Chapter 1

Haylee

“Wonder powers, activate!”

My precious and beautiful daughter stands on the bottom step of our ramshackle house in a bad part of Vegas with her hands on her saucy hips. She’s wearing her Wonder Woman Underoos, and we’ve added a plastic shield, belt from Goodwill, and a line of cheap rope from the hardware store to serve as her lasso. If I weren’t already late for work and rushing around like a madwoman, I’d enjoy the show more. Atlee is the light of my life, and she knows it. Without her in it, my existence would be a desolate wasteland devoid of joy.

“Mrs. Cooper is coming, Atlee,” I say, bending over to pick up a cardboard box she uses as the invisible airplane. “You’re going to have to pick up some of this stuff so she doesn’t fall on her butt and break a hip. I don’t think Mrs. C is up for Wonder Woman make-believe today. Remember, she’s a lot older than Mommy. She was friends with Grandma before she went to heaven.”

“Aw, Mom,” Atlee says, jumping off the last step and coming closer to me while she pretends to shoot me with her tin foil bracelets. I sidestep and put my hands in a defensive posture to guard my organs. “You’re no fun when it’s a workday. Why do you have to go to work, huh? Jenny Larson’s mom stays home every single day. Why can’t you stay home too?”

Guilt strums its wicked fingers on my heart strings. “That’s because Jenny’s daddy is a rich doctor, Atlee. Look around. Do you see anyone here helping Mommy?”

She makes a sweeping motion with her baby blue eyes as if her long-absent daddy will somehow materialize out of thin air. But I know better. Atlee’s been blessed with his piercing orbs, but that wastoid hasn’t been seen since the summer between high school and college. So much for daddies and their empty promises. Regardless, I’ll never talk badly about Atlee’s dad in spite of my true feelings. I may have been brought up poor, but we still had values. My mama always told me to take the high road, and I’m doing my damnedest to make a go of things for me and my precious little girl.

“My daddy’s strong and powerful.”

I have no idea whether you’re right or wrong, and I’m too proud to ask even though I see his brother once in a while. And I could…ask. But I won’t.

“That’s so nice, sweetie. Those are wonderful qualities for daddies to have.”

“He knows how to fly the invisible plane too. I bet he even has his own. My daddy’s a superhero!”

I roll my eyes and turn away because the last thing I would ever call her dad is a superhero. If Marvel created one in his honor, he’d be called Super Douche, spraying shit all over the world from the hole in his invisible ass. It takes everything inside me not to scream at Atlee’s innocent words and stomp my foot on the threadbare green carpet. Single mom’s get cast in the role of bad cop while absent fathers get labeled as superheroes. I tap my toe in frustration on the rug. It’s so full of stains and holes it’s probably not even sanitary. But on my meager salary and tips at the restaurant, I can’t even afford a new vacuum let alone a carpet cleaner. Our vacuum’s from Savers, and every time I fire it up, it makes this horrible retching noise that sounds like a vomiting dog.

Or pig.

“Gerald, seriously,” I wail as our pet potbelly forages through the carpet, searching for all the crumbs and scraps that Atlee’s left behind. When he spots a smashed gummy bear, he squeals in delight and scoops it up with his nose. I’m lucky our exotic pet is such a trooper. Atlee rides him, dresses him up as her sidekick, Wonder Girl, and invites him as an honored guest to every tea party she hosts and every war she wins using her various Wonder powers.

Of course, only my bestie, Dixie Pendergrass, my coworker at the diner where we work knows the truth behind Gerald’s name. It would have been too obvious and an outright sacrilege to name the pig after Atlee’s deadbeat dad. So, I compromised. What can I say? Every single time I look at Gerald, I ingest the irony, and I smile inside. Some days, it’s all the enjoyment I have.

“Mommy, do you think my daddy has a pet?”

Yes, dear. A pet barracuda. It looks like him and has teeth just as razor-sharp.

“I don’t know, sweetie. I haven’t seen your daddy since you lived in mommy’s tummy. I wish I could answer your questions. I know you have them. Maybe someday we can meet your daddy together.”

Atlee screeches to a halt in front of me, her Reynolds Wrap covered tiara askew on her head. She’s been blessed with my thick, long hair and honey-colored curls tumble down her petite back. Atlee doesn’t even weigh forty pounds, and her doctor keeps censuring me about feeding her Ensure. Shit, I can’t even afford meat most weeks. I wonder what Ford would think if he could see us now.

“Why don’t you just call him, then? See if he can come over and play Wonder Woman with me? I could ask him all the questions, and then we wouldn’t have to be curious anymore.”

The question is like a punch to the gut, but I take a deep breath. “Curiosity killed the cat, Atlee.”

She narrows her eyes and throws her tiny hands on her hips in open defiance. I know something’s coming that I won’t like. My daughter’s smart, but that equals precocious and most days, she backs me into a corner that I can’t possibly come out of alive unless it’s with both guns blazing.

“Then I guess it’s lucky we don’t have a cat, Mommy,” she says, tossing her head to the side, her tone filled with a disdain far too mature for her tender age. Now, her crown is barely hanging by a cheap metal thread. “We have a pig.”

Love floods through me, and I straighten the thing on her head before tapping her on the nose. “I guess you’re right, little girl.”

I’m saved from further philosophical ranting by the chime of the doorbell.

“It’s Mrs. C. It’s Mrs. C.,” Atlee screams at the top of her lungs. I want to cover my ears with my hands to drown out the shrillness of her tone. When she’s excited, it’s all look out world and zero inside voice. Poor Mrs. Cooper. She’s in for it, even though I made sure Atlee didn’t have one milligram of sugar today. There are a lot of foods we avoid because they create inflammation in the body and make Atlee’s Asperger’s worse.

