Текст книги "Dirty Red"

Автор книги: Tarryn Fisher

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“Have you had sex with Caleb yet?”

I flinch. Katine has no filter. She tries to blame it on the fact that she’s from a different culture, but she’s been here since before she could walk. I motion for another margarita. The bartender is attractive. For some reason I don’t want him to know I’m a mother. I lower my voice.

“I just had a baby, Katine. You have to wait at least six weeks.”

“I had a C-section,” she announces.

 Of course I know this. Katine has regaled me with her disgusting birth story over a dozen times. I look away, bored, but her next words make my head snap around.

“Your vagina is going to be all stretched out and useless now.”

First, I check to see if the bartender heard her, then I narrow my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Birthing, naturally. What? Do you think everything just snaps back into place?” She laughs a true hyena laugh. I watch her exposed throat as she throws her head back to finish her cackling. How many times have I wondered what it would feel like to slap my best friend? When she calms down, she sighs dramatically.

“God, I’m just kidding, Leah. You should have seen your face. It was like I told you your kid died.”

I toy with my drink napkin. What if she's right? My fingers begin itching to pull out my phone and Google. I do some Kegels for good measure.

Would Caleb notice a difference? I break out in a sweat just thinking about it. Our relationship had always been about sex. We were the sexy couple; the ones who kept things alive when all of our friends were retiring into a life of half-lucid missionary sex after the kids went to sleep. For months in the beginning of our relationship, he would get this relieved look on his face when he reached for me and I responded. I never pushed him away. I never wanted to. Now, I had to consider that he might push me away.

I order another drink.

This was going to cause all kinds of new anxiety. I would have to schedule an appointment with my therapist.

“Look,” says Katine. She leans toward me and her overly sweet vanilla perfume creeps into my nose. “Things change when you have a baby. Your body changes. The dynamic between you and the husband changes. You have to be inventive, and for the love of God, lose the baby weight … fast.”

She snaps her fingers at a server and puts in an order for a basket of fries and fried calamari.

Bitch.

Chapter Four

Past

I met Caleb at Katine’s twenty-fourth birthday party. It was held on a yacht, which was significantly better than my twenty-fourth birthday venue at one of South Beach’s swanky nightclubs. I invited two hundred people; she invited three. But, being that my best friend’s birthday is four months after mine, she has the advantage of outshining me every year. I call it even since I am prettier and my father placed twelve spots above hers in Forbes.

I was wearing a black silk Lanvin dress that I’d seen Katine eying the week before as we shopped in Barney’s. Her hips had been slightly too wide to accommodate the slim cut of the dress, so I scooped it up when she wasn’t looking and bought it. She would have done the same to me, of course.

After making rounds among our friends, I headed to the bar for a fresh martini. I spotted him sitting on one of the barstools. His back was toward me, but I could tell by the width of his shoulders and the cut of his hair that he was going to be beautiful. I slid into the available seat next to him and shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. I noticed the strong jaw first. You could crack walnuts on that jaw. His nose was kind of weird, but not in an unattractive way. The bridge was curved, a slight bend in the road. It was elegant, the way an old revolver would be. His lips were too sensual for a man. If it were not for his nose – that incredibly elegant nose – his face would have been too pretty. I waited a few customary minutes for him to look at me, normally I didn’t have to work very hard to garner male attention, but when he didn’t, I cleared my throat. His eyes, which had been focused on the television above the bar, turned slowly toward me like I was an imposition. They were the color of maple syrup if you held it up to the light. I waited for him to get that lucky look that all men got on their faces when they stumbled upon my attention. It didn’t come.

“I’m Leah,” I said finally, holding out my hand.

“Hello, Leah.” He sort of half smiled as he shook my hand and then dismissively turned back to the television. I knew his type. You had to play hard to get with boys that had crooked grins. They liked the chase.

“How do you know Katine?” I asked, suddenly feeling desperate.

“Who?”

“Katine … the girl whose birthday party you’re crashing?”

“Ah, Katine,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. “I don’t.”

I waited for him to explain that he came with a friend or his distant relation to someone at the party, but he offered no explanation. I decided to try a new route.

“Do you need bourbon and a beer to go with that Scotch?”

He looked at me for the first time, blinking as if he was clearing his vision.

“Is that your best pick up line? Lyrics from a country song?”

I saw a hint of laughter in his eyes, and I smiled, encouraged.

“Hey, we’ve all got a vice and mine is country music.”

He studied me for a minute, his eyes roving over my hair and stopping on my lips. He ran his fingers across the condensation on his glass, collecting the moisture on the tips of his fingers. I watched in fascination as he used his thumb to rub the moisture from his fingertips.

“Okay,” he said, turning toward me. “What other vices do you have?”

I could have answered you right then and there.

“Uh-uh,” I said, seductively shaking my head and leaning forward just enough to give him a bird’s eye view of my cleavage. “I already let one out of the bag. Your turn.”

