Page 2 of Heart of Stone
Shit.
I pace as I consider the implications of Amanda's selfish decision. A weekend is different from a week or even two. One weekend in my apartment is tough but doable. A whole week or more? No way. I can't have three kids here. What will I do for childcare? For food? For sleeping arrangements?
The temporary cot will be okay for Adam, but the girls share my bed when they’re here, and I sleep on the pull-out couch which isn’t the best night's sleep—when I can sleep around a fussy baby and two hyperactive toddlers.
And what about my job? I'll have to look after the kids while I'm at work. There is no way I can bring three babies into the workshop. I am a mechanic, and our workshop specializes in restoring cars and bikes. Hell, we even have the occasional truck. I am good at my job, and people love what I do. I have a little bit of sick leave saved up, but we are in the middle of a big project. I don't want to be the one to cause it to blow out.
Option one: I can call child services and turn the kids over to them, but having been through foster care, there is no way I am going to do that.
Option two: I can try calling Amanda, work out where she is, and drop the kids off, but I have no doubt that would just end up in the same situation within a couple of days. She'd come home, and the kids would be in the house alone. I'd get a call from one of the neighbors or Amanda, telling me to check on them. Alternatively, she'd complain and somehow get into my place, wrecking the joint because I hadn't given her what she wanted. It’s happened twice before.
Option three, and perhaps the only one that is actually viable, is to bundle the kids up, take them back to their place, and look after them there until my cousin grows up and comes home to look after her own kids. And since I don't own a car or car seats, we'll have to take the bus.
"Damn you, Amanda," I mutter, beyond exasperated by this situation.
I glance at them, seeing Abby and Amy playing quietly with stuffed toys I bought them.
No one else will care for them as much as I will. Which means this is on me. All on me.
With a heavy sigh I make my decision, glancing at my watch.
It’s getting late in the evening, which means the kids need food, a bath, and bed, but there’s no way I can look after them tonight and get to work tomorrow. With a frustrated huff, I pull myself together and make mac and cheese for the twins, and heat some frozen breast milk for Adam.
I feed them quickly and shuffle them all into the bathroom for a quick wash before dressing them in pajamas. Assembling their multitude of things—diaper bags, a stroller, blankets, soft toys—I do a quick search on my phone for bus timetables and nearly lose my mind realizing it will take us nearly two hours via public transport for what is essentially a 15-minute drive. But such is the public transport system in small towns.
I live a town over from Amanda. While I might work in Stoneheart, living slightly away from the place I grew up gives me enough distance to carve out a life not tainted by the mistakes of my family.
You might wonder why I don't order an Uber or a taxi—please. The one guy who offers it only works from ten till three during the day, his main customers being old ladies wanting to get to bridge.
With another heavy sigh, I lock up my apartment, adjusting the small bag of items I’ve thrown into my backpack. The twins are wearing some of those monkey harnesses, which I hate but work when I also have to deal with a stroller as well as carry their stuff. The bus ride itself isn't too bad; I manage to distract them with a movie on an iPad and a pair of headsets. Adam sleeps most of the way, waking occasionally for cuddles, a feed, and a diaper change, which I’ll deal with later.
Disaster strikes when the bus finally drops us off a 10-minute walk from Amanda's. The twins, now an hour past their bedtime, are exhausted and not at all willing or interested in walking a step further. It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to slip Abby beside Adam in the stroller and put Amy on my back in a backpack. I move the diaper bag to the stroller's overhang and determinedly shove our way forward as I trudge down the long, broken concrete sidewalk.
Amanda lives in a questionable area, which is no surprise. As a single mom of three whose sole income appears to come from welfare and boyfriends, she has a house whose rent seems dubiously connected to her ability to grant the landlord favors.
I’ve never asked what kind of favors cause goodness knows I don’t want to know.
Once upon a time, this had been a lovely neighborhood with big old trees and quiet small houses. Now it’s a wasteland of derelict housing and cleared land.
But there are flickers of life that demonstrate it might be about to undergo a gentle gentrification—the occasional house with new paint and shutters, a car that appears to be a little bit above the price range of the other clunkers around the place. But for the most part, the area is tired, old, and worn with a thin veneer of dilapidation. Old-timers sit on their porches in the summer bemoaning the state of the world while the younger generations trade drugs or guns, or move to the city in an attempt to better themselves.
Maybe one day the town will reclaim its former glory, but for the moment, it isn't the safest neighborhood.
After 10 minutes of pleading, cajoling, and dealing with a disgruntled set of toddlers, we finally make it to Amanda's house. I check the mailbox and, sure enough, I find the key to her house glinting in the dim, flickering streetlight. With a silent curse, I bundle the kids inside and flick on the lights.
It’s been over six months since I stepped foot in Amanda's house. Any babysitting had taken place in my apartment. The last time I'd been here was before Adam's birth when I had scrubbed the place from top to bottom and helped her set up the crib because, of course, Paul, the jerk, wasn't interested. But now, stepping inside, I realize that was a mistake. The place is filthy—boxes are stacked here and there coupled with piles of rubbish, dirty laundry, and diapers. The stench of the place nearly overwhelms me, and I gag.
The kids, sadly, take the stench in stride.
Exhausted after a full day of work and this unexpected babysitting gig, I’m beginning to realize the extent of Amanda's problems. The knowledge hits me like a train, barreling over me, crushing me under the weight of responsibility.
There’s no way Amanda is coming back, and there’s no way I can let these kids go.
Through the door of the house, the twins, exhausted beyond measure, have a meltdown which in turn wakes up the baby, who begins to scream. I drop my bags on the floor, overwhelmed by the mess, the smell, the noise, and the weight of the knowledge that I can't give them back to Amanda. They will need to become my wards. I'll need to take over their responsibility. My life as I know it, as I always imagined it, is about to change.
Freaking out, I quickly bustle around, double-checking that there isn't anything they can get hurt by. I bustle the twins into their bedroom and pop Adam in his crib. I close the door to the twins room, propping a chair under the knob to keep them safely inside.
Tears prick my eyes, and a sick, almost nauseous feeling sweeps over me.
