Page 19 - WTP Vol.X #8

All those parenting magazines and mom blogs say she should be grateful he takes such an interest in his child. She should praise him for wanting to spend time with the baby, for not begrudging him so much of his life.
While she is glad, there is a space between these two pieces of advice—make sure to include her husband, and praise him for not including her—that she does not like.
The timer on the stove dings, and she lifts the lid of the pan to check the consistency of the yams. Steam rushes toward her face, as the tines of the fork slide easily into the yellow flesh.
~
At the end of the violin recital, she loiters in the lobby of the theater to see the girl she used to babysit. The evening’s entertainment was better than she expected. It was more of a competition than a painful parade of beginners, so the children were quite accomplished.
Across the lobby, a man in a suit glances over from the knot of people he stands with, wife, grandparents, two boys in miniature suits. His eyes move over her sundress and heeled sandals.
She has not worn this dress since before she had the baby, and it fits differently. She inhales her stomach flatter. Her breasts are a little too full for the top of the dress, even though she stopped breastfeeding the baby half a year ago. She should have worn a sweater.
It feels odd to be here alone. When she leaves the condo, she usually has the baby with her, or at
least her husband. The feeling that she is forgetting something hovers around her shoulders, makes her check her purse for her car keys, again and again.
She hears her name, and turns toward the matching blond heads of mother and daughter. Her smile comes easily.
The last summer of high school she babysat for the girl every day. The husband was opening a new business and moving his family two hours south
to San Diego. They needed many hours to prepare. Some days she took care of their almost two-year-old daughter for fourteen hours, fed her all three meals, put her to bed.
When September came and the family made the
move, she found herself shocked. Although that had been the deal all along, the reason her services were needed, their sudden absence felt like a wound. Like they had betrayed her. It took weeks for the feeling to fade, even though she told herself how foolish it was.
They kept in touch over the years, with Christmas cards, the internet. When the mother and daughter planned to come north for the music competition, they extended the invitation to her. It is the first time she has seen them in almost five years.
The mother hugs her in a cloud of perfume and hairspray. Her hair is shorter, lighter, than years before. She wears a cashmere twin set, and a heavy gold braid around her neck. In that long ago summer, the mother used to ask her to apply sunscreen to
her back. She can still remember the feel of the older woman’s flesh, the too soft give of her skin slipping over muscle.
“And here’s our girl,” the mother reaches to pull her daughter forward. Her hand stays on the girl’s shoulder, as she says, “She’s so excited you came. You were her favorite babysitter. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”
The girl’s eyes are fixed on the ground. She is the skinny kind of thirteen. The kind with slim hips, long limbs, a thin chest. Her dress is floral, ruffled, intended for a younger girl. Most likely her mother’s choice. Her hair is still an almost white blond, fine and shiny, as it curls around her neck.
Her mother tells her to give her babysitter a hug. The hand on the girl’s shoulder tightens until she takes
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