12
Gavin
There’sa weight crushing my chest. I want to fall back asleep, but the weight is squirming and squeaking and I can feel their breath on my face. I pry open my eyes, it feels like my eyeballs were scraped all night with sandpaper, and stare up into wide, hazel eyes, a little button nose, and pursed lips.
It’s the little one. The one that pretends to be a cat. “Which one are you again?”
Her fingers curl in my chest, she leans her nose into mine, and then she hisses.
Yeah. That’s about how I feel too. This couch is possibly the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever slept on. The lumps are as hard as rocks, the center caves down so I’m positioned like the letter V, and I feel like I’ve been thrown off a cliff and knocked against a rock ledge. The darn dog kept dropping gas bombs, stinking up the room, and snoring so loud I woke up every five minutes. My legs kept falling asleep because the dog wouldn’t get off me, and after the second growl, I realized he figured the couch was his and I was merely a poorly tolerated guest. On top of that, the ratty, threadbare blanket my wife tossed me kept me about as warm as a nudist in the Arctic. The plain fact is, I’m exhausted.
The kid tilts her head and tries another hiss.
I stare at her. “Don’t you talk?”
She lifts her chin and jumps to the ground, landing surprisingly gracefully on all fours. She crawls to the kitchen.
I shrug. “Guess not.”
It looks like I’ve got a daughter who only speaks cat, and two boys who like to roll around in the mud and drop rotten eggs on their dad. Jeez. What have I been doing all these years? Did I just give up? I look around the living room, at the junk on the floor, and the broken tv in the corner. Yeah. I think I gave up.
I close my eyes and try to rub the sandpaper grit feeling away.
“Good. You’re awake.”
Even before I open my eyes I can smell her. It’s the scent of wood smoke and beeswax and, unfortunately, chicken. Her scent tickles at my memory, and I know I’ve smelled it before. Which, to be honest, is disappointing. I’d really like it if all this was a hoax and I had a different life somewhere else.
I groan and open my eyes.
She beams at me. “Good morning.”
I swing my legs off the couch and groan at the pins and needles in my half-asleep legs. “This is good?”
“Uh huh. Sure is.” She’s in a fresh pair of overalls and a tank top, and surprisingly chipper for how early it is. The sun is barely past the windowsill and that old nasty rooster is only just starting to crow. His crow is nothing like in the movies. It’s more an anemic shriek, like an old lady that smoked her whole life and is yelling at the kids on her lawn.
“You better get up. The kids need breakfast.”
I stare at her. “And?”
“You make it. Remember?”
I give her a look. Of course I don’t remember.
She walks over and pats my shoulder. “You make them pancakes and you pack their school lunches. Sandwich, chips, carrot sticks, apple sauce? Okay?”
I shake my head, trying to knock loose a memory, because…I don’t know how to make pancakes. I don’t remember. It’s almost like I’ve never made pancakes in my life. I don’t even know where to begin. But the way Jamie is grinning at me, there’s no way I’m going to admit it.
“What are you going to do?” I ask suspiciously. Why isn’t she making breakfast?
She shrugs and walks toward the bathroom. “I’ve been up since four, working. I need to shower before work. Don’t dawdle, ’kay? The bus is here in twenty minutes. Then Big Tom’s picking you up to go pump poo.”
Before I can respond to that nugget, she shuts the bathroom door with a firm click.
I drop my head into my hands. Big Tom? Pumping poo? Making pancakes and lunches? What?
Someone tugs on my pajama top. An old cotton button-up shirt that looks as if a ninety year old man wore it in his recliner. I open my eyes. It’s the older boy. He stares at me with solemn eyes.
“Elijah?” I say it as a sort of question.