Surviving Valencia

“Who are you doing this for?” I whispered. The bathroom was silent, save for the slow, steady drip of the faucet.

For a moment I entertained the thought of selling oranges from a van, from an Airstream. Just the baby and me. We’d wear clothes I sewed from old feed sacks and live an honest life. I’d change our names then change them again, just to be safe.

That’s what I would like to do. That’s what would feel like the truth.

But then again, I reasoned, if there was ever a time I needed Adrian, it was now.

I stood there, frozen, knowing he was waiting to hear my answer. If I took off, slipped through a side door of the drugstore and ran away, how long would it take for him to come inside looking for me? What would I do? I had a debit card in my wallet. I could withdraw a bunch of money, and then what?

Stop it.

You’re being ridiculous.

I let myself out of the stall, holding both tests in my hand. I set them on the edge of the sink, washed my hands, splashed water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to see if I looked different now. But I looked the same as always. I smiled and cleared my throat. Touched up my lip-gloss for good measure.

Seriously, yo

u could do it. You could disappear. Sometimes you forget that it is all up to you. The reflection of me nodded solemnly, the eyes wavering between inspiration and defeat. I looked away, preferring the sturdy absoluteness of sinks, soap dispensers, white tile walls, over that wavering woman in the mirror.

I wrapped the tests neatly in a paper towel and put them in my purse. I drew in a deep breath, held it, exhaled.

Okay. Let’s do this.

Then I ran back to the car and thrust the pregnancy tests at Adrian, exuding confidence and joy. And the funny part is, it wasn’t really a lie.

Chapter 43

It was summer vacation, 1989. Since I no longer had a bicycle, I needed to find a job I could walk to, and a way to afford some new clothes for high school. When she wasn’t lying on her bed, suffering from migraines and watching talk shows, my mother was still working at the dentist office. But I hated to be at home, even if I was the only one there. I hated the twins’ transformed, empty rooms. I hated the loud ticking clock, my out-of-date wardrobe, the way nothing was ever fresh or new. We were using watered down discount shampoo and were frequently out of groceries. And I could never relax; I knew that at any moment either of my parents could unexpectedly come home from work and there we would be, stuck together. Then I would inevitably get grounded. Everything set them off. A dish in the sink, a blemish on my face, or a dropped piece of mail that wasn’t even ours blowing across the yard. Just being there practically gave me an ulcer.

Having had the brief experience of caring for Kennedy the previous summer, I decided to become a high class babysitter extraordinaire. I was inspired by The Baby-sitters Club books, as well as Valencia’s old three ring binder I’d found on a shelf in the TV room downstairs. The cover of the binder was a rich coral pink, which was Valencia’s favorite color, favorite organic substance, favorite girl’s name, favorite everything, and it said 1982 Babysitter’s Guidebook. It had a gold badge sticker proclaiming I passed my childcare test with flying colors! On the back cover she had written I love Rob McCray forever and Remember: In case of swallowing poison, make babies drink some milk. Inside were tabs dividing the binder into all sorts of informative sections. I quickly learned how to perform CPR, heat up a bottle, and seek cover from an earthquake. This fabulous guide, somehow missed by my mother in her eradicating sweeps, elevated babysitting from lowly after-school job to respectable career. I flipped through it, excited. If Valencia could do it, with flying colors no less, so could I.

The entrance of the local supermarket usually housed plenty of handwritten advertisements from people needing babysitters, so I walked the two mile journey to it and took a look. As I stood there, perusing the picked over offerings which displayed a few expired garage sales and some kittens for sale, two Jennis and a Kaci came in with their clans of summer kids. They were all decked out in swimsuits and biker shorts, stopping in for a snack on their way to the pool. It was obvious as I stood there, binder in hand, gazing forlornly at the wall in front of me, what I was looking for. My dad’s favorite saying ‘You’re a day late and a dollar short’ truly summarized my existence.

For a moment it looked as if they would pass on by me and leave me alone. But I was such easy prey that one of the Jennis could not resist. She paused on the mat that made the door automatically open and turned back to me. “Ohhh. Were you trying to be a nanny too?”

“A nanny?”

“Oh, pardon moi,” she said, taking a step closer to me and pointing her sparkly purple tipped fingernail at the binder. “I see you’re trying to be a babysitter. Well, you’re a little late.”

“I see that.”

“Come on, Jenni,” said Kaci.

“Your little binder is from 1982?” Jenni continued, annoyed. I wasn’t sure why this was irritating her. I never could understand why the popular girls got so mad about everything. “Let me see it.”

I handed it to her. Of course.

“Oh, I get it,” she said, flipping through it, reading Valencia’s handwritten notes. “This was your sister’s book. Hmm. Here’s a good tip: Wait an hour after eating before going swimming. Ha ha. We’re about to load these brats up on Hostess Twinkies. I hope they all cramp up and sink. Well, here’s your stupid book back. Not that you will ever be needing it.” She shoved it back at me and somehow I fumbled and dropped it on the floor. She kicked it and laughed, and then she frowned and rubbed her toe.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

“Ouch,” she said, glaring at me. “You know, your sister was so much prettier than you. What the hell?”

“I know. I don’t know why that happened,” I said, picking up the binder and wiping it off on my shorts.

“Well, tootaloo,” she said, skipping inside to join her friends.

“Bye,” I said. I went back outside into the unseasonably sweltering June day, crying. Weeping. Snot pouring out my nose as the sobs escaped me in hiccups. And I promptly walked another half mile to the drugstore, and spent the meager amount of money I had in my purse on a bottle of purple nail polish.