“Luke,” I yell. “Come on, kiddo. We’re going home.”
The classroom aides look at me with their mouths open, but my son is already grabbing his backpack.
Shit.
I forgot about that. I’ll need to get Cora’s. But then I realize Luke’s got both his and his sister’s.
I bend down to greet him. “Hey, buddy.” I clap a hand on his tiny shoulder and pull him to my waist. “How’d you get your sister’s backpack?”
Luke looks near tears, and he doesn’t answer right away. His lips tremble, and a tiny dribble of spit bubbles on his lower lip.
I shake my head, calming myself down so I can reassure him. When he gets nervous or stressed, he struggles to speak. It’s something I’ve had checked out, and the pediatricians and child therapists have all assured me it’s nothing more than an anxiety reaction. He talks up a damn storm when he’s happy or angry. But when he’s stressed or nervous, it’s like he bottles up everything inside and he cannot get his words out. Like father, like son in that respect.
I push past the question.
It doesn’t matter now.
I just want to get my kids out of here.
“It doesn’t matter. You did great, okay? I’m proud of you for looking out for Cora.”
He has their empty backpacks in his hands. Since they only brought their lunches and snacks, there’s nothing left to tie us to this place. I let Luke hold on to the backpacks while I keep Cora in my arms, and together, we head for the front door. The small family that’s been through so much, going through one more disappointment together.
“Mail me a refund, or I’ll dispute the charges with my bank,” I call behind me. “My kids aren’t coming back.”
3
GRACIE
The small plumbingproblem that forced Chloe’s bookstore to close isnota small problem for my tattoo shop. As it turns out, The Body Shop needs time to dry out. That means remediation and remodeling. And all of that means the shop is closed and I’m losing income.
Thankfully, Chloe was able to tear up her carpet, dry out the bookstore, and bring in one of my brother’s firefighter friends who does floors on the side to lay down some nice new strip flooring pretty quickly, and they were able to reopen in time for the weekend.
The last thing I want to do is sit home and stew, so around noon, I roll into downtown Star Falls, desperate for coffee and hoping against hope that I’m not too late for a peanut butter crisp.
I park my car on the street, because contractor trucks are taking up all the employee spots behind The Body Shop, and fumble through the contents of my purse for loose change. I’m about to give up the hunt and stick my debit card into the meters when a reminder alert goes off on my phone.
“Ugh.” I groan and almost drop the precious two quarters I just touched among the numerous tubes of ChapStick, used tissues, and crumpled receipts at the bottom of my bag. “As if I needed a reminder.”
The day the shop flooded, I was supposed to call and schedule a doctor’s appointment. In all honesty, I’m completely in denial that I need to make this call. Hell, I’m in denial that I need to go back to the doctor. The call is like that tiny first step on a path leading right into a nightmare. If I don’t make the call, I don’t have to take the step. Or so I keep telling myself.
But something inside me knows I need to get the stinkin’ test. It’s not a life-and-death health situation. I’m fine, mostly. I just…my stomach tightens even thinking about the mess that started last year. The incredibly hot but short-lived fling. The missed period. The calls and texts that went ignored until the last one. The one that broke my heart into a million pieces until, just a few weeks later, I lost the pregnancy.
Tears sting my eyes as I think about the hours I spent alone in my apartment, wondering if I should just call my mom and tell her everything, but decided against it.
In the year since all that went down, my doctor has begged me to come in for testing to see about future complications or even the viability of another pregnancy.
Part of me wants to sort it out. To know the truth so I can face it and move on with my life. That centered, determined part of me keeps the reminder to call the damn office and schedule the tests active on my phone.
The stronger part of me, though, keeps hitting snooze.
Day after day.
Hitting pause on that alarm makes me feel better and worse at the same time. I know the problem doesn’t go away just because I ignore it. But it kind of does, you know?
I see a parking enforcement car pull up the block, so I’m forced to get out of the car before Marianne or Gordon, whoever’s on duty today, gives me a ticket.
I snooze the notification on the touch screen and toss the phone back in my purse. I climb out of the car, feed the meter my two measly quarters, and squint into the beautiful sunshine to see how many minutes I’ve got. Fifty cents won’t buy me much time, but it’ll be more than enough to get my caffeine and cookies.
