by Jamie Blair
I swallow. “Um, that’s over an hour away. I don’t know if I want to be that far from her.”
“She’ll be fine with Grandma.”
“Oh, I know she will. They bonded right away.”
“So, come with me.” His smile makes it almost impossible to say no. But I can’t leave Addy for that long. Not yet. She’s still too young.
“Next time. I’m just not comfortable leaving her yet, not with anyone.”
He closes his eyes and knocks on the table with his knuckles in defeat. When he opens his eyes, he smiles again. “Okay, next time. We have a local show coming up that you’re not getting out of.”
“I’ll be there.”
Addy falls asleep in the crook of his arm, with her hand gripping his finger instead of his hair. Chris, or his grandma, already changed her into her pajamas.
“Want me to lay her down upstairs?” He stands up, careful not to wake her.
“Sure. Want to watch TV?” I stand too and take my plate to the sink.
He catches my eyes. “I’d like to spend some time with you, but I have practice tonight.”
All the muscles in my body tighten at the look on his face. Tonight he would’ve kissed me—no question about it. “Oh. Okay.”
“I’m going out with the guys after, so I’ll probably be home pretty late, or I’d come up.”
“No girlfriends tonight, then?” I take Addy from him.
His finger hooks my hair around my ear. “No girlfriends.” He tugs a hair band off of his wrist and slips it around mine. “You really need to get some of these.”
We don’t move, just stand there smiling like a pair of lust-struck idiots, smiling and fumbling with our newfound attraction. The feeling wraps around us like it’s a real, solid thing binding us together.
“No girlfriend,” he whispers.
chapter
thirteen
Three days later, I’ve bought more formula and diapers, and with what they cost, my remaining money won’t last long. I need a freaking job. I wonder how Hope will survive at Ohio State. I don’t know how she’ll have time to work, with track and school. Brian will make sure she has cash for food and stuff, but I don’t know if she’ll take it. She somehow managed to get to eighteen with her pride intact. I have no pride.
I have a baby to support.
I have to find a job.
I sit at the table downstairs and comb through the want ads. Mrs. B strolls in and starts getting ingredients out for her sauce. She still has her heels on that she wore to work at the doctor’s office. They make her feet look like canned hams stuffed into shoes. “Looking for a job?” she asks.
“Yeah. There’s not much in here, though.”
I flip the page and feel her watching me. “Come over here,” she says. “I’m going to teach you how to make sauce.”
I really don’t want to do this now. I want to find a job, but I push the paper aside and get up. Mrs. B hands me a garlic press and two cloves of garlic. I place one on a cutting board, pick up a knife from the counter, and smash one clove with the side of the blade. The pungent smell of garlic takes over the kitchen instantly.
“This reminds me of Giovanni’s,” I say. “Where I used to work. It always smelled like sauce.”
“What did you do there?” Mrs. B looks at me over her shoulder.
“Made pizza. It wasn’t the best—your sauce is a million times better—but I liked it. I miss working there.”
She taps me on the head with a wooden spoon. “I’ll tell you something, girlie. You do a good job with this sauce, and I’ll get you a job at Mariani’s—that’s my niece and nephew’s restaurant. Jim—that was my husband’s name—and I used to own it. They’ll hire you if I ask them to.”
I can’t speak. I just blink at her a few dozen times.
She laughs. “Sound good?”
“I’d get paid to make sauce and—”
“Not just sauce. You’d make pasta primavera, lasagna, fettuccini alfredo, all sorts of Italian specialties from my original Mariani family recipes.”
The cardboard Leaning Tower of Pisa cut out from a Giovanni’s pizza box and taped to my wall back home flashes in my mind in red and white clarity. There were times when I dreamed of having my own restaurant, times when I’d daydream about traveling to Italy and learning to cook real pizza and fancy pasta dishes. But I never let those thoughts last too long. I’d slam the door shut on the fingers of those dreams after a minute or two—they’d never happen.
