I try jiggling Taylor to get her to calm down but that only makes her madder. She stiffens her entire body and lets out a howl guaranteed to have every dog on the block barking in commiseration. “She’s upset because she wants to watch a TV show.”
Mrs. McCormack frowns. Glances at Taylor, who, for the first time, seems to notice we’re no longer in our own yard but on the porch of the house across the street and, yes, another strange person—though this time of the female species—is close by. She buries her face in my neck, her screams turning into sobs.
Really loud, completely pitiful sobs.
It’s not an improvement.
“Looks like someone’s not used to being told no,” Mrs. McCormack says and now that Taylor is somewhat quieter, I can hear that her Southern accent is way more pronounced than Whitney’s.
But not nearly as nice.
I grind my back teeth together. Adults love sharing their thoughts on parenting, their rules and wisdom and, most especially, their judgment when they think you’re doing it all wrong. It’s so annoying. For one thing, Taylor’s not my kid. Even though I may not always agree with the choices Zoe makes regarding her, I keep my mouth shut. Which more people—especially the woman in front of me—should do.
For another, I’m doing the best I can. God.
And I’m seriously not in the mood for a lecture.
“No is the single most used word at our house,” I assure her, trying not to sound bitchy, but come on. Taylor’s only two. “Is Whitney home?”
“She’s eating breakfast,” Whitney’s mom says and steps back, opening the door wider. “Would you care to come in?”
She’s as polite as her daughter.
Or, you know, vice versa seeing as how Mrs. McCormack was here first and all.
Taylor must have caught her breath—or remembered she’s mighty ticked off—because she chooses that moment to start screaming again, starting with a cry that reaches a high pitch unbeknownst to man before this moment.
Mrs. McCormack and I both cringe.
“We’ll just wait here,” I say, unable to even imagine what it would be like to have Taylor’s shrieks contained by four walls.
The word torturous comes to mind.
Mrs. McCormack gives me a quick, grateful nod. “I’ll send Whitney right on out.”
She leaves the door open and I watch her walk through a tidy living room. Then I cross to the top step and sit down. Eggie—who’d been checking out all the new and interesting smells of the McCormacks’ yard—comes trotting up, circles three time to find just the right spot and lies down next to me. The rising sun is warm on my face and I close my eyes and tip my head back to soak the warmth in and try and get back to those few peaceful moments I had on my own porch before Sam showed up.
Just a girl, her dog and her sweet, cuddly niece enjoying a nice Saturday morning.
“I want Mickey!” Taylor wails, wiggling to be free of my hold. “No want you, Haddy! Want! Mickey!”
I sigh. Okay. Not so sweet. Not so cuddly.
“I’ll remember you said that,” I tell her, “the next time you’re crying for me. Now knock off the bawling or I’m going to put you in timeout.”
I should do so anyway, but trying to get a two-year-old to sit still and think about why their behavior is wrong isn’t easy. And when I put Taylor in timeout, it usually descends into a wrestling match with me trying to hold her still while she screams and does her best to get away.
And she’s already doing that so what would be the point?
“No timeout! No!” she says, pushing against my chest. See? With a huff, she glares up me. “I no like you, Haddy.”
“Well, we’re even because I’m not all that crazy about you right now, either.”
She frowns, tear stains now mixing with the frosting on her cheeks, as she processes my words. “No. You cwazy ’bout me. I a good girl.”
Ah, to have her confidence.
And delusions.
“You’re not being good right now.” Zoe read that you’re not supposed to tell kids they’re bad because that damages their psyche or something.
“I good!” Taylor screams. “I a good girl!”
I guess I walked right into that one.
Although it does prove Taylor’s psyche is just fine.
Eggie gets to his feet a moment before Whitney walks out onto the porch.
I jump up—okay, more like I lurch up. Hey, it’s tough to jump and do so gracefully while you’re holding a squirming thirty-pound toddler who’s yelling at you that she’s good and nice and pwetty and stwong and smawt and that you’re bad (Taylor obviously didn’t get the memo about fragile psyches) and mean and not pwetty or stwong or smawt.
Why did we think it was such a great idea to teach this kid to talk?
But I must look like a maniac, even without the jumping, because Whitney stops and takes a small step back when I move toward her. “I told Sam we were hanging out tonight,” I blurt. “You and me, I mean.”
“Umm, okay,” she says, slow and careful, like she’s talking a jumper down from the ledge. “Why would you do that?”
I shrug, feeling antsy and hot, my arms tiring from holding Taylor. “He asked me out.”
Her lips thin and I’d bet money she’s holding back a smile. “I see. Here,” she continues, handing me a wet washcloth, “Mama said you needed this.”
Of course she calls her mother Mama. They’re probably really close and do things together because they actually want to. She probably warns her that boys only want one thing and tells her she can do anything she wants with her life and asks her about her friends, her job, her dreams of the future, and never forgets her birthday.
Or that she’s alive and living in the very same trailer where she walked out on her.
Not that I’m envious or anything.
When I try to clean Taylor’s face, she shrieks and wipes tears, frosting and snot across the front of my sweatshirt.
And that’s it. That’s the moment I give up.
“You win,” I mutter to the Fates, my throat tight with tears. “You broke me. Happy now?”
“I win what?” Whitney asks, courageously edging closer even as she follows my gaze upward.
“Nothing. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Are you all right? You don’t seem like the type of person who usually talks to herself.”
I open my mouth to tell her I’m fine, that I have wonderfully deep conversations with myself all the time about the meaning of life and politics and the Kardashians. I’ll tell her all that then ask her to pretend I was never here at which point I’ll run back to my house, where I’ll be safe. Where I’ll be alone.
Yes, I open my mouth to say all of that, but nothing comes out except a small squeak.
Because I don’t want to be alone.
I don’t want to lie.
Hey, there’s a first time for everything.
And I can’t run from this. I’ve tried and all I did was end up right back where I started.
“No,” I say, and unbelievably, after holding it all together in front of Sam, my voice breaks. “I’m not all right. I’m freaking out.”
She nods as if she completely gets what I’m saying, even though I haven’t, technically, said anything, then lightly touches Taylor on the back to get her attention. “Hi, Taylor. Remember me?”