I know I won't.
How the fuck will I be able to pay the bills, much less get Christmas presents and everything else we need to make the holiday magical?
We sit in the car for several minutes.I can't get myself to move.I want to sink through the ground and escape.I want to switch places with Irene.
I don't want to die; it's not what I mean, but here I am with her child.The child she was willing to die for before he was even born.I love him as if he were my own flesh and bone.In a way, he is.But I think...maybe it would have been better if she had lived and I hadn't.
Irene pleaded with me when she got her diagnosis, begged me to adopt Ira the moment he made it into this world, so our parents had no legal right to him.
I might never have planned on being a parent, but whenyour dying sister begs you to take her only child and shield it from all evil, there is no way to say no.
And I wouldn't want to.
Ira is my everything.A spitting image of Irene, and I don't want to miss a day of his life.Only...maybe she'd been better suited to care for him.
"Fish sticks?"I don't have the energy to cook, and I know there's a pack of fish sticks in the freezer.
"Sure."He makes no move to leave the car, and neither do I.
"Everything good in school today?"
The half-concealed wince is gone so fast I'm almost sure I imagined it, but it has my heart pounding.
"Did something happen?"
"No."
"Is someone being mean to you?"Anger fills my veins.Kids can be so shitty at times, and I know there have been some comments about him not having a mom.The little monsters might not know how hurtful their words are, but there's been a time or two when I've wanted to wring some kid's neck.Spoiled brats who don't know how blessed they are.
"Our class is going to sell cookies for fundraising."
Oh no.The little energy I had gathered to go inside the house and search the freezer for the damned fish sticks trickles down on the floor mat.
Ira opens his backpack and hands me a bunch of papers.The first is a letter with some cheery prints framing the text.The second is filled with instructions, and the third is a brochure with photos of different kinds of cookies and an order form.
I focus on the letter.I don't think it's his teacher who's written it.I bet it's one of the snotty moms who always give me sideways glances when I drop Ira off in the morning.It says everyone should aim to sell at least ten packs, but the more the better, and the one who sells the most will get a reward.
I groan aloud.It should be illegal to do these kinds of things, to put this kind of pressure on kids.I make a quick calculation of what ten packs of cookies will cost me and pinch the bridge of my nose.
"I'm sorry."Ira's voice is no more than a whisper, and I'm instantly ashamed of myself.
"No, honey.We'll make it happen.Ten packs.We can sell ten packs, right?"I skim the letter again.A week until we have to send in the order.I frown.Normally, they give us a month.
I glance at Ira."Did you get this today?"
He avoids my gaze."I've had it for a while, but our teacher reminded us today."
Fuck.I don't think he's forgotten.He knows as well as I do how these things go--I'm the one buying the things he needs to sell.
Maybe I could ask someone at work?I instantly squash the idea.I'm not close to anyone at work, and right now, the tension in the corridors makes it hard to walk there.Asking about cookies does not feel right.
There are a URL and a password for an online store for relatives and friends who live far away.If my headache hadn't been killing me, I'd have rolled my eyes.
I want to strangle the person who wrote this letter.They always assume there is family around.Always assume there is a backup.We don't have one.I wonder if--I scan the bottom of the paper for a name--Brittany will sneer when she realizes I've bought all ten packs.She'll most likely think I'm irresponsible and have forgotten only to add the order at the last minute in the car before dropping Ira off.And then he'll be mocked in school for only having sold ten packs while having to watch the special kid with the biggest family get some kind of reward for a job well done, when it's most likely his mother who's called around to take up orders.
The papers crease in my grip.
"Let's order pizza."It's not in our budget, but I can't face fish sticks right now.