But this is happening; she can get me a job.
The garlic press slips from my grip and clatters to the floor. “Oops.” I pick it up and try to remain calm even though I’m teetering on the edge of somewhere I’ve never been before, and it feels faintly like security.
Mrs. B rattles off instructions, and I execute them, grabbing herbs and opening jars of tomatoes from her garden that she canned last fall. I add all the ingredients to the big pan on the stove and stir as it simmers. “It’s starting to smell like yours,” I say.
“Look at the smile on your face.” She flicks me with a kitchen towel. “You’d think you just won the lottery.”
I laugh. She has no clue that I have won the lottery, and not just because of the sauce.
My eyes wander around the room. It’s clean. The curtains have ruffles. The cupboards are filled with food.
I have a new life.
Faith slammed the door on dreams, but Leah—Leah can have any dream she wants.
I shake my head. First, pay rent. Keep diapers on Addy. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Leah. I kick Leah down a few pegs before she carries us both away.
• • •
Hair pulled back? Check.
Black Walmart pants I picked up at eleven o’clock last night, after Addy was asleep? Check. Thank God for Chris staying with her while I went shopping.
White T-shirt borrowed from Chris? Check. He saved me again.
Mrs. B works fast. She taught me how to make sauce a couple of days ago, and I start at Mariani’s today.
At four thirty, with my big bag over my shoulder, hopefully looking like it contains my gym clothes instead of just diapers and bottles, I head to Fitness Plus.
Bubblegum Girl waves me by as I flash my card.
“Add, you have to be a good girl.” I try to catch her eye, but she’s mesmerized by the fluorescent lights overhead. “I’ll be back for you a little bit later.” She clicks her tongue.
The woman in the Kids Club room is all smiles and high-pitched baby voices. She takes Addy from my arms with an exaggerated “Heellooo, baaabbyy!” Addy grips a clump of her dyed red hair that’s the texture of straw. The woman pries Add’s fingers open while making faces and cooing noises.
At least there’s no vicious dog here. Kooky women I can handle.
I leave the bag of diapers and bottles and tell the lady I’m taking several classes and swimming for a while after, but I’ll be back later.
Then I pry myself away, like she pried Addy’s fingers from her hair, and leave.
I’m driving to work with my mind spinning in circles as fast as my mom’s busted washer that never gets clothes clean, just leaves rust stains behind.
I just dumped Addy at the gym and left.
I abandoned her there.
If something happens to her, I won’t be there, and they won’t know where I am.
I squeeze the wheel harder so I don’t give in and turn around. We need money. I can’t keep her if I can’t buy formula and diapers and have somewhere for us to live.
I keep telling myself this, but I still feel like crap and I’m as paranoid as my mom on bad weed. What if they call me over the loudspeaker? Shit. This isn’t going to work. I should just go back and get her.
I keep arguing with myself until I’m through the door at Mariani’s and introducing myself to Gretchen, Chris’s cousin, who’s supposed to train me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, with red lipstick smudged on her front tooth. “I’ve
been cooking and waiting tables by myself for the past two weeks. I’m about ready to walk out and leave my mom to do it all herself. Come in the back with me, and we’ll get started.”
I follow her through a swinging door into the kitchen, watching her long black ponytail swish across her back. She’s probably in her midtwenties. She doesn’t look much older than Chris.
There’s a dishwashing area where a bunch of dirty dishes are stacked, waiting to be rinsed and run through the dishwasher. I hear someone whistling farther back in the kitchen, maybe whoever washes dishes? I hope so. I hope it’s not my job.
“We’ll keep you on nights, five till eleven, four or five nights a week. My mom’s got the schedule for next week at home, so I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know when you work next.”
Gretchen leans her hands on top of a narrow countertop that looks like it’s one big white cutting board. “Here’s where you make salads.” She lifts a stainless-steel lid on a cooler system to reveal plastic buckets of lettuce, carrots, cherry tomatoes, and salad dressing. “First put a handful of lettuce in a bowl and weigh it to make sure it’s not over three and a half ounces.”
