​Chapter Thirty
Natalie

Taking a shower only helped in that it was something to do. My skin still crawled afterwards, my head still filled with the sensory details of being with a man like Hootie.

A married man.

And it doesn’t help that this time, my daughter waited for me to talk, and the conversation revolved around what I’ve done. And how I’ve ruined everyone’s life.

The father isn’t even the guy I live with.

How my life took a Jerry Springer turn, I’ll never know. I’ve reworked it in my head so many ways, I can’t figure it out. I feel like Rain Man, muttering to myself as all the possible possibilities run across the movie screen in my mind, just out of reach.

It went poorly, if you were wondering. So much so, my baby girl vomited all over the kitchen table. I didn’t tell her the other, seedier side of all this. Sometimes, I think if I squeeze my eyes real tight and breathe real deep, I can make Hootie and his dirty cash go away.

But he’s still there and so is the money I deposited in my bank account on the way home. 

Fifty bucks for a spin with Miss Natalie.

I start to feel a little nauseous again, but this time it’s not the pregnancy.

I don’t let it run me over though because Wren is still sick. Sunday morning, and I let the sun run through the vertical blinds behind the couch. I sit with a cup of instant coffee in my hands that Jerry made for me before heading to church.

Our schtick: “You’re shacking up with Jezebel, Jerry. You’re likely to burst into flames the moment you walk into the door.”

“Why do you think I need Jesus?” he says and smiles, smelling faintly of his Polo knock-off. He asked me once and only once if I wanted to go with him. I’m sure the ice in my eyes–and my veins for that matter–was enough to shut down that particular line of questioning.

My Jesus is this couch, the one Mack used to sit on with me, and the sun warming my back on such a frigid day. My daughter is still in bed and will probably be there until it’s time to go to sleep again. She doesn’t have a virus or a stomach bug. She’s coming off something. Not sure what yet, but I’m sure that little punk Mareck has something to do with it. I’ll take her to the doctor if she can’t keep anything down later on. But I’d rather not have to do that.

The less paperwork documenting my stellar job of a mother, the better.

The foolishness of man perverteth his way: and his heart fretteth against the Lord.

It hits me like it sometimes does. The words of my father. It’s never in his voice, more like a feeling masquerading as words.

I try to push it away but it only gets louder in my chest. I go and dump out the coffee, watch it run down the drain.

“What. Do. You. Want. Me. To. Do.” I ask but not sure who. My friend, Emmy, would say “the universe.” I think that’s the biggest crock I’ve ever heard in my life, even more than the Jesus thing. When she says things like that, I ask her if I can borrow her foil helmet. Looking down the drain, I know it’s not the universe, the mute creation that’s spinning on its head like I feel I’m doing right now.

The foolishness of man perverteth his way...

I know. So shut up.

No, whatever is going on is something different. It’s the eyes that watch me, the feeling that talks at me. It was easier when vodka was involved. I could shut everything off like switching off a television set.

But sober? I feel the world throb inside me like the blood coursing through my veins.

“Mooooom.....” It sounds like a zombie is lazily making its way towards me.

But I know it’s just my drug-addicted daughter needing me in the midst of the mess I’ve made.