Page 13 of Don't Go
“Pancakes.”
She poked her fork through the smiley face’s left eye and ate it. Then the second eye, which felt wrong, and then the mouth.I poured myself a half cup more of coffee and let her eat in peace, telling myself I’d get her a new phone when she was twelve. Then when she was twenty. Then the day after her father sent me even a single dollar of child support. The third one made me snort into the cup.
She looked up. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing, baby.”
“You laughed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Eat the pancake.”
She ate the pancake.
When the plate was clean we did the meds. She counted the pills out of the plastic organizer herself. I’d taught her this when she was six, and she was better at it now than I was. She lined them up on the counter, two pink, one white, one yellow oval. She named each one as she picked it up because that was the deal.Beta blocker. Diuretic. Aspirin baby. The yellow one I hate.I handed her the apple juice in the small purple glass that was the only glass she'd take medication out of.
“It tastes bad.” She made a face.
“I know.”
“Like a battery.”
“I know.”
“Why does it taste like a battery?”
“Because it’s doing something more important than tasting good.”
She glared at me and drank the juice. Then handed the empty glass back without breaking eye contact, which is a thing she does when she wants me to know she has been wronged, and went to take her bath while I packed the school bag.
Lunch was a turkey sandwich cut into the shape of a square because she'd informed me at six that she was anti-triangle, and I'd never recovered the right to cut a sandwich diagonally. Apple slices. The juice box she liked. The two granola bars she'd eat one of and trade the other one for someone else's chips. The backup inhaler in the side pocket. The main inhaler I'd put in her hand at the door.
She came out of the bathroom in her uniform, her hair brushed and her ponytail straighter. Pickles followed her. She fixed her ponytail in the mirror in the hall because she was going to make a point about something today, and she was getting ready for it. I knew the routine. The door clicked open, and Mrs. Park came in.
“Morning, Mama, morning, baby girl—oh my goodness, look at this hair today.”
Mrs. Park was great, actually. I didn’t say that about people often. She was sixty-one and had lost her husband two years before I met her.
She had a key to my apartment for emergencies and the closest person Bonnie had to a grandmother. Also, the closest person I had to a friend who wasn’t behind a bar with me. I trusted her more than I trusted most of my own thoughts.
Bonnie hugged her around the waist. Then Bonnie came over and hugged me. I leaned down and pressed my mouth to the part in her hair and breathed her in for a second longer than usual.
“Bye, baby.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you too, mommy.”
“Be good. Be smart. Don't argue with anyone over a straw man unless you're sure.”
“Mom.”
The door closed behind her and Mrs. Park, and Pickles wound around my ankle and looked up at me, accusatory.