I try to pay attention, but my mind is a scattered mess. It’s like the big pile of dog crap on Terry Woods’s walkway. I can’t focus, but whatever. If I can’t throw lettuce into a bowl, then I’m screwed, because this is the kind of job I’m going to have for the rest of my life. If I ever had a shot at going to college, it’s gone now. I can barely manage a part-time job with Addy; there’s no way I can add school into the mix.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about college. I didn’t even finish my junior year. How am I going to graduate high school when all I do is make bottles and change diapers?
Addy will need a bottle in a half hour. Did I tell the kids’ club lady? Shit, I don’t think I did.
“Leah?” Gretchen’s staring at me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Sorry.”
A slow, sympathetic smile eases over her lips. “First time you’ve left your baby with a sitter?” She rubs my arm. She smells like flowers.
“Yeah.” I exhale fast and loud and get a head rush. Spots blink in front of my eyes, and I sway on my feet.
“Okay. Okay.” Gretchen’s hand clutches my wrist. “Come sit down. Have you eaten today?”
“No.” I stumble behind her to a beat-up chair beside the time clock.
“Put your head between your knees before you pass out.” She nudges my shoulder. I lean over and watch her feet traipse away.
The pattern on the chipped tile makes me even dizzier.
It’s the stress.
The exhaustion.
Not eating.
Are all moms this pathetic, or is it just me? Because I’m a freaking disaster. Red, itchy bumps have formed on my palms, and my fingers are peeling. Every time I brush my hair, it’s like I’m shedding, and my jaw aches from grinding my teeth all night.
I’m a mess. How could I have thought taking Addy was a good idea?
I didn’t.
Because I didn’t think about it at all.
Because it was fucking crazy.
“Here.” Gretchen’s shoes have pink and white striped laces. I didn’t notice before.
I sit up, and she hands me a cup of Italian wedding soup and two packs of crackers. “Can this be taken out of—”
She waves me off. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house. Just eat so you don’t fall over during your shift.”
I take a spoonful. It’s steaming hot, and so good that I lick the back of the spoon. My stomach jolts, so I tear open a pack of crackers. “Thanks, Gretchen.”
“You’re welcome.” She brushes her hands over the front of her apron. “It gets easier. But you have to take care of yourself, or you won’t do that little girl any good.”
When I’m done eating, she finishes training me on the fine art of salad making, shows me where the drink station is, and teaches me how to roll silverware. Then I’m given a coffee-pot tutorial, with emphasis on keeping decaf and regular separate so as to not send anyone into cardiac arrest.
She tosses me a black apron. I have to start as a waitress, but I’ll work my way up to learning the ropes in the kitchen.
My first duty is to wipe down the ancient laminated menus, which are covered with crusted splatters of red sauce. Looking under the tables, the Cheerios crushed into the carpet confirm my suspicion that I’ve found employment at the local kid-friendly food joint.
Addy will never grind Cheerios into the carpet under restaurant tables. Never. Not. Ever.
The soapy water stings my hands at first as I dip my rag into the bucket and start on the pile of menus. The front door opens, and two old ladies come in. They don’t wait to be seated like the sign says.
What the hell?
Why believe everything you read?
“Psst!” Gretchen sticks her head out of the kitchen door. She points to the women. “Take them menus.” She gives me a smile and a thumbs-up before disappearing back behind the door.
On my way to the old women’s table, I’m overtaken by the image of tugging the band out of the back of Chris’s hair and running my fingers through it. I lick my lips and smile at the thought.
This is how I’ll get through my shift: daydreaming about being with Chris.
The old women order decaf coffee with cream, and spaghetti dinners with sweet-and-sour dressing on their salads. I never knew there was such a thing as sweet-and-sour dressing, but it’s the senior-citizen standard, from what Gretchen told me.
