Page 2 of If Not for My Baby
“That’s my point. What was wrong with Mr.Apple Watch?”
But Mike knows I’m not going to tell him anything about my date. It’s one of our few no-go topics. And not just because he’s my ex—even though that was in high school—or because we still sleep together on occasion.
It’s because I know Mike is no better than my mom: they both hope one day I’ll shed my cynic-cocoon and reveal myself as a lovestruck little butterfly, fluttering into the arms of some upper-middle-class suitor. Maybe I should have told Henry that:Hey, I’m really just here to assure my mom that I won’t suffer her same miserable fate. Spring wedding?
“Come on, Clementine. Spill.”
“He wasn’t a dog person.”
“Ah.” Mike nods, satisfied. “The kiss of death.”
The sound of high-pitched squealing rolls through the restaurant and I glance up just in time to see the two little boys take a nasty tumble onto the carpeted floor. Instant crying.
Mike sighs. His eyes hold very little will to live.
“I got it.” I laugh. “Finish my enchiladas?”
“Gladly,” he says with a look of profound appreciation.
I throw on my red apron, drop Henry’s anger-twenties in the tip jar, and get back to work.
—
The pharmacy is nearly closed by the time I’m off shift. A killer eighties track is playing inside and I bop my head to the majestically synthy beat until I find Lou behind the counter. I have to bribe him with free dog walks for his Siberian husky to let me pick up my mom’s cyclobenzaprine, but I secure the goods and a new carton of ice cream to boot. By the time I’m home I can hear Mulder and Scully blaring before I even close the front door.
“Marathon’s still going?” I call out. I drop my keys in our cow-shaped tray and toe off my boots by the hand-painted, garden-themed shoe rack. A smile pulls at my cheeks at the familiar peeling paint and tiny capped mushrooms.
My mom and I never had a specific vision for our home—we just know when something isDianentine—a mash-up of our names we invented to describe anything we both loved. A bright yellow, banana-shaped ceramic vase that holds flowers in both ends? Dianentine. Tie-dye dinner napkins? Dianentine. A needlepoint-stitched pillow on the couch that readsFBI’s Most Unwanted? Dianentine. That one especially—we’ve watched every season ofThe X-Filestogether at least three times.
“Hurry,” my mom’s voice drifts up from the basement. “It’s the Frankenstein one! He’s about to ask her to dance!”
“I’m coming,” I call, pawing through the pint-packedfreezer for my most recent half-eaten carton of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food and grabbing a soda from the fridge. “Does Willow have her bone?”
“No,” she yells. “Can you grab it?”
I double back to grab our dog’s favorite Y-shaped bone from her bed. With all my goodies in tow, I scramble down to the basement and find my mom on the couch with Willow curled up beside her. Citrus hangs heavy in the air from candles that must’ve been lit for hours.
“How was work?” she asks, eyes still on the TV.
My heart squeezes in my chest. I can tell just by her voice that my mom’s fibro is acting up. Her usually bright eyes are a bit dulled, her shiny blond hair tied into a loose knot behind her. She’s kneading her shoulder absently as if it’s been bothering her all day.
“The usual.” No need to tell her about my failed date. Frankly, that should be considered part of “the usual.”
I hand her the meds and soda and watch her down them in one fell swoop like the pro she is. Then I give Willow her bone, making a mental note to cut her bangs soon—our sheepdog’s name is a pretty good indication of how her hair falls over her eyes. I wonder if she can even see the rawhide she’s currently shoving into her mouth. I kiss her on the head and instantly release a high-pitched sneeze. Willow doesn’t flinch.
“For the love of God, you were just at the pharmacy and you didn’t pick up any allergy meds?”
“Those are, like, thirty dollars,” I say, moving her hand aside to knead at her shoulder. “My sneezes are a part of me—what if you go blind one day? How will you know where I am?”
My mom rolls her eyes. “If I go blind, too, you can just take me out back Old Yeller style.”
I swat at her head. “Hey. Not funny.”
“Beth tells me Mike got promoted. That’s very impressive, isn’t it?”
“Mhm.” I focus on her shoulder knot.
“Maybe the four of us should get dinner to celebrate?”
