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Rain
Now that Mike has some kind of crisis on his hands, I’m safe for a while. He’ll need me to take care of Arlene. I figure I’ve won some time before he throws me out, so I don’t ask questions.
While Mike unloads everything from the refrigerator into a cooler and packs his belongings, I grab all Shirlene’s—now my—clothes and the baby’s things. I’m not used to having so much stuff. Shirlene wasn’t showy, but it takes two suitcases to carry out all her clothes. Everything I had fit in one backpack. I make about a hundred trips to the car, carrying all the baby crap.
Mike’s face is stony, and he’s silent the entire drive back to Philly. He could ask his landlady to take care of Arlene and toss me out. I can’t let her be involved. Besides, I’m clued in on a few things now—for example, changing before feeding. I decide to try to be a decent mother. Since I’ve been given a second chance, it’s the least I can do.
When we reach Spruce Street, Mike pulls over to the curb, and we unload everything but the baby.
“Here are my keys. Start carrying stuff up. I’ll help as soon as I find parking.”
Before I can argue, he takes off with Arlene. He’s going to have to trust me with her at some point. I gaze up at the four steps leading to the front door. I figure I’d better load things into the downstairs hallway so no one steals anything while I’m upstairs. This way, Mike will be back, and I won’t have to make too many trips up to the second floor. So far, being responsible isn’t feeling great, but I start lugging things up and in through the heavy double doors.
“Hi, Rain. I’m surprised to see you. How’s the baby?” It’s Mrs. Haddad, wearing her weirdo head-scarf thing.
“Fine.”
“School starting soon for Cameron?”
“Yes.”
She looks past me at the pile on the sidewalk. “You have a lot to bring in. I’ll find my husband so we can help you.”
“No. I don’t want your help.”
Her mouth opens in shock. Then it crumples. Who is she to be hurt?
“Rain, I thought we’d become friends.”
“You’re wrong. Now, I have to move this stuff off the street before someone steals it.”
Mike rushes in with Arlene in her carrier.
“There’s that sweet child.” Mrs. Haddad reaches for my baby.
I snatch the carrier handle and the keys from Mike’s hand. “I’m taking Arlene up.” Mike can bring everything the rest of the way. I’m not his servant.
Before I unlock the apartment door, Mike says, “She’s back to her old self, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry.”
“My husband and I can at least bring your things in here.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“He’s in the back, working. It’s taken him all summer, but he’s nearly finished the studio apartment.”
I let myself into Mike’s place. It’s good to get away from his landlady’s chatter. The apartment smells stuffy. But before I open the windows, I lug Arlene into the spare bedroom. She’s beginning to fuss. She probably needs to be changed and fed again.
I set the baby carrier on the floor to open the nursery window and go into the other bedroom to open the two windows in there. Quickly, I peek into Mike’s closet, where I expect to find my old clothes and whatever else Shirlene bought to wear, but it’s filled with his clothes. Of course—Saint Shirlene was breastfeeding, so she slept with Arlene and got up at all hours of the night. Well, I’m clearly sleeping in the baby’s room, too, if I plan to convince Mike to let me stay. Arlene lets out a howl. I shuffle back to deal with her. My stomach lurches when I remove her diaper, and I worry I’ll never be used to this smell.
Mike comes into the room, carrying his luggage. “Oh, are you staying in here with Arlene?”
“Yes.” I snap up Arlene’s little outfit. “If you don’t mind, put my stuff in here.”
He disappears back down the hall.
Arlene continues to cry loudly. I go to Mike’s bedroom door. “I have to feed her.”
He quickly wipes tears from his face. “There’s a bottle of breast milk in the cooler. Everything in it needs to go into the fridge.”
Once in the kitchen, I warm up her bottle the way Mike did before we left the beach house. With Arlene’s high-pitched wails from the nursery pounding in my head, I only shut the cooler lid rather than empty the food into the refrigerator.
Mike swings into the kitchen with Arlene in his arms. He begins to soothe her but gives me the stink eye.
“I’m getting her bottle. I can’t do two things at once,” I say.
Arlene’s piercing cries settle to a moderate fussing. I hand him the bottle. She quiets the moment the nipple touches her lips.
I lean on the counter. “She’s going to have to toughen up.”
Mike scowls. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s barely three months old.”
“If you spoil her, she’s going to cry all the time.”
“And you’re the expert on this?” he barks.
“Life isn’t fair. The sooner she learns that, the better.” I move past him. “I’m going to unpack.”
In the nursery, I sit down on the rocker. Gripping the armrests, I rock forcefully back and forth. My mother had a terrible childhood, and she made sure I did too. I want to be different with my baby, but I don’t know how.
I wipe tears from my cheeks. “Crybaby.”
I begin emptying the two suitcases of Shirlene’s clothes. As I’m wondering what she did with my stuff, I notice my torn jeans pushed to the back of the closet. I tug off the shorts I’m wearing and pull on my jeans. I open the bottom dresser drawer and find my halter tops and bras and thongs. I whip off this boring T-shirt and throw on my favorite top. Plenty of boob shows, and my jeans are nice and tight. I grab my jewelry and refill every pierced hole that hasn’t closed, forcing through a couple that resist the wires. I look in the mirror. I add eye shadow, liner, mascara, and bright-orange lipstick. I step back to recognize myself. Now I’m more than a mother. I’m hot again.