Fiction

As I write this from the sofa, he sits bunched at my feet, bony knees pulled to his chest to squeeze his ever-growing frame in what little room I can provide.

On Tuesday, he told me he’d give me a thousand dollars to get up with the baby on his morning.

Sometimes, when Carli sees another mother cooing at her child, she feels badly for Tyler. While she is resigned to mothering him—at least on the surface—until she can get him back to his own mother, she certainly never coos at him.

She’s worked on the pediatric oncology unit for three years, but since having Layla, it’s much more difficult to forget the specter of illness after clocking out.

She is the center of attention in her group of friends, bobbed and beaded, radical for their day, but none as beautiful or radiant as my mother, before the thought of me.

Child Psychiatrist Jonathan Schwartz Ph.D., who—full disclosure—is also my husband, claims that the book’s predictability is perfect for young readers. Although my background is less illustrious, I have read said text an estimated thousand times more than Jonathan Schwartz Ph.D.

My arm aches from holding my cellphone to my ear with so many calls from her today. I lean into the armrest. I don’t tell her that I’m also tired, tired of worrying that she will die alone, without me, with only a stranger in a protective suit and an N95 facemask to comfort her.

She wails and screams, “I hate all of you! I wish you would die and go to hell!” and throws hand weights and kicks. She bites and slashes skin. She is autistic. She is intense. I love her.

You send Brian out with a shopping list of 37 Googled home remedies for morning sickness. He returns with the wrong brand of vitamin B6 and no hypnotist.

You could always buy Sprinkles cupcakes if they don’t turn out, but that would cost a fortune. So follow the directions carefully.

His rain-or-shine self-righteousness sends a familiar cold vacuum through my head and chest. In that tundra, I calculate. I cannot defend myself and protect Arthur too.