We brought sleeves of instant oatmeal, zipped pajamas with tiny dangling feet, and garbage bags full of shampoo and teething crackers when the baby and I moved into our sublet. I would eventually run out of suitcases.
We had diapers with pictures of bacon and scrambled eggs on them. If there had been another adult around, I might have remarked, “Why put breakfast on diapers?” It wasn’t there.
It was nineteen degrees outside in the sun. We were renting this one-bedroom railroad apartment close to a firehouse for the upcoming month. I had brought a portable crib, raspberries, and white Christmas lights to brighten the otherwise dark room. A firefighter next door ran toward his engine, a box of Cheerios in one hand and a chainsaw in the other.
My voice eventually broke when I said to my divorce attorney, “She is thirteen months old.” It turns out that, similar to therapists, divorce attorneys also have Kleenex in their offices, but not as readily available. “I’m confident we have them somewhere,” she said apprehensively as she stood up from her rotating chair to look around. As though to say, We understand that you are crying, but we are not here to control them. I would have to pay fifty dollars if I sobbed for five minutes.
I said, “Just over thirteen months,” to give the impression that we had been married for a longer period of time than we actually had.
As they say, I was a “child of divorce,” as if divorce were a parent. When I was very young, I believed that divorce was a ceremony in which the couple would retrace their wedding’s steps, beginning at the altar, taking off their hands, and then going down the aisle apart.
The sublet was dim and lengthy. It was dubbed our birth canal by a friend. It was obviously not meant for a child; it appeared to belong to artists. All that was on top of the coffee table was a chic wooden slab supported by cinder blocks. The largest work of art was a gigantic white canvas that was hung on the wall and gave the impression of being a wall. The firefighters next door occasionally used their chainsaws carelessly. However, what
Clementines and quick ramen dominated our nights. All winter long, my fingers had an orange scent. Sometimes the liquid pulsing red emergency lights would flood our rooms through the slatted blinds. Flu season was upon us. One morning at four in the morning, I woke up with a mouthful of sweet saliva. I staggered to the restroom, walked past the sleeping infant, and remained kneeling over the toilet until daybreak. After the baby woke up, I followed her about the house on my belly, then reclined on the wooden floor to see her from a side angle. I didn’t want her to leave my sight, even though I lacked the power to rise. I was astounded at the stuff she put in her mouth. Everybody
