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I get back to Mel’s trailer and pause at the front door. If that baby’s screaming, I’m not going in. Thankfully, I don’t hear Jasmine’s colicky shrieks. I walk into the little five-by-five entryway that serves as the living room, dining room, and playroom all in one. And now that I’ve moved in, this will also become the guest bedroom once Mel brings the air mattress out. The place is far too small for five people to share, but I guess I’m in no position to complain.
Mel’s in the hallway shouting directions at Bowman. “No, those are the hand wipes. I need the ones that say baby wipes.”
“Which are the baby ones?” he shouts back.
“Look for the letter B.” Mel’s got Jasmine draped over her knee and is trying to clean out an explosive diaper without putting the child on the floor. I don’t blame her, not after seeing what bugs are infesting this place. Set the baby down for half a minute and the cockroaches might carry her off.
“Which one’s B?” Bowman yells from the room.
“The one with two bumps!” Mel’s only paying partial attention to him since Gabby’s on the kiddy toilet shouting that she needs to go number two. “So go,” Mel sighs, resignation ripe in her voice.
“But that makes the bowl dirty.”
I figure I should pitch in, and helping Bowman find baby wipes is the task least likely to drag me into contact with bodily fluids. I pull the box from the shelf and hand it to his mom. “Thank you,” she breathes like I’m a stewardess on an airless plane and I’ve just strapped on her oxygen mask. I’m about to back my way into the kitchen when she looks up from the mustard-bomb of a diaper.
“Oh, your phone was ringing while you were out.”
Great. I swear if it’s my mom ... I told her I was working extra shifts the past two weeks — she thinks I’m still employed — but that woman acts like she’ll spontaneously combust if I let a full seven days pass without calling to check in.
It takes me several minutes to find my handbag in the tornadoesque mess that’s my new home. I glance at the screen, relieved that it’s not my mother who’s been ringing. I stare at the name, wondering if the nighttime cold and darkness are worth the extra privacy.
From the bathroom, Gabby lets out a shrill shriek. “Mom, I got off the potty too soon and now I’m all messy!”
I open the front door and shut it gently behind me before hitting the return call button.
“Hello?” His voice is calm. Something about him reminds me of a lighthouse. Solid. Sturdy.
“Hey, it’s me.” I know every single cell comes with caller ID, but I’m still used to having to announce myself on the phone.
“Yeah, thanks for calling back.” Justin’s got this laid-back aura about him. If it weren’t for his somewhat posh job as the CEO of his own graphic design company, you’d think he was made for life on the California beaches.
I chuckle nervously. I’m not sure why I’m always trying to prove to Justin I’m happy. “No problem. How’s everything going?” I don’t know if this is just a social call or if he has something particular to say.
“Things here are good. Excellent.”
“Glad to hear it.” It seems like whenever we talk, it takes a few minutes for us to get going. Drop the nervous pretenses. The scripted greetings.
“How are you doing?” he asks, and since he’s the only person from my old life who knows I’ve been living at a women’s shelter, I give him the quick rundown about my new situation at Mel’s.
“That’s great.” The funny thing is I know he means it. “I’ve missed talking to you.” Now that we’re warmed up, the conversation flows more easily.
“Yeah, it’s been a little while.” What’s it been? I try to remember. A week? Ten days?
“Too long.”
I have to agree.
Thirty minutes later, I’m back in Mel’s house. I decide that if I’m going to pitch in, I’d rather spend my energy on this pile of filthy dishes instead of the kids who are even filthier and infinitely noisier.
Once she gets everyone settled and the first load of dishes is drying by the sink, Mel and I sit down on the air mattress, the closest thing to a couch Mel’s got here.
“Who was calling for you on the phone earlier?” she asks.
I don’t think I’m blushing, but I’m glad her lights are dim just in case. “That? Oh, it was just a guy I know. His name’s Justin.”
She gives me a playful nudge and wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?” Apparently, being a full-time bus driver with a restraining order against your ex and three kids under school age doesn’t take away your inclination toward gossip. “And just who is this mysterious Mr. Justin who’s calling you so late at night?”
I think it’s five percent cute and ninety-five percent pathetic that she’s three years older than I am and calls 8:45 late.
“Well?” She elbows me again. “You’ve got to tell me everything. Who knows the next time I’m gonna get out and enjoy myself a man?”
“It’s not like that.” Part of me wishes I could concoct some juicy story about me and Justin just so she could experience a little vicarious excitement, but I can’t go there. Not tonight.
She’s still waiting, so I tell her the truth, at least the abridged version.
“Justin’s the father of my little girl. He’s Gracie’s daddy.”