will she lose her hair?”

  “Probably.”

  We sit quietly for a while, watching Cheyenne, who is now busy gathering leaves and trying to throw them back onto the trees.

  “I’m glad you’re here for a while,” Teresa says. “However this cancer business goes, your mother should get to know you and Cheyenne.”

  “I guess. I don’t think she’s glad we’re here.”

  “Give her a chance. You may be surprised.”

  Near sunset, we walk back to the apartment. I give Chey­enne her bath and Teresa makes a bed for herself on the couch.

  “I’m not giving up my bed for long,” she tells me with a laugh. “But for tonight, I think it’s easier. We’ll try to come up with a more permanent plan tomorrow.”

  In the middle of the night, worried about getting everything done that needs to be done, I take my English notebook and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings into the bathroom, which is the only place I can have a light on without disturbing someone who’s sleeping. I sit on the closed toilet lid, reading the last pages of my book, thinking about what I’ll write for the assigned paper. Rudy crosses my mind, and Irma, and Daphne, and what am I going to wear to the interview tomorrow?

  I creep silently into Teresa’s room, where Cheyenne is sound asleep. I find my journal and take it back into the bathroom with me. I write, three, four, five pages—my troubles, my hopes, in an outpouring that somehow lightens the heaviness in my heart.

  CHAPTER

  17

  I keep looking at my clothes, trying to think what I can do to make jeans and Reeboks look businesslike. Nothing.

  Teresa comes out of the bathroom dressed for work.

  “Do you have any businesslike clothes I could borrow for a job interview?” I ask Teresa.

  She laughs. “My reading glasses are about as businesslike an item as I have.”

  Mom is sitting at the kitchen table in her bathrobe, sipping another of those drinks.

  “What about one of those black convention center skirts?” Mom says. “With the right accessories, that could look sort of businesslike. And your black pumps? You and Missy are about the same size.”

  Mom’s color is better this morning, and she seems more energetic.

  “Listen, I’ve got to get out of here or I’ll be late. But you can borrow anything you want from my closet,” Teresa says. “And finish that protein drink,” she adds, turning to Mom.

  “I’d rather have bacon and eggs,” Mom says with a laugh.

  “Yeah, well, nobody said getting healthy would be fun—don’t forget your fish oil capsules,” Teresa says, dumping three big, amber colored capsules on the table in front of my mom.

  “See you all later,” she says with a wave. Then she’s out the door.

  After breakfast Mom goes rummaging around in Teresa’s closet while I get Cheyenne dressed.

  “Try this,” she says, pointing to one of Teresa’s black work skirts and a pink T-shirt she’s laid out on the couch.

  I put Cheyenne down on the floor by the couch, get “Sesame Street” on TV, then turn my attention to the outfit. To tell the truth, it doesn’t look “professional” or “business-like” to me, but I try it. I guess my expression shows I’m not impressed.

  “This is just basic. We’ll accessorize,” Mom says, blousing up the T-shirt and checking out the skirt.

  “The fit’s okay, but the skirt’s not a good idea. I forgot about your leg.”

  I look down at my bruised and scabby shin. It’s feeling bet­ter, but Mom’s right, it’s nothing I want to display on a job inter­view.

  “Unless . . .” she says, rushing back into Teresa’s room and rummaging through a dresser drawer.

  “You know, I used to have sort of a flair for putting together an outfit, a long time ago, before I lost interest.”

  I think of the picture on her dresser, how sharp she looked.

  “Here!” she says, pulling out a pair of wadded up black tights and shaking them out. “Not exactly spring colors, but we can make it work.”

  First I put gauze pads on my leg, so I won’t mess up Teresa’s tights, then I pull them on and straighten the black skirt. My mom digs up a pink and black scarf.

  “To pull the colors together,” she explains, as she ties it loosely at my neck.

  She brings out a pair of black sandals with a broad heel, and black pumps that are kind of scuffed.

  “No prince for you, Cinderella,” Mom says, as I try to jam my feet into the pumps.

  “I already figured that out.”

  “Well, I don’t think those prince guys are all they’re cracked up to be anyway,” Mom says. “Try the sandals.”

  I can get my feet in these, but they’re still way too small. My heel hangs out in back and my big toe hangs over the front.

  “This is not good,” Mom sighs.

  “Big Bird!” Cheyenne says with a clap of her hands. “See ’em, Mom?”

  “Oh, yeah!” I say. “Big Bird. We love Big Bird, huh Chey-Chey?”

  “See ’em, Gramma June?” Cheyenne yells.

  Mom laughs. “Yep. I see ’em.”

  Mom goes into her room and comes out with another pair of black pumps, even more beat up than Teresa’s. I slip my feet into them—a pretty good fit. I check myself out in the full length mirror in Teresa’s room. I don’t know. I guess it’s better than jeans and Reeboks, but the vision I get is of a little girl playing dress-up with discarded clothes, rather than the busi­nesslike vision I’m wanting.

