“The memo went out last week,” I say.
“Why are we going through this process?” Kate asks. “We know you’re going to hire her.”
“Who is it?” Daniels whispers to Benny, but it’s loud enough for the room to hear.
“My sister,” Malcolm says with a verocious protectiveness all over his features.
“Which is exactly why we need to go through the official process,” Benny reminds the room. “Conflict of interest. We did the same for Eleanor.”He waves at his wife sitting next to him, the grueling hiring process flashing through my mind like a sped-up montage. Getting Ellie her job, in my opinion, was one of my greatest accomplishments. But it wasn’t without its obstacles. The interviews, background checks, me swearing some random oath that I believe isn’t even a real thing to ensure there was, like Benny said, no conflict of interest.
Obviously, that worked out, seeing as Benny, our boss at the time, went on to marry her. I laugh at the memory, almost missing the conversation happening in front of me.
“Was she the one at Thanksgiving?” Daniels’ curiosity seems to pique.
“Yep. The only sister I got, Daniels,” Malcolm answers.
“All this to say,” I continue whispering as Josie snores lightly in my ear. The sound jolts me into awareness, the realization that I am holding mybaby, who isn’t my small baby anymore, and time is passing me by faster than I know how to grapple with. A chill ripples down my limbs as I cling to her tighter, and I stammer, “I—uh…we need volunteers.”
Josie’s fluttering eyelids distract me, and I miss who volunteers, but Benny says, “Perfect, I’ll email the details tomorrow.”
“Anything else we need to cover?” Benny asks me, but I’m no longer capable of work responses. My mind is transfixed on the fragile soul clinging to my blouse.
The school bell rings, signaling the end of our meeting, and everyone swiftly exits.
“Benny said Lola could watch Josie this afternoon if you need,” Ellie says as I gently place her back into the stroller. Moving as slowly and as carefully as possible, I click the brake off and begin wheeling her down the hall once it’s clear.
Kate follows, carrying my binders and the diaper bag. “She’d have the best time with her,” she says, like she’s trying to convince me. I trust Lola—I really do—but the reality hits me anyway. Josie is tiny, and Lola,as spritely as she is, is still a double-knee-replacement grandma. That more than speaks for itself.
After some time of group intervention by half of my faculty—half pushing me to accept help, half reminding me of my endless to-do list I’m supposed to finish this week, all while keeping my anxiety at a manageable level—I’m now unloading Josie and what feels like her entire nursery into Lola’s living room, despite every bone in my body resisting.
“She will need to eat in an hour. But at this point, she might get too tired, so you’ll need to keep her awake,” I rattle off as I scramble to set up the Pack ‘N’ Play, sound machine, the camera, and sleep sack. Josie’s naptime routine is a ritual I can do in my sleep at this point.
Lola eyes me like I’m a madwoman.
“You have my number,” I tell her, and she nods reassuringly, rocking Josie in her squeaky leather recliner. “I will be back at 4:00 to get her, but please call me if you need me sooner.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Now go, you’re going to be late!” She waves me out the door, but her eyes are fixed on Josie’s sleepy face.
“Are you—” I grimace as Lola’s eyes snap to me. “She’ll need to eat,” I whisper, wincing as Josie threatens to fall asleep at any moment.
Lola purses her lips and flares her nostrils. It’s her rehearsed tactic, but still, it works. “I raised two babies and two grandbabies, you know,” she retorts.
I surrender and back toward the door but don’t leave completely. Some invisible weight settles in my bones as I see Josie’s sleepy arms outstretched toward me.
“She’ll be fine. I’ve got this,” Lola reassures, her voice gentler now, like she can see what leaving my baby is really doing to me.
“I know, I know.” I exhale, forcing a smile and waving at Josie as Lola scoops her up and takes her to the infamous cuckooclock as a distraction. The yellow bird pops out and begins her song just as I step out of the door. Josie is oblivious to me leaving, transfixed on the spinning bird.
My wave goodbye is missed by both of them as I slowly make my way to the car. That unwelcome, creeping sensation of guilt settles in my limbs at the fact that I’m leaving Josie again. I’m leaving my baby with someone who isn’t me—again.
Getting into the car feels like a marathon, my arms and legs weighing a thousand pounds, my chest constricting, followed by that familiar low, painful hum in my ribs. It’s not just about leaving Josie. It’s not even about Lola watching her. It’s me.
“Chill out, Emma,” I chide myself, slamming a physical fist against the hood of my car and a metaphorical one at the anxiety trying to take root.
It’s been showing up more lately—in places that don’t even make sense. At night. Taking out the trash. In the middle of a staff meeting. Sitting at the kitchen table. All places that bring structure and routine, moments that shouldn’t consume and disarm me, but they have been.
I used to be able to explain my anxiety, catch the triggers, prepare for the inevitable. Lately, though, it seems to have grown into a beast that feeds off of any emotion I show. Happy, sad, mad, all of them aggravating the monster.
A sob chokes at me as the feelings start to swell, the monster making itself known. I unbutton my blouse to get some air. On instinct, I reach for my phone, for anything to keep me tethered to reality.