I take the old ladies their decaf and salads and join Gretchen in the kitchen. “Two spaghetti dinners,” I say, handing her the ticket.
“Already on it. Told you that’s what all old people order.” She smiles with her red-lipsticked lips. She has the thickest, shiniest black hair I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are so dark, I can’t see her pupils.
I watch as she lowers a metal strainer filled with two precooked and premeasured spaghetti portions into hot water. “My aunt says you and Chris are pretty tight.”
“We’re good friends.” I pick up a handful of pepperoni and sift it through my fingers, counting. Thirteen slices of pepperoni on a large pizza at Giovanni’s. Lucky thirteen.
“I used to make him play house. He had to be the daddy, of course.”
Kind of like what I’m doing now. Chris is good at playing daddy. Maybe I should thank her for training him.
“What’s your baby’s name?” she asks.
“Addy.” My voice creaks. Was that condemnation I heard in her tone?
“How old?”
“A little over two months.” I tuck my hands into my apron and ball my fists.
“It’s not easy, huh?” Her eyes leave the spaghetti and turn to me. She blinks slowly and smiles. “I had my son when I was eighteen.”
“Oh.” My hands relax.
“I had my family around to help, though. Aunt Ivy told my mom you’re from Ohio. It has to be insanely hard for you.” She pulls the strainer out of the water and divvies the pasta into two bowls.
“Chris and Mrs. B have been a lot of help. I’m lucky I found them.” I wish I had Hope. She loves babies. Brian’s older sister has a one-year-old little girl. Once when I was over at Brian’s with Hope, the baby was there and Hope sat on the floor playing with her the entire time. Hope would love Addy—assuming she could get past the part where I kidnapped Addy and took off.
“Chris is a good guy,” Gretchen says.
There’s a hint of a threat in her eyes.
Why does everyone assume I’ll hurt him?
They must be clairvoyant.
• • •
After the old women eat and leave, I get only two more tables before it’s 8:40. I’ve made enough in tips to buy precisely three-fourths of a can of formula.
I’m so screwed, and I have to fake my way out of here to pick up Addy.
I clutch my stomach and find Gretchen in the back making a pizza for a to-go order. “Hey
, I’m not feeling very well,” I tell her. “You know how I almost passed out earlier? I think I might be getting the flu or something. I need to leave.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You want to leave? Why don’t you just sit down for a while? You only have a couple more hours.”
Shit.
I drop down in the chair by the time clock again and fold my arms over my stomach. The clicking of the clock over my head is making me crazy. I have to get out of here and pick up Addy. “I’m going to puke.” I bolt through the kitchen door and jog across the dining room, into the ladies’ room.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and hate what I see.
A liar.
A kidnapper.
A high school dropout.
God, I can’t believe I did this to myself.
Then Addy creeps into my mind, followed by an image of my mom in her ratty robe, and I don’t regret any of it. Living with Angel and Dave would be even worse with the constant partiers hanging out all night and drugs everywhere. I got us out of there. We won’t live like that no matter how many lies I have to tell. We’ll have a better life than that . . . somehow.
I hold my breath until my face turns red, then splash some water on it to make it look clammy. Gretchen’s waiting on a table when I come out of the bathroom. “I have to go,” I tell her when she’s on her way back to the kitchen. “I just threw up,” I whisper, so the customers don’t hear.
“Okay,” she says. I can tell she’s pissed. Why would she be pissed if I puked and have to leave? She must not believe me.
I can’t worry about that now.
I head to my car and fly down the road toward Fitness Plus, darting glances in the rearview mirror every few seconds. The last thing I need is a speeding ticket in a stolen car.
When I get to the Kids Club and open the door, there’s a different woman watching the kids. Addy’s screaming in a crib, and another little boy is sitting on the floor throwing blocks at the wall.
The new lady glares at me. “We didn’t have enough bottles. We paged you five times.”
