Page 4 of Heart of Stone
Don't think about it, I tell myself as I add to the growing grocery list.Just take one thing at a time.
First things first: a clean house, grocery list, and I'll need a car and car seats.
I think wistfully of my motorcycle back at my apartment, tucked safely away. Of my beautiful bedroom and the little oasis I’d created for myself in my apartment. Of the gorgeous but breakable vase that sits in my kitchen.
The apartment has been mine for three years now, and I have a nice nest egg going with the idea that maybe one day I could purchase something more permanent. But in a single breath of rancid air, that dream has disappeared.
I'll have to work out childcare, and pick up extra shifts to make ends meet. I have no clue how to do that when there are three kids to look after.
God, health insurance. Kids get sick all the time. How am I going to—nope, not now.
A clean house. That has to be my first priority. The house needs to be clean.
So, that's what I do. I start by writing down exactly what I need. It is a long list and ends with ordering groceries—though goodness knows how I’ll get them when I don’t have a car and there’s no delivery service out this way.
There'd be laundry and scrubbing and cleaning and—do we even have any cleaning products?
Jacked up on adrenaline and shock, I start in the kitchen, gagging as I begin to clean from one side to another. I haul garbage outside—garbage that is rotting and rancid, the smell of which is putrid. Condoms, used condoms, are tucked here and there, thrown into corners easily enough that I worry that the girls could have found them.
I toss Amanda's scummy sheets in the washer and uncover an ancient laundry basket. Emptying two of the boxes that had been stacked in the living room, I begin to sort clothing into what is salvageable and what needs to be tossed. Load after load, I begin to make a dent as I clean the house from top to bottom. Here and there, I find stacks of cash and jewelry tucked into little hiding spots. I don't ask questions. Honestly, I don't want to know. I just pile it all up on the kitchen counter, desperately trying to ignore the pit that has begun to form in my belly.
At around 3 AM, I finally put clean sheets on the bed in Amanda's room. Fifteen garbage bags of junk line her front porch, but at least the house is functional, clean, and I have a list of groceries I’ll need tomorrow, the top of which includes cleaning products. I have no idea how I’m going to get those grocery items, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow. I take a quick shower, scrubbing off the grime, dirt, mold, and filth caking my skin and clothing from cleaning the house.
Tomorrow morning will come soon enough.
2
ANDI
Day one of my new life as a parent to three children starts as any parent would understand: way too early.
I wake to find a child peering at me from the side of the bed.
"Wawy, wawy," Amy says, touching my face. "Potty."
With a groan, I roll out of bed and stumble to my feet, guiding her to the toilet. She does her business, kicking her tiny chubby legs as she chats on about everything and nothing. She keeps gesturing to the bathroom, and I interpret her hand movements as approval for the cleaning job I did last night.
I poke my head into their bedroom and note that Adam is still fast asleep after his 4 AM feed, while Abby has managed to climb out of her bed and now sits on the floor of their bedroom playing with stuffed toys. I didn’t clean their bedroom last night, opting to let them sleep, but it’s on my list for today after breakfast and shopping.
I take the twins into the kitchen and make them some cereal, watching carefully as they use their fingers to fish out the soggy pieces. It’s always been like this, and I’m starting to realize this is less a quirk of a two-year-old and more that they’ve never been taught how to use spoons or cutlery.
Just another thing to add to my list.
It’s Friday, and normally on a Friday, I’d be finishing up my jobs for the week, but today it feels like I’m beginning the rest of my life. I sip some shitty instant coffee I uncover in the back of Amanda's next-to-bare cupboard and start making plans for the day.
First, I need to buy a car. I can’t wait. If one of the kids gets sick, I need a way to get to the hospital and cart them around. I’ll need to put my bike up for sale. I know it’ll fetch a pretty penny, but God, what a blow. That bike is everything I’ve ever wanted. I worked my ass off for that bike, saving up for twelve months to buy an absolute wreck of a Harley. Over the next year, I slowly restored it myself. Every beautiful inch of it is my blood, sweat, and tears. She purrs like a tiger, flies across the road like a graceful gazelle—delicate but solid.
The bike is perfect in every single way, every decal from the powder blue down to the gorgeous hand-pressed silver with march violets. She’s the first thing I ever earned that showed me I was a success, that I could do this, that life could be better. My favorite time of the year is in the middle of summer when I take a week off and just ride her into the sunset. Wherever I land is where I set up camp. I love that. I love the feeling of freedom, of adventure, of knowing that my entire world is the bike between my legs and the open road.
I close my eyes, biting back tears as I realize I have to give up the one thing in my life that has brought me so much joy.
I’ve had offers on her before—thirty, forty grand. She’s a classic, and she’s my daily. Forty grand. If I can get that for her, I can’t pass up that kind of money when I need to pay for childcare, rent, and a bunch of other stuff I had no idea kids bring with them.
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
Knowing it’s better to rip the band-aid off rather than draw out the pain, I dial my boss. He picks up on the second ring.
"Yo, you okay?" he asks, his voice heavy with concern.
