PROLOGUE
He’slate again.
He’salways late.
Hewouldn’t be late if he’d hire someone to help him out, but oh, wait. Hiringsomeone requires money, and that’s exactly what we don’t have.
Hesaid we’d have money by now. He said we’d be well off. That was years ago.
Ouryoungest was pulled violently from sleep, to vomit all over the couch andpillow he laid upon. With an aggravated groan, I stood from the chair andgrabbed another blanket for him, along with a rag and the nearly empty bottleof cleaner. I situated my son at the other end of the couch, patted his headand instructed him to go back to sleep, and set to scrubbing the sofa.
Dammit,I wish he was here to wipe the puke stains off of this fucking couch. I wish hewas here to take care of his kids. I wish he was here, period.
“Mommy,”Vinnie cried from the other end of the sofa. “My belly hurts.”
“Iknow! I know it does!”
Ishouldn’t snap at him. It’s not his fault he picked up a stomach bug at school.It’s not his fault that he’s been puking and shitting all over himself all damnnight. It’s not his fault his father isn’t here.
“Here,honey, sip on this,” I said, handing him a cup of flat ginger ale, making suremy tone had softened to something a little more motherly.
That’sbetter. He’s my son. I love him. I shouldn’t be mad at him for being sick.
Vinnie’ssip of ginger ale sputtered up from his lips, and it was followed quickly byanother round of projectile vomit, covering his fresh pair of pajamas and thelast clean blanket in the apartment. Tears spilled from his eyes as his littlebody heaved, contorting violently with every lurch and bout of puke. And I juststood there, watching as my youngest baby cried and gagged and threw up,begging me in broken sentences to make it better.
ButI couldn’t make anything better.
Ineed to get out of here.
“M-Mommy!”he cried, looking at me through pleading, brown eyes. His father’s eyes. Not mine.
Helphim. Do something. He’s your son.
He’shis son, too.
“You’reokay. You’re going to be okay.” My hand touched the back of his clammy, little neck.He was so hot. His fever hadn’t broken yet. “Just lay down.”
“It’stoo hot. I can’t sleep. I … I don’t …” His face told me all I needed to knowjust moments before he vomited again, all over the couch cushions.
“Dammit,”I groaned through gritted teeth, clenching my fists.
I’mdone. I’m packing my things. I don’t need a lot. Just a few pairs of pants, acouple shirts … Just enough to get the hell out of here and …
Wherethe hell would I even go? What else is out there?
Isn’tthat what I’ve always wanted to know? Isn’t that what we were going to do? Seethe world and find an adventure that didn’t include kids and a shitty failureof a pizzeria?
I’lljust grab the jar of coins and envelope of money we’ve been saving for a rainyday. That’ll get me away from here, away from them, away from all of this shit.I’ll start over. I’ll pretend they don’t exist. I’ll live my life and I’ll bebetter, and they’ll be better off without me.
Comeon. Just walk through the living room. You just have to get through the livingroom and out the door.
Thenrun.
“Mommy?”
Goddamnhim.
“Goback to sleep, Vinnie.”
