Elina

Nick texts me Friday morning. Can’t stop to read it: every time I take my eyes off Joey, he’s racing down the boardwalk, trying to pet strange dogs, dig through trashcans, eat stuff off the ground. We’re on our way to the aquarium. It’s an expense I don’t need, but the poor kid deserves a reward. He’s been a real trooper, in the wake of the break-in and the dead rat.

I’ve been driving myself up the wall worrying about Nick’s reaction to the Joe debacle, but it’s worse now he’s actually responded. I could be carrying my walking papers in my pocket, without even knowing. I think he’s the type to let me down gently, at least... But I’ve been surprised before.

Maybe I should’ve bit the bullet, told him the whole story face to face.

But then I’d have had to see it, the horror, the disbelief...the judgment.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah, sport?”

“What’s the difference between turtles and tortoises?”

“Ah...I think turtles have flippers, and tortoises have feet. Or—no. Maybe that’s just sea turtles—those turtles in the pet shop had feet. Remember their little claws?” I tickle him under his chin and behind his ears till he admits he remembers. “Eh...I think turtles live in the water, and tortoises are more on land.”

“You don’t know.” My four-year-old is mocking me. Guess the “mommy knows everything” years are over.

“Well, that’s why we’re going to the aquarium. So we can learn all about turtles.”

“Do turtles bite?”

This one, I know. “Yes—yes, they do. And they have salmonella, so whatever you do, look, don’t touch!”

“Look, don’t touch!”

“Perfect.”

Joey gets a little sulky once we’re in the aquarium and he realizes he can’t take any pictures. I gave him my old digital camera last year, and he loved it, but of course that was stolen. Fortunately, he perks up when he spots the colorful clownfish in the reef display, especially when I promise we can come back when he has a new camera.

A new camera... Maybe I can add that to the Christmas list. I whip out my phone while he’s enthralled with the fish and search for cheap digital cameras. Even the shoddiest ones are barely under fifty bucks—and for a little kid, you need something durable, something easy to use. Something that won’t crap out at the first bump or jolt.

I wonder, is Polaroid still a thing? Another quick search tells me it is, and I can’t afford it.

There’s got to be something.

Can’t you take photos with a 3DS? I look those up too: still pricier than Polaroid. Plus, I’d have to get him at least one game if I went with that option.

No camera, then. Maybe an Etch-A-Sketch?

Nick’s text’s still sitting there unread. I glance at Joey: he’s poring over the exhibit notes. His reading’s pretty good, but there could be Latin names in there. I should help him. Besides...which is going to be worse, getting through an aquarium trip with the threat of being dumped hanging over my head, or getting through it knowing I’m history?

I zip my phone into the innermost pocket of my purse. This is the kind of day parents and children are supposed to savor. The stuff memories are made of. And it is beautiful here, all peaceful and blue and rippling with watery shadows.

Why do my feet hurt so bad?

I mash down my worries, summon my best smile, and let Joey read me the lowdown on the reef exhibit. He’s bursting with pride, even when he has to stop and sound out the unfamiliar words. Maybe I can get him to do the same thing on shopping trips, to keep him from throwing tantrums—tell him I forgot my contacts, need him to read all the signs. He does love to help.

He catches me chuckling at the idea and kicks me in the shin.

By the time I’ve convinced him I wasn’t laughing at him, and reminded him we do not kick, Nick’s safely buried in the back of my mind—not quite out of the picture, but close enough.

The aquarium’s small, but there’s plenty to see. Joey seems especially taken with the sea otters. Despite his disappointment when I tell him he can’t take one home, I make it through the afternoon with a cheery kid...and without being guilted into any treats from the gift shop. Maybe, on some level, he gets that we’re running on empty.

I end up carrying him home, sleepy and sticky, but still chattering about turtles and sharks. How he managed to get sticky when we didn’t have any snacks, I’ll never know. I make Maria promise to give him a bath before I head for work.

The bus takes its sweet time coming. I don’t risk sitting down to wait: it’s hard enough, not falling asleep on my feet. And Nick’s text’s bothering me again—if I read it before work, will I be a mess? If I don’t, will I be able to concentrate?

Ugh! I barely know him! How pathetic am I, working myself into a frazzle over some random food pantry guy, someone I’ve met all of three times—

—and been mostly naked with twice?

I’m not this person. I’m tough: I’ve endured much worse. I whip out my phone, grit my teeth, and read:

hey!

hope you’re not working too hard!

what time for the garden on sunday?

Attached, there’s a gif of a tiny, mouselike creature falling backwards off a kitchen scale. It is kind of hilarious, but...really? Not even an acknowledgement?

Maybe he never Googled Joe. Maybe he thought about it and decided he wanted the story from the horse’s mouth.

I hate not knowing. I should ask. Put myself out of my misery. But then he might demand an explanation, right here and now. Over text. Which I don’t exactly have time for, and can’t face, and—no. Just no.

I stick with the question at hand: How about 1? Gives us most of the afternoon.

He texts back just as the bus pulls up: perfect. you like greek food? heard about this new place, thought we might try it.

Love Greek! :-)

also perfect. see you sun!

So... He’s still planning on dinner. That’s...probably good?

I don’t end up having a lot of time to obsess over it. The night’s a busy one: from six till midnight, there’s not a moment when my section isn’t full. I get screamed at by some lady who can’t understand why we don’t have ranch dressing, and threatens to leave a bad Yelp review. Some college kid puts a roach in his salad to avoid paying the bill, but he’s not nearly sneaky enough. Half the dining room sees him do it. Two old ladies actually do manage to skip out—one of them in a fucking walker! How the...?

My tips suck, and my feet are beyond pain. I stop feeling them around seven. By nine, the ache’s resurfaced in my ankles. It spends the rest of the shift creeping up my legs till it settles in my lower back.

By the time the last diners clear out, well after one, I’m sick with fatigue, barely standing. Vanya shoos me out the door. I feel bad, not helping close up, but I’m in no condition to argue. Especially with tomorrow promising to be twice as bad. There’s a two-for-one promo on; those are always bad news. They bring out the cheapos and jackasses like nothing on earth.

Paying Maria eats up every penny of my tips, and an extra ten bucks to boot. So... Tonight was a bust. All that for—for—I add it up quickly, in my head: a net loss of $16.50.

I could fucking cry.

Instead, I put the first coat of paint on Joey’s bike: cherry red, just like I remember. I take a quick shower and faceplant into bed without setting the alarm. Doesn’t matter: Joey’s up with the sun every day. He tries to be quiet, bless his heart, but...yeah. If he’s up, so am I.

When I finally find my way to bed, I keep imagining I can smell Joe Sr.’s cheap cologne on my pillow. Takes me forever to fall asleep, and when I finally do, I dream I’m trying to take a bath. Someone’s in the water behind me, with an arm around my neck. He keeps pulling me under, making me cough and splutter. I can’t wake up.