Beauty from Ashes

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 36

Patricia hasn’t stirred since her regal exit to her room, and I haven’t heard a peep from Natalie, either. Now that I think about it, I have no idea why I ever agreed to let Patricia sleep in my daughter’s room. Was I so thankful for the chance to have someone else take charge of all the night suctioning and tube feeds that I was willing to risk my baby’s well-being? I mean, who knows how Patricia is trying to poison her against me? I swear just that grumpy aura alone could probably turn the sweetest Gerber baby into a colicky monster.

I know I’ve got to talk to Jake about her, but he’s avoiding me. Which is silly when you consider that our elbows are only an inch apart from each other. It’s amazing what kind of armor one small smartphone can set up between two people. He’s slaughtering colorful pieces of candy, and I’m cyber stalking a girl I knew back in high school. She was one of the snotty ones from Sandy’s church who started the rumors about me and Lincoln Grant to begin with. Is it wrong for me to secretly rejoice that she’s now divorced?

At least I’ve got a husband, chica.

For now, anyway.

But this Patricia thing has got to stop. Did you know that the Chinese symbol for trouble is a picture of two women living under the same roof? I’m not making it up. I read it on this random fact website I sometimes go to when I’m bored.

I’ve already decided that Jake and I are having the Talk tonight. It can’t wait until morning because he’ll leave for work before I’m even awake. When it comes right down to it, Jake has to make a decision. Mommy or me. And based on past events, the odds aren’t too hot in my favor. But I can’t go on like this indefinitely, can I? You can’t blame me if I’m at the end of my rope. No, not even that. It’s more like I ran out of rope weeks ago, and now I’m at the bottom of a thousand-foot cavern with no footholds or ladders or even a little bucket on a pulley to get me out.

So Jake’s got to man up and make the call. Either Patricia goes, or I go. Only now I’m thinking about sabotage and wondering if this is my way of ruining my marriage intentionally. If Patricia stays, that means I’m out of here, me and Natalie both. And then where would we go? It’s bad enough my baby and I live in a trailer and get Medicaid, WIC coupons, and food stamps. Like a stinking statistic.

I don’t know. Maybe I should sleep on it. Things always look clearer in the morning, don’t they? Except Jake’s waking up at 4:30, and if I have to spend the entire morning alone with his mom without talking any of this through, I’m going to kill her.

I swear I’m going to kill her.

“You almost ready for bed?” I ask.

“Mmm.” His eyes never leave his screen. It’s a wonder that boy hasn’t pulled a muscle in his forearm yet from popping all those stupid gobstoppers and bubble gums.

“I’m sorry I yelled at your mom.” The words are painful coming out of my throat, but I need to do something to get his attention. Desperate times, right?

Jake zaps an entire row of purple-grape gushers. “Yeah, it was just Tylenol.”

I bite my lip and carefully plan out my next words. “I know, but on the other hand I think it’s more than that. Have you noticed how she’s kind of taken over all of Natalie’s care?”

“She’s just trying to help.” It’s my husband talking, but it’s his mother’s voice in my head. Somebody around here has to step up and pitch in.

I need Patricia’s help about as badly as I need a double mastectomy. “I just thought that when she came, she’d only be staying for a week or so. It’s been two months now.” Even though I’m skillfully avoiding eye contact, I feel Jake’s body tense next to mine, so I add, “She shouldn’t have to put her own life on hold this long. We can take care of Natalie at this point.”

He’s frowning, but I think it’s because he’s got too much red on his screen and none of those donut bombs to get rid of them all at once.

“What do you think?” I prod. It takes every ounce of self-control in my body to keep my voice down. He’s lucky I don’t take his stupid phone and hurl it against the wall.

You can tell he’s got more white in him than his mom because he shrugs with his shoulders in typical American style. “She’ll probably go home sometime after Christmas.”

I have to mentally walk my way through the calendar to figure out how far out in the distance he’s talking. About a week?

God bless me if I haven’t strangled her by then.