Page 10 of The Fake Husband Play
“Sarcasm,” I say, pressing a hand to my heart as I sigh. “I’m so proud.”
She scrunches up her nose. “More sarcasm?”
“No, I reallyamproud,” I assure her. “Six is young to be able to understand sarcasm and spot it in conversation. You’re a genius, an artist, and a scholar who deserves pizza as a reward for her many accomplishments at home and abroad.”
“Yay, pizza!” Mimi bounces on her toes across her room, but she’s favoring her left leg again. I see it, even before she stops her celebration to rub at the muscle above her knee.
My stomach drops.
Shit, no.
Not again.
Notnow.
“Yeah, so clean up, and I’ll go preheat the oven before I get dressed, okay?” I keep my voice light, casual, even as I watch her wince as she bends to gather the crayons from the carpet.
Because this is what moms of sick kids do. We watch, we take notes, we worry, and we try to act like everything is fine so our kids have no idea howmuchwe worry.
I’ve been concerned since yesterday. Mimi was moving slower after school and said her knee felt “grouchy” twice last night on our way to grab milk for cereal at the corner store.
But she seemed fine this morning, so I’d hoped…
Please don’t let this be the start of a flare,I beg the universe.Please, please, please. Just give us a little bit of luck, just this once.
I still haven’t nailed down all the details on COBRA coverage, but there’s almost certainly going to be a higher co-pay than we’re used to, and money is already stretched thin. If I don’t find another source of income in the next two months, my meager emergency fund will be gone, the electric bill will be further overdue, and then…
And I’m not going to think about the “and then.”
“And then” can wait until tomorrow, after I’ve had a good night’s sleep and hopefully have a chunk of change in my pocket from tips tonight.
But maybe I should check Mimi’s temperature, just in case…
Before I can head for the bathroom to grab the thermometer, the buzzer sounds, announcing Nancy’s arrival.
“Oh no,” I bleat, flinching as I drag a hand through my unwashed hair. “I’m not even close to ready!”
“Then you’d better hurry and get dressed!” Mimi says, her brown eyes wide. “I’ll get your brush because your hair is a bad mess.”
“Thanks, babes,” I say, torn between loving that she’s so honest and wishing there were a little more sugar-coating going on around here, as I sprint to the intercom, shucking my T-shirt as I go.
“Come on up, Nancy!” I buzz the babysitter in as I shrug into my blouse. “I’m still getting dressed, so just let yourself in. The door’s unlocked.”
“Brush!” Mimi says, appearing beside me with thebrush. “Now, give me your dirty clothes, and I’ll put them in the hamper.”
“Thank you, baby,” I say, pausing with the brush still stuck in my tangled hair to wiggle out of my jeans. “You’re the best helper.”
“I know,” she says as she carries my dirty things to the hamper in her room, adding over her shoulder, “Do I still have to clean up the crayons?”
“Yes!” I call back with a laugh as I whip my hair into shape. “If you don’t, you’ll step on them in the middle of the night and grind them into the carpet, and then the landlord will charge us when we move out.”
She heaves a dramatic sigh. “Okay. But I don’t like landlords.”
“Me, either,” I mutter as I dash toward the bathroom. But at least this landlord keeps the elevator in decent repair, so Mimi isn’t struggling up the stairs like at our last space.
I twist my hair into a French knot and secure it with bobby pins, sweep on some lipstick and mascara, and am about to call it good when Mimi says from the door, “You need blush, too. You’re not pink enough yet. You gotta be pinker when you go out at night.”
Grinning at her in the mirror, I reach for my pot of creamy blush. “Oh yeah? A girl’s gotta be extra pink at night?”
