Beauty from Ashes

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 33

The stupid cooking show is finally over, and Natalie’s tucked in her crib for the night. The rest of us are out here in the living room being lazy. Patricia’s flipping through a Taste of Home magazine, Jake’s playing Candy Zapper, and I’m staring at my phone, scrolling through my friends’ posts, hoping to find something interesting.

“What time do you work tomorrow?” I ask Jake.

“I open tomorrow and Friday. Then I’m back to nights.”

I don’t even want to think about being stuck for the next two days with Patricia in the house. “That’s not going to work,” I tell him. “We’ve got to take Natalie back to Dr. Bell on Friday.”

He shrugs and doesn’t even look up from his screen. “Guess you’ll have to drop me off again.”

I roll my eyes. He could take his bike or something if he wanted. I mean, he’d have to get up earlier and ride in the cold and dark, but it’s either that or he and I both have to get up at the crack of dawn.

I think about Dr. Bell, how kind she was to assume I’m sleep deprived because I’m caring for Natalie all night. How good it felt to talk to someone who doesn’t know I’m living in a trailer park with the mother-in-law from the pit of Hades.

“I thought her appointments were every two weeks now,” Patricia comments, and I grit my teeth. I swear, if the next few words out of her mouth are When I was raising the twins, I’ll go postal all over her smug little face.

I glance at Jake. I’ve spent my day trying to downplay the green secretions without making him all antsy and nervous. Because if he gets antsy and nervous, I’ll get even more antsy and nervous, and it’s going to be a miserable couple of days.

I’m sure Natalie’s fine. Sometimes your snot and drool turn green. Maybe she’s fighting a cold or something simple like that. Her temperature wasn’t that elevated. Not even an official fever. I’m sure we have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

“I think a big part of it is Dr. Bell wants to check up again since we’re changing the feeding schedule,” I say. It sounds so much nicer than admitting the pediatrician thinks something might be wrong.

At the mention of night feeds, Patricia squares her shoulders and straightens her spine. It’s like that woman’s taken it as a personal insult that she no longer has to set her alarm for 2:00 am to pour formula down my daughter’s feeding tube. The less she does around the house and the less she does to take care of Natalie, the less leverage she gets to lord over me. That’s the only reason she’s ticked. If I didn’t know her better, I might hope that Patricia’s sleeping through the night would mean she’d be easier to get along with, but I’m not that naïve anymore.

Jake’s still staring at his phone when he says, “Natalie had a pretty good day today.” I don’t know if he senses the tension and is trying to change the subject or if he’s just filling the silence with drivel. It doesn’t matter as long as it keeps Patricia from bringing up her herculean success raising twins singlehandedly. I’m surprised she didn’t do it barefoot in the snow too.

Uphill both ways.

“Yeah,” I agree mindlessly.

“I should hope so.” Patricia’s still sitting like there’s a flagpole shoved down the back of her bra, and she’s got her hands folded on her lap like she’s some sort of stinking beauty-queen washout. “She’s getting Tylenol with each of her feedings.”

“She’s getting what?” My voice is seething. I know it must be bad because even Jake glances up.

Patricia tilts her chin up and slightly to the side. It’s her Japanese-American version of a shrug. “I knew she was due for her shots today. I always gave the twins Tylenol when they had theirs.”

I’ve got my hands clenched into fists, and I’m envisioning what it will feel like when that angular, Botoxed jawline connects with my knuckles. “You can’t just give my daughter medicine without telling me.” Did you catch that? Telling me. Not asking me. Two months, and she’s already got me partially trained.

Just not trained enough.

She makes this ugly little laugh, like she’s the witch in her candy house and Hansel and Gretel just accused her of eating helpless children. “I might have asked you to give it to her if I thought you would remember.” She lets out a sigh worthy of an Academy award. “You know me. I don’t mind a little extra work.”

I’m on my feet. It’s not like I’m about to do anything stupid. I just need to engage my leg muscles. This isn’t a fight I can take sitting down. “I didn’t ask for your little extra work.” My vocal cords are sore. Strained. I’m not used to yelling anymore because I’ve walked on eggshells ever since she moved herself into my house.

Patricia pouts as if she has a dozen cameras pointed at her and she wants to give them each her best sympathetic expression. “If I had known it would upset you, I would have let you measure the medicine out before I poured her formula in.” Another shrug. This time it’s both her chin and her shoulder that are involved. “I’m very sorry,” she apologizes, as if I’m mad because I didn’t get to squirt the Tylenol into Natalie’s tube myself. She’s either a stinking genius of deflection or the biggest i***t in the history of mothers-in-law.

I grab my hair. Anything to keep myself from decking her. I’m closer to her now. Close enough to reach if I wanted. “She. Is. My. Daughter.” I’m punctuating every word like they’re each an individual sentence. “You don’t give her anything without my approval.”

She opens her mouth, but I take a step forward and cut her off. The chin lowers a degree or two. I think she finally realizes I’m royally ticked off, and I outweigh her by forty pounds.

I stare down at her. “I don’t care if you’re a nurse. I don’t care if you raised twins. You could have squeezed out eight babies at once like Octo-Mom, and I wouldn’t trust you near my child.”

The almond eyes widen for a split second before narrowing. The skin across her face is completely taut, like she’s tensed every single muscle. I can feel the heat of her wrath, but I’m not intimidated. What’s she going to do? Bleach my bathtub?

“You’re lucky.” Her voice is completely controlled. And in between sentences she’s smiling at me, her lips tight like she’s got them sewn shut. “You’re lucky that raising twins taught me patience and self-sacrifice. It’s a lesson I hope you learn one day. For my granddaughter’s sake, I hope you learn.”

I want a yelling match. Part of me hopes she’ll stand up and confront me. Fine with me if this turns physical. Bring it on, Grandma.

Instead all I get is a sermon from a woman perfectly calm and rigid like she’s taken lessons from Queen Elizabeth herself.

She does stand up, but it’s not to confront me. She doesn’t even look in my direction but goes and faces her son, who’s just sitting on his butt and gaping at the two of us like some kind of braindead vegetable.

“I told you she wasn’t fit to be a mother.” Patricia’s voice is quiet. Subdued. She may as well be reminding him to brush his teeth before going to bed.

I know just what she’s doing. Trying to pit him against me. Two against one. It’s the only way the odds will ever lean in her favor.

“I’m going to bed now,” Patricia says. “I hope that by morning you’ll both realize how much I’ve sacrificed for that child of yours.”