Page 77 of Queen of Nothing

I snatch the backpack from the hooks on the wall. The bag is stickered with the faces of characters from a show Sal is obsessed with.

I carry him outside to the car.

Never thought I would be one for juggling, but here I am, a child hoisted onto my hip, a bag slung over my forearm, my own bag hooked over my shoulder, and keys jangling in my hand.

One of the worst parts of coparenting a child?

Car seats.

Bane of my existence.

Sal is warbling on about the pictures he painted today and a movie he watched.

I drone back, “Oh, did you? That’s wonderful. A superhero? Oh my.” I learned it’s best to ask questions, too. Shows I’m really listening. “What was your favourite part?”

His face lights up and he jumps into another garbled spiel.

The buckles lock in, and I slam the door shut on him. Faint agitation follows me into the driver’s seat.

I tug down the rearview mirror until I have Sal in my sights.

The warm complexion of his cheeks is blotched with blue fingerpaint, the brown of his eyes is as deeply hued as rich soil, and he has the same inky black hair as Serena—

Without the illusions we live in.

He prattles on for the short drive back to the apartment, but I don’t listen to a thing he says.

The only words in my mind are—

‘Call when you are ready to come home.’

13

Another day in an endless line of them.

This crummy little life of ours.

Back when we bought our way onto the boat, and I watched the waters split, I was flooded with every emotion my body could possibly contain.

Before Serena burst my bubble, and told me she was pregnant, underneath all the despair and hurt and fear—there was a little flame of hope.

Hope.

In those few moments, just a handful of minutes, sitting at the front of the boat with Serena right next to me, images of our future flashed in my mind.

I blinked, and I saw possibilities.

Pretty stone and moss cottages on a little self-reliant homestead. Villas overlooking white-sand beaches. A modest penthouse in a bright city. A little shop by the sea. A life of breezy, leisurely travelling, drifting from country to country, living off a supply of money that never runs out.

Fantasies.

Delusions.

The reality is, I stock shelves at the general store. Literally, I do that now. Then when that’s done, I sort through the parcels for the post office storeroom.

A pinkie nail snaps off as I move boxes.

I don’t get manicures anymore, but the nail breaks over the skin, and it stings.