“El? What’s going on? Are you okay?” I hear, and I realize I somehow connected the call to Gianna. God. Now is not that time.
“G, I can’t talk. Oliver is throwing up.” Violet lets out a scream, and I swivel to see her covered in what I assume is her last bottle. “Now Violet is throwing up too! What am I supposed to do? I’m not equipped to handle this! The stupid washing machine is broken, and the dryer broke months ago, so how am I supposed to wash anything? I don’t even have anything bland for Oli to eat, and what if I get it? Is this how parenthood is? I didn’t sign up for this! It isn’t fair, my sister should be here! I don’t want to do this!”
There is silence on the other end of the line, and I begin to cry. I never thought it would be this hard. I love these kids. I’d doanything for them. But it is hard! I’m not their mother, and I know I’ll never be good enough to take her place. They’ll always wish she were here instead of me. I’m making mistake after mistake, and nothing I do seems to be enough.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“What?” I ask, my voice meek and shaky.
“I’m coming. You need help. I’ve been there. I’ll bring cleaning supplies and bland food. We got this, girl.”
“Okay.” I don’t even argue. I don’t have the energy.
Fifteen minutes later, Gianna charges in, arms laden with bags of items. “My entire family just had norovirus a couple of weeks ago, and we stockpiled a bunch of things. I also ordered some groceries to be delivered in about an hour.”
Fresh tears fall from my eyes as I wipe a lock of hair off my forehead. “You didn’t have to do all of that.”
Gianna shrugs. “If the roles were reversed, we both know you’d have done the same thing. Where are the kids?”
I point toward the bathroom, where I can see Violet reclining in her infant bathtub, and Oliver stacking empty cups on the edge of the tub-shower combo. It’s a rare time I’m thankful I can see the tub from the front door. “In the shower. I just got them stripped of their clothes, and now I need to go bathe them.”
“I’ll handle that. You go clean yourself up. What’s wrong with the washer?”
“I really don’t know. I’m not adept at those things. The dryer stopped heating the clothes a while ago, but I figured I could just hang things to dry for now. The washer seems to drain all the water without soaking anything, so nothing actually gets clean.”
She whips out her phone. “Okay. I’m on it. I’ll get someone here to repair them this evening.”
“G, no,” I say hurriedly. “I don’t have the money to fix them. I’ll just have to use the laundromat by the bookstore for now. I was complaining earlier, I didn’t expect you to roll in here and fix everything.”
“Ah, but fixing things is what I’m good at. Just ask Travis. It’s the type A personality. I’ve got this. Go get cleaned up. The kids will be fine with me for thirty minutes.”
Thirty whole minutes to shower? I’m not sure the last time I had that long of a shower. I shouldn’t take the whole half hour, but I do. I need the time to get my head on straight. Think of ways I can make ends meet for the time being.
As I shampoo my hair, I start doing the math. I only have a couple hundred dollars in savings, and a new washer and dryer set will run well over a thousand. I have good credit, so I can probably get approved for a card somewhere. But what will the monthly payment be? I’m already tapped out on utilities, food, and general expenses.
I have a handful of old baseball cards of my dad’s that I know are worth some good money. I hate to think about selling them, but difficult times call for difficult decisions. Wait, is that the saying? Crud. I don’t know.
Another option I have is to open up the bookstore for events. I could charge a flat fee per hour. But how will that impact the wellbeing of the cats that currently live there? And would events change the insurance premiums I pay for the space?
I could also start volunteering to babysit nights and weekends. I’m thankful the bookstore keeps regular hours, and I split the shifts with my best friend, Whitley. Her focus is mostly on the attached café, but we cover for each other so we can have another day off during the week. We’re closed every Sunday, so I could pick up babysitting then. But it risks the chance of bringing more germs into my home, and if the kids are sick, I can’t work.
After taking the longest shower in recent memory, I’m more relaxed, but no closer to any answer. Wrapping my hair in a towel, and my body in my well-loved chenille robe, I pad down the hall to check on the kids, but the doorbell rings.
“That’s probably the groceries!” Gianna calls out. “I’m almost done in here, can you get the bags?”
“Okay!” Well, I’m in a robe, but considering I walked through the parking lot of Rising Stars with puke in my shoes, having a grocery delivery person see me this way is nowhere close to topping my humiliation for the day.
To my dismay, it’s not the groceries.
It’s much worse.
“Leo?”
LEO
I’m going to murder my sister.
Nowhere in our text messages did Gianna say anything about Ella. She said she had a “friend” who was going through a rough time and needed help with fixing a washer and dryer.
