Chapter 4: The Car Still Smelled Like His Mother's Kitchen
Ethan's car was already running when I got to the passenger side. He'd left it idling in Diane's driveway while we argued inside, and now the air was blasting cold. I had the baby against my chest in one arm and the carrier in the other, and my white dress was sticking to my back.
Diane was still in the doorway. She didn't wave. She just stood there in that burgundy dress with her arms folded, watching us pack up her daughter-in-law and her grandson and leave her kitchen.
I got the baby into the car seat. My hands were shaking and the buckle clicked wrong the first time. I had to redo it. Ethan stood by the driver's door and didn't help. He stared at his mother over the roof of the car, then got in.
We backed out slow. I looked in the side mirror until her house was gone.
The first three blocks no one said anything. The only sound was the air conditioning and the baby breathing. He had finally stopped crying and gone loose and warm in the seat, his light blue outfit damp at the collar. I kept my hand on his chest through the gap between the front seats. Ethan drove with both hands at ten and two, like he was being tested.
"You didn't answer me in there," I said.
He kept his eyes on the road. "I came, didn't I?"
"Because she called you."
He didn't deny it. His jaw tightened.
I felt the nights stacking up in my throat and I let them out one by one. I kept my voice low so I wouldn't wake the baby.
"Tuesday you stayed at her house until ten because she needed help with the garbage disposal. I was up at two and four and five alone. Thursday you stayed late at work and then stopped by her place on the way home. I texted you at nine that he wouldn't latch and you said you'd be home soon and you weren't. Saturday you had dinner over there while I did bath time and didn't sleep until midnight. That's three nights this week. That's every week since he was born."
Ethan exhaled through his nose. "That's not fair, Maya."
"Which part isn't true?"
"It's not like I'm out having fun. She's by herself in that house. Since Dad died she's alone every night. That house is paid for, it's warm, we have everything we need when we're there. We need her help."
I looked over at him. His sleeves were still pushed to his elbows. He had that tense set to his shoulders he'd had in the kitchen.
"We need her help or you need her not to be mad at you?" I asked.
He flinched. "Don't do that."
"I've been alone in our apartment every night this week. You've been at her kitchen table."
"Because she asks me to come. What am I supposed to do, tell my mom no every time she calls?"
We stopped at a red light on Main. A woman pushing a stroller crossed in front of us. Ethan tapped his thumb against the steering wheel.
I shifted so I could see his face. "If Diane's house is help, why do I feel watched there and not helped?"
He didn't look at me. The light turned green. He pressed the gas a little too hard and the car jerked.
"She watches how I hold him. She watches how I feed him. She moved the bottles yesterday without asking. That's not help, Ethan. That's her keeping score."
"She's trying to be involved," he said, and his voice was thinner now, defensive. "You know how she is. She thinks if she doesn't control it, it'll fall apart."
"And what do you think?"
He didn't answer. We were two blocks from the clinic and I could see the low brick building and the parking lot already half full. He pulled in and found a spot in the second row and put the car in park and left the engine running.
The silence came back, heavier this time. I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to check the baby. His cheeks were still pink, his forehead still hot under my palm.
Ethan kept his hands on the wheel. He stared straight ahead at the clinic doors.
May you like
"We're here," he said finally, like that settled it.
I didn't move to get out yet. Neither did he.