Your daughter has Asperger’s, Miss Jacobs. It’s part of the autism spectrum. Recent research suggests a genetic component. Do you have anyone in your family with autism? Atlee should be highly functioning, but she’ll have special needs for the rest of her life.

Needs that cost a lot of money that I don’t have.

Atlee bounds to the door, flings it open and throws herself into the waiting arms of one of the most wonderful women in the world. Since my mom’s death, Mrs. Cooper has stepped in like a kind of surrogate mother figure to me. They’d been best friends since I can remember and Mrs. C. mourns her loss to this day, just like I do.

“Hey, Judy,” I say, glancing around the Wonder Woman paraphernalia trying to spot my purse and my phone. I glance at the digital clock above the stove. “I really have to get a move on, or I’m going to be late. And you know what happens then…it’s the wrath of Dixie. She hates filling the salt and pepper shakers.” My bestie’s the toughest broad south of the Mason Dixon Line, but she’s also the best friend any wounded single mom could ever have.

A gasp draws my attention to the kitchen. Judy’s pointing a freshly manicured nail in the direction of the dishwasher. My gaze follows hers, and I see Gerald rummaging through my purse, finding a pack of gum and chomping down on it.

I shoot my daughter my best mad-mommy look. “Atlee Marian Jacobs, did you give Gerald mommy’s purse to play with?”

She has the good grace to look guilty, but instead of fessing up, she snuggles into Judy’s plump shoulder, using our family friend as a human shield. She’s lucky I haven’t got time for a timeout.

“It’s not my fault, Mommy. He was trying to be a passenger on the Wonder jet. And everyone knows, pigs are not allowed. If they can’t pay, they can’t play.”

I roll my eyes, wondering where she heard that faulty piece of logic while vowing never to let her watch reality TV with me again. It’s been a guilty pleasure of mine for years, and Atlee and I have been known to snuggle up together for some girl time with a big bowl of microwave popcorn. From Big Brother to the Amazing Race, I love seeing average people fighting to get to the top and winning. It makes me feel like there might be hope for me yet, even though I’m on the other side of my mid-twenties with nothing but poverty and loneliness to show for my herculean efforts.

“We’ll talk about respecting the property of others when I get home,” I say, wrangling my tattered purse from Gerald’s piggy slobber and slinging it up on my shoulder. “Or maybe tomorrow.” The polyester of my server’s uniform clings to my skin like a synthetic prison, caging my soul.

I sigh until I spot my phone underneath the wobbly kitchenette table. The ugly thing is something I snagged from a garage sale about ten years ago. The entire set cost me twenty bucks. The vinyl chairs used to be green, but they’ve turned into a soft shade of yellow due to wear and tear. The vinyl’s ripped in so many places, it looks like I had to buy stock in Duct Tape to keep them held together.

Someday.

Just like in Atlee’s favorite movie, The Wizard of Oz, somewhere over the rainbow, I’ll be able to provide nice things for my little girl and myself. We deserve them more than most. Because we’ve struggled more than most anyone I know. And all because of him.

I shake my head, eradicating any lingering memories of him, and when I move to head out the door, I catch Judy looking at me. I know that damn look. She’s about to start lecturing me again about how I never go out. How I never do anything for myself. How I’m going to end up old, wrinkled, and lonely once Atlee moves out and sets up her own life.

And she’s right.

But I’m not feeling confident enough to take her advice. And I’m not feeling confident enough to stand up for myself. I feel broken. And used.

And just so damn exhausted.

“There’s a meet and greet down at the VFW Sunday night,” she says. “I’m going with Jen and Sylvia. Why don’t you come along? There’s good greasy fried food. Nothing like a burger fried on the flat top griddle. And there’s a country band, great for two-stepping. I know that’s the night that Atlee has a sleepover with Jenny Larson. You’ll just be here all alone, Haylee.”

No, I won’t be alone at all. It’ll be me, Ben, Jerry, The Real Housewives and an Epsom salts soak for my aching feet.

“I don’t think so, Jude,” I say, trying to brush past her but Atlee’s serving as a seven-year-old blockade. “I’m not up for a bunch of men old enough to be my grandpa leering at my chest and buying me brandy Manhattans.”

“What’s a brandy, Mommy?” Atlee asks, snapping her head up, curiosity dripping from every syllable. She’s wise beyond her years.

“Nothing you need to know about until you’re twenty-one,” I say, slinging my purse higher on my shoulder. Judy stands and drags Atlee behind her. My daughter’s limp as a rag doll, and I know Judy won’t have to deal with her much longer tonight. Once she has a bath and a bedtime story, she’ll be out like a light.

“Just think about it, okay,” Judy says, sinking down onto the ratty couch with her human burden. “You need to get out more. Even if you just go shopping or get your toes done.”

“I know, I know,” I say, slipping through the door. The state of my toes is even worse than the state of my dinette set. The heat hits me like a blast furnace. I shouldn’t even have bothered to shower and fix my long hair into a loose bun. The air conditioner in my old Honda hasn’t worked since the turn of the century, and I’ll be sweating bullets and transforming into a wilted mess by the time I get to the Armónico.

If only I could be one of those women in those old Calgon commercials. “Calgon, take me away,” I scream into the searing heat. I click my heels three times for good measure, just like Dorothy, but that doesn’t work either. My magic wand has been broken for years.

Sighing, I slip into the seat, trying not to pound my own head into the steering wheel in frustration. I’m still frying in the desert heat, driving a rust bucket that might not even make it to work, and facing a grueling shift serving fries to drunks and assholes.

I raise my fist to the sky and pump it a few times. “Fuck you, Ford Caldwell.”