He harrumphed and glanced at his sweaty glass. He spun it slowly as he looked back at me, like he was deciding whether or not it was worth it to continue the conversation. After a long pause, his eyes iced over and he said – “Poisonous women.”

I sat back, startled. This was perfect. I was about a ten on the poison scale. If he needed venom, I could inject it directly into his neck.

He took a long, hard sip of his Scotch. I evaluated the situation. It was clear that this man had just played emotional dodge ball with a professional. He was nursing a very strong and expensive drink at a yacht party he’d rather not be attending. Despite the fact that I was offering up my goods, wearing a dress that left little to the imagination, he barely looked at me. Normally, a man on the rebound would not scare me. They could provide passionate, casual sex in the wake of their heartbreak. They see only the best things about you; the things that remind them of the better days with their ex, showering you in compliments, and clinging to you gratefully for a fun-filled week or two. I relish rebound men. But, this one was different. This one wasn’t questioning his worth as a human because his relationship ended. He was questioning her sanity. Trying to figure out at exactly what point things had started to unravel.

He was immaculately dressed, without trying. He dressed that way by nature – which meant that he had money – and I loved money. I recognized the royal sign of the Rolex, the fine thread of Armani, the easy way he looked at the world. I also recognized the way he said “thank you” when the bartender refilled his drink, and how when the couple next to him swore repeatedly, he flinched. His type was hardly ever single. I wondered what stupid bitch let him go. Whoever she was, I would wipe her from his memory in no time at all. Why? Because I was the best of the best: the Godiva, the Maserati, the perfect colorless diamond. I could improve anyone’s life – especially this man's.

With my newfound confidence in our future relationship, I smiled at him and crossed my legs so that my skirt hiked up my thigh.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Today happens to be your lucky day.”

“Why is that?”

 He didn’t even look at my legs. I sighed.

“Well, I was going to say something smart ass about being poisonous too, but I think by the looks of you, you need a good dose of Jamba Juice or something.”

He cracked up.

“See, I’m funny,” I quipped.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “A little.”

Emboldened, I tucked my elbows back to my sides and twisted my barstool to face him. My knees were now touching his outer thigh, and he made no attempt to move away.

Sucker.

“So – ” I pulled a pearl cigarette case from my pursette. “This is my other vice, do you mind?” He looked at the cigarette poised at my lips and shook his head. I lit and inhaled in one smooth move I’d managed to perfect.

“What’s your name, Mr. Sad Eyes?”

His mouth twitched at the corners as his eyebrows did a little dance upward.

“Caleb,” he said. “Caleb Drake.”

I tried Drake on with my name and decided I liked it.

I blew my mouthful of smoke toward the ocean.

“I’m Leah … and if you play your cards right, I could be Leah Drake,” I raised my eyebrows.

“Wow. Wow …” he said again. “That’s almost refreshing.”

“She didn’t want to marry you?” I asked sympathetically.

“She didn’t want to do a lot of things,” he said, swallowing the last of his Scotch and standing up. He was wonderfully tall. I mentally placed myself right underneath his arm, which must make him at least six one.

I waited for his next move. Whatever he did, he was mine anyway.

He stood up and kissed my hand. I was confused.

“Goodnight, Leah,” he said. Then to my utter astonishment, he walked away.

Confounded.

I thought we had chemistry.

I thought about him the following day as I nursed my hangover. Who was he? Why had he come? What had she done to him to make him pass me up? Me! I briefly entertained the idea that his ex was a celebrity. God knows he was good looking enough to break a celebrity’s heart. I thought about his cool nonchalance, the flutter I felt when he finally looked at me. Had I ever had to work that hard to make a man look at me? No. And when he did look, you wanted him to stop. He looked at you like he already knew you – direct, slightly bored, judgmental. He made you wonder how it would feel to be on the other side of that look, to have his eyes on you because he wanted them there.

I dug around a little bit, tried to find out who he was and where he hung out. I was a talented sleuth. My social network was broad and within two phone calls, I knew where to find Caleb Drake. Two more phone calls and I had someone setting us up on a blind date.

“Wait at least a month,” I said to my cousin. “Give him more time to lick his wounds before I save him.”

One month later, I was walking up to a sushi joint called Tatu, the heat clinging to my bare legs, my heart boom booming against my ribs.

“No way,” he said as soon as he saw me.

I feigned surprise. Dipping my head down, I asked, “Single and British, looking for a redhead?”

He laughed a stomach laugh and hugged me.

He was wearing a white button down, rolled to the elbows with khaki shorts. He was golden bronze, like he’d been tanning every day since I last saw him.

“How do you know Sarah?” He held open the door for me, and I stepped past him.

“My cousin,” I smirked. “How do you know her?”

Of course I already knew the answer. Sarah’s boyfriend and Caleb were frat brothers. The night of Katine’s party he’d tagged along with them.

I listened as he explained the connection. His accent was sexy. When we followed the host to our table, he put his hand on my lower back. It was familiar and possessive. I liked that. I wondered if he would have done that if this were our first time meeting.

“You know how Sarah lured me into this blind date?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“She told me you had good legs.”