  When I come out, Mom has the ironing board up and the iron plugged in.

  “Give me
those things and we’ll freshen them up,” she says.

  “I can do that.”

  “No, I feel good this morning. I’ll be useful while I can.”

  I watch while she carefully brushes all the lint from the skirt, then turns it inside out and steam irons it. Then she irons the pink T-shirt and finally, the iron turned low, she irons the scarf.

  “Here, now try them,” she says. “But leave the shoes here.”

  I check myself out in the mirror again. Better. Mom brings me the pumps, freshly polished and shiny. They’re still rundown, but it’s not so noticeable. She blouses my T-shirt and reties my scarf.

  “It drapes better this way,” she says.

  She brings blush and lipstick from her room and dabs a little on me. “Just enough for subtle color,” she says, then stands back and looks me over, like an artist appraising her work.

  “You’re a very pretty girl,” Mom says, as if she’s surprised.

  I look away, embarrassed.

  “We’ve got to tame that mop of hair for today, though,” she says.

  I hear her rummaging around again, this time in her dresser.

  “Damn, where is that clamp thing I bought a few months ago, before I knew I’d be losing my hair?” she mutters.

  She tosses me a brush. “Work on your hair a while, will you?”

  Cheyenne takes the brush from me and stands beside me on the couch, brushing.

  “Ouch. Just my hair, not my face,” I tell her.

  “Sorry,” she says, running the brush across my forehead again.

  “Oops,” she says.

  Mom comes out with two old lady comb things and sits on the arm of the couch.

  “Here, Cheyenne,” she says, reaching for the brush. “Let me work on this a while.”

  “Mine!” Cheyenne says, grasping the brush with both hands.

  Mom goes into the kitchen and comes back with her keys.

  “Trade you,” she says.

  Cheyenne takes the keys and hands over the brush. Mom brushes my hair back on each side and, with the combs, secures it high, away from my face.

  “Business-like,” she proclaims. “Now, let’s see. Have we

  missed anything? Let’s take a look at your nails.”

  She walks me to the bathroom and hands me a fingernail brush and an emery board.

  “Hands make an impression,” she says. “I’ll entertain Chey­enne while you spend a little time on your nails.”

  When I’m finished, I find Cheyenne and Mom down on the floor, making a city of pots and pans.

  “Here’s where the giant lives,” Mom says, pointing to the upside down pasta pot.

  “And Big Bird,” Cheyenne says, pointing to another big pan.

  “And Little Canary,” Mom laughs, putting the small egg poacher next to Big Bird’s pan.

  I don’t remember anything like this. Did she ever do this with me? I stand watching for a few minutes, then pack up our stuff.

  In order to reach Sojourner High School by four o’clock, Cheyenne and I start out just before two. It’s only about a thirty minute drive, but the bus is a different story. We’ve got to make two transfers, and I’m not sure how long it will take to make connections.

  Between Cheyenne standing on my lap to look out the bus window, and sleeping for a while with her head on my shoulder, and me wrestling the backpack around, I suppose my clothes won’t look so fresh by the time we get to the interview.

  It is only a little after three when we get off the bus, two blocks from Sojourner High. Cheyenne is asleep. I sling the backpack over my right shoulder and hold her against my left as I walk toward the school. I think about what they might ask during the interview, how I have to remember to speak up and answer questions directly, and not be shy or modest about what I can do.

  Then, as I turn the corner to the school, I see it. The back of

  Rudy’s car, parked right across the street from the gate. I jump to the side, shielded by a wide-trunked tree. What is he doing there? What should I do? He usually has to be at work by three-thirty. Should I wait, hiding? But maybe he has the day off today. Maybe he found out I’d be here today, with Chey­enne. I hold her closer to me. If I could just get inside the school gate . . .

  I walk, fast as I can, toward the gate. Rudy’s looking in the other direction, toward my old bus stop. Faster. Don’t look, I beg.

  “Melissa!” It is Jerry, rounding the corner and into the school parking lot.

  Rudy jerks his head around and is out of his car in an instant, running toward me. Even from here I can see the stony look on his face. I run, jostling baby and backpack, straight for the gate.

  “Mommy!” Cheyenne cries, waking abruptly. I keep running.

  Just as I reach the gate, Rudy catches me by the arm, nearly causing me to drop Cheyenne.

  “Get in the car!” he says.

  “No!”

  “Daddy,” Cheyenne says.

  Rudy reaches for her and I turn away, tightening my hold on her, shielding her.

  Jerry comes sauntering up, a smile on his face. “Hey, Me­lissa . . .”

  “Get in the car, bitch!” Rudy yells, pulling harder at me.

  “No!” I yell back.

