With the Fire on High(49)

I rub my head against the top of Babygirl’s soft hair. She whimpers up at me, and even through the crown of hair I can feel how warm she is. I murmur to her a bit before tucking her to me. I’m small, but never too small to carry my kid like she’s the most precious thing I have. From the trunk of the car Mrs. Palmer pulls out Babygirl’s stroller and diaper bag.

“Thank you, Mrs. Palmer. I appreciate it. Again, I’m sorry about this.”

She clears her throat and gives a brisk nod. “Well, I certainly won’t be dropping work every time you and your grandmother are too negligent to take care of Emma. I know you and Tyrone have an informal arrangement, and I would be remiss if I didn’t say that so far it seems to be working for you two, but you best believe that if he ever chooses to challenge that arrangement in court, I will ensure this incident is put on the record.”

The polite smile slides off my face. Did Mrs. Palmer just hint at Tyrone wanting custody of Babygirl? Did she just imply she would be supportive of that, even though she’s never actually wanted Babygirl? I place my trembling hand on my child’s hot cheek to keep it from doing harm to Mrs. Palmer.

“Hey, Babygirl—”

“I really wish you would start calling her by her name. All this ‘Babygirl’ mess is likely to confuse her.”

I ignore the shit out of Mrs. Palmer because if I said anything right now it would probably burn a permanent hole right through her higher-than-mighty attitude. And I have to remember this is my daughter’s grandmother. “Babygirl, I’ve got you now. Gonna get some medicine in you and make you feel better,” I say firmly, kissing the top of her head. I put a hand on her cheek. Besides her whimpers, she’s unbelievably quiet. “Goodbye, Mrs. Palmer.” I tug the baby bag over my shoulder and drag the stroller with me toward the house steps.

“Wait a second. I picked this up figuring you might not have any—and a little more never hurts if you do.”

She hands over a brown paper bag. I peek inside. Children’s Tylenol. I grab it with the same hand holding Babygirl.

“For the fever. And really, you should be more responsible about your cell phone. You have a child, Emoni. People need to contact you about her.” She hesitates a second, then runs two fingers down Babygirl’s cheek. She wiggles those fingers through the air as a goodbye and walks back to her car. She’s off before I can wave back. Before I can say thank you. Before I can say I always have plenty of Children’s Tylenol. Before I can ask her why Tyrone wasn’t the one to pick up Babygirl, or why I’m accused of being the irresponsible one but he’s so often excused from having to be as much of a father as I am a mother.





Blood Boil


“Crazy-ass woman. Thinks just because she’s an insurance officer at some hospital she can treat me like I’m an idiot.” Mrs. Palmer always makes my blood hot. It’s like she’s a wooly mammoth whose most comfortable seat is my last nerve. Even after all this time, I feel inadequate anytime I speak to her.

Where is ’Buela? She always knows how to smile at Mrs. Palmer, and nod, and pleasantly still get her way. For a moment I’m mad at ’Buela. If she had picked Babygirl up like she was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened. But then I have to remember ’Buela isn’t Babygirl’s mom.

I sit Babygirl in her booster seat and pour some fresh juice into her sippy cup to help her with the taste of the medicine. She must have picked up a bug at the ice show this past weekend. All of those people in one space, sneezing and stuff. And it was chilly when we left. Her coat is pretty thick and I had her bundled up, but maybe she was just out too long. I need to put towels around the window or call the landlord to turn the heat up higher.

The door snaps open and ’Buela bustles in with her cheeks pink from the cold and mouth red as if she’d been rubbing it. She stops at the door of the kitchen. She has grocery bags in each hand. She must have done rollers late last night because her hair falls in soft waves around her face. She looks pretty, her eyes twinkling.

And the moment I see her I start to cry.

Not even angry, silent tears, but straight-up chest-heaving, face-uglying, snot-immediately-dribbling-into-mouth crying. I put Babygirl’s sippy cup on the counter with a trembling hand and wipe my face.

Her bags fall to the floor but I don’t see them land because I’m covering my eyes trying to push the tears back in.

“Emoni! ?Qué te pasa?” ’Buela pulls me to her. “What’s wrong?” She holds on to my wrists and tries to peer into my face until I drop my hands and let them hang limp at my side.

“Where . . . were . . . you?” I finally get out through my sobs.

“I had a doctor’s appointment, m’ija, and they needed to reschedule it a bit later.” She lets me go and walks to the fridge. “I left you a note.” She holds up a bit of paper that she’d attached to the fridge with an alphabet magnet.

“’Buela, you asked me to pick up groceries.” She looks at me blankly, the smile falling from her face. “I didn’t get home until four thirty. Babygirl has a fever and they were calling from the daycare. They said your phone was turned off. Why would you leave a note on the fridge but not text me?”

She glares at me. “I did text you.” ’Buela rushes past me and runs upstairs. When she comes back down she holds two little pink socks she slides on Babygirl’s feet. She then picks her up and cuddles her close, tight under her chin. “We need to force her to break the fever. Did you give her medicine?”