I smiled and bit my lip. “And?” I extended them out from under the table, ankles together. My dress was dangerously short. Of course I knew he liked a good pair of legs. I’d grilled Sarah’s stupid boyfriend for an hour to find out everything I could about him.

He grinned. He looked me in the eyes when he said, “Not bad.”

I felt the tingle all the way down to my toes. That was the look I was waiting for.

The next morning I woke up in his bed. Stretching, I looked around his room. My muscles were luxuriously sore. I hadn’t been bent that many ways since I was a gymnast in high school.

I heard the shower in the adjoining bathroom, and I rolled over to see if I had a view of him through the open door. I did.

The previous night we made it through three drinks and dinner without a pause in conversation. It was like talking to someone I had known for years. I was so comfortable with him, and I presumed he was with me, because he answered any questions I had without hesitation. When we left the restaurant, there was no doubt whether or not I would go home with him. I hopped into his convertible, and we drove the short fifteen minutes to his high rise. Our trail of clothes started at the front door and ended at the foot of his bed, where we playfully tossed aside the last of what I was wearing. It would be nice to be able to blame the alcohol for my recklessness, but truth be told, we both stopped drinking before we ate. Everything that happened ... happened without the influence of liquor.

When Caleb got out of the shower, I was still leaning on my elbow. I made no pretense about watching him. He ran the towel over his hair, making it stick up. I smiled broadly and patted the bed. Dropping his towel, he climbed in next to me.

“Are you still sad?” I asked, leaning my chin on his chest.

He surrendered a half grin and tweaked my nose.

“I’m feeling a bit more cheerful.”

“Oooh – a bit more cheerful …” I mocked his accent and started to roll out of the bed. He caught me by the ankles and pulled me back.

“A lot more cheerful,” he offered.

“Wanna have one more go and then get lunch?” I asked, tracing my finger across his chest.

“Depends,” he said, grabbing my hand.

I waited for him to continue without asking the customary “on what?”

“I’m not looking for anything serious, Leah. I’m still all messed up in the head from – ”

“The last girl? “ I smirked and leaned up to kiss him. “Whatever,” I said against his mouth. “Do I look like a commitment sort of girl to you?”

“You look like trouble,” he grinned. “When I was growing up, my mother used to tell me to never trust a redhead.”

I frowned. “There are only two reasons she’d say something like that.”

Caleb raised his eyebrows. “And they are?”

“Your father either slept with one, or she is one.”

I buzzed under his crooked smile. It extended all the way to his eyes this time.

“I like you,” he said.

“That’s swell, Boy Scout. Real swell.”

Chapter Five

Present

Two days after Caleb left for his business trip, my mother packs her bags and informs me she’s leaving as well.

"You can't be serious," I say, watching as she zips up her suitcase. "You said you wanted to stay and help."

"It's too hot," she says, lightly touching her hair. "You know I hate the summers here."

"We're in air conditioning, Mother! I need your help."

"You'll be fine, Johanna."

I notice the slight tremor in her voice. She’s slipping into one of her depressions. Courtney was the one who knew how to deal with her when she got like this. I always seem to make it worst. But, Courtney isn't here; I am. Which made Mother Dearest my responsibility.

I shrugged. "Fine, let's get you to the airport. Caleb comes back at midnight, anyway."

Let her scuttle home to her Michigan McMansion and pine away, popping pills into her mouth like Tic Tacs.

On the way back from the airport, I crank up the radio and feel like a bird out of her nest for the first time. Estella starts screaming from her car seat five minutes into my bliss. What does that mean? She’s hungry? Carsick? Wet?

I had almost forgotten she was there ... here … on this planet … in my life.

I do some Kegels and think bitterly of Caleb – baby free Caleb, who is basking in the Bahamian sun, drinking snifters of his damn Bruichladdich and eating crab cakes. It isn’t fair. I need a nanny, why can't he see that? Caleb is such a stickler for what is right and wrong. With all of his old fashioned values, I should have known that he would insist on me staying home and raising her myself. He is such a boy scout. Who raises their own children anymore? White trash, that’s who – because they can’t afford the help.

I bite my lip and turn up the volume on the radio to drown out the wailing. Right now she sounds like a tiny, shrill alarm, but what will happen in a few months when her lungs are stronger? How will I tolerate that noise?

I am trying to figure out how to get her to stop crying when something yellow catches my eye. To clarify, yellow is a terrible color. Nothing good comes from a color that represents egg yolks, earwax and mustard. It’s the color equivalent of a disease; festering sores and pimple puss, nicotine stained teeth. Nothing, nothing, nothing should be yellow, which is precisely why I turn my head to look. Immediately, I swerve my car into the far right lane and whip my steering wheel around like I’m on the teacups at Disney World. Choruses of car horns beep as I cut across two lanes of traffic to get to the plaza. I roll my eyes. Hypocrites.

Driving in Florida reminds me of navigating a crowded grocery store – either you’re stuck behind an old fart schlepping along at a mile an hour, or you’re being pushed into a cereal display