  Jerry walks close to Rudy.

  “Leave her alone!”

  Rudy brushes at him, like he’s a fly. He grabs me by both shoulders and starts pushing me toward his car.

  “Victor!” Jerry yells for the security guy as he tries to step between us.

  I’m holding on to Cheyenne for dear life and I can’t shove back at Rudy.

  “Get away, asshole,” Rudy says, socking Jerry in the mouth and sending him spinning.

  Victor comes running. “Tell Jennifer to call the cops and get Mr. Craig out here,” he yells to Jerry.

  Victor grabs Rudy from behind, and I slip out of his grip.

  “Calm down,” Victor says to Rudy.

  Rudy turns, fist doubled, and smashes Victor in the face. Chey­enne is screaming and I try to run with her but Rudy grabs us again. Victor, nose bleeding, jumps between us and shoves Rudy backward. Suddenly we’re surrounded by Mr. Raley and the principal and a bunch of other teachers I don’t know. Others grab Rudy and Mr. Raley guides me and Cheyenne away, through the gathered crowd of students, into the principal’s office where he sits me down. I am trembly and weak-kneed and Cheyenne is screaming even louder than before.

  “Shhh, Baby. Shhh, Chey-Chey. It’s okay. Everything’s okay,” I say, patting her back, kissing her wet cheek.

  “Are you okay?” Mr. Raley asks.

  “I think so.”

  In the distance I hear sirens.

  “Is Jerry okay?” I ask.

  “I’ll check on him in a minute.”

  The sirens are getting closer. I stand at the window and look through half-open blinds to where Victor and Mr. Craig stand, one on each side of Rudy, each holding an arm.

  Cheyenne is still sobbing, her face against my shoulder, dampening, I’m sure, Teresa’s pink T-shirt.

  “Back to class, now,” a teacher says, directing students away from the fight scene toward classrooms.

  Kids move away, reluctantly.

  “Into class, into class,” teachers urge their slow-moving students.

  Three police cars, one right after the other, skid to a stop in front of the school. Rudy bolts, but three of them are out of the cars, swarming on him. Two crouch beside their car, guns drawn. My heart is pounding.

  Mr. Raley stands beside me at the window, watching.

  One of the policemen slams Rudy, hard, against a squad car.

  “Hands behind your head,” he yells.

  Rudy puts his hands behind his head. They pat him, hard, all over, up and down his legs, his butt, under his arms, every part of the body I’ve known so well. Then the bigger one grabs Rudy’s hands and pulls them behind him while the other one slaps on handcuffs. Rudy winces, but doesn’t look up.

  Cheyenne turns her head and I sit back down in the chair,
before she has a chance to see her dad in handcuffs and to store that scene in her permanent memory bank.

  I hear a car pull out and Mr. Raley says to me, “He’s gone.”

  “’Care me,” Cheyenne says, catching her breath.

  “Yes, that was scary, wasn’t it, Chey-chey?”

  “Daddy ’care me,” Cheyenne says in a whisper, again bury­ing her face in my shoulder.

  The lump in my throat grows bigger, and when I glance at Mr. Raley, looking at Cheyenne and shaking his head, I think he may have a lump in his throat, too.

  There’s a knock on the door and Mr. Raley opens it.

  “I’m Sergeant Drake,” one of the cops says.

  “Norman Raley,” Mr. Raley says, extending his hand.

  “Is this who he was after?” Sergeant Drake says with a nod in my direction.

  “Yes, this is Melissa Fisher and her daughter, Cheyenne.”

  Sergeant Drake pulls up a chair and sits facing me, and ges­tures for Mr. Raley to sit down, too.

  “Peeceman,” Cheyenne says, pointing. “See ’em?”

  He smiles at Cheyenne, then looks at me. “Tell me about it,” he says, taking a notepad and pen from his pocket. I tell him about today, and he asks about other times when Rudy has been violent. I know Cheyenne is listening. Even though she’s only two, she understands a lot that is said. I want to protect her from the worst—like how much her dad hurt me, or the awful pic­tures of Daphne and Kevin in the newspaper. But hiding things from her seems dishonest, and I always want to be honest with her. It’s hard to know what’s right.

  I answer all of Sergeant Drake’s questions, as if from a dis­tance, as if I’m talking about someone else. Cheyenne leans into me, sucking her wrist.

  Sergeant Drake writes down my new address and phone num­ber and says they’ll be in touch. Rudy’s been arrested on three charges of battery. I guess that’s because of what he did with me, Jerry, and Victor. And something about being in violation of a restraining order, and trespassing on school property, and I’m not sure what all else. Anyway, there will eventually be a hearing, and I’ll have to go to it.

  It is four-fifteen when the police are finally finished ques­tioning me and Jerry and all of the adults who saw Rudy push­ing me around.