Our Options Have Changed by Julia Kent & Elisa Reed

Author:Julia Kent & Elisa Reed [Kent, Julia & Reed, Elisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Prosaic Press

Chapter 14

Chloe

Day Three with Charlotte.

“You girls have fun!” Charlotte chirped, as we struggled out the door this morning. “Get some of the almond biscotti, and some of the chocolate dipped. And some anise flavored.”

“While we’re gone, Mom, do you think you could maybe unload the dishwasher?”

“Well, I would, of course,” she said, “but I don’t know where you keep things. It would just make more work for you. I’m going to call Howard. I forgot my email password. He’ll know what it is.”

Everyone should have a Howard. I need a Howard.

“Then this afternoon, you can take me to O. I need one of those stress-reduction treatments—the two-hour full-body massage with herb-infused lotions and ambient sound from a dolphin’s womb. And the rosemary mint martini in the sippy cup.” Her eyes glazed over. “I need a break from all this stress.”

“Right. Maybe,” I answered.

That was half an hour ago.

And here I am, in the middle of Boston Summer Soup, wearing a baby who is not much more than a tiny octopus tucked into a diaper.

“Don’t talk to strangers,” I instruct Holly, who is tucked into a Baby Bjorn on my chest, tuft of straight jet-black hair tickling my chin. “Be aware of what’s going on around you. Mind the gap.”

The T train is pulling up. Please god let the air conditioning be working.

The doors slide open, and yes! The temperature inside is at least five degrees below unbearable.

I hoist the folded stroller and hitch the diaper bag up on my shoulder. I stagger onto the train.

On the T now, I spot two empty seats and sink down gratefully, the stroller propped up on the railing next to me. Holly is quiet. I pull out my phone.

Hi Howard, I type. Hope all is well. I know you must be missing Charlotte.

Three dots, wiggling.

Hi honey, Howard responds. Is she getting to you already?

Oh no, I type back. It’s great. I just think we’re stressing her out. Not good for her.

I’m on it.

That’s all he says. I love Howard.

My phone pings. It’s Charlotte this time: Chloe, just so you know, the cat box needs changing.

I look at Holly, who catches my eye, eyebrows raising as if she’s taken aback as well.

Solidarity. My daughter and I are one.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper, grabbing the stroller.

Holly replies with a fist punch into thin air, followed by a spectacular belch that I feel.

I feel it because that’s not just a burp. The space between the Baby Bjorn and my only clean T-shirt is now a war zone.

We are home by noon, sweaty and exhausted, with two white paper bags containing three dozen Italian biscotti. Tucked into the diaper bag is a can of ground espresso, a pound of fresh handmade linguine, and a small plastic Madonna that the shopkeeper pressed on me when he saw Holly.

When you work in an office, you have no idea how long a weekday really is. It should be dinner time by now.

My mother sweeps into the kitchen, beaming.

“Wonderful news!” she trills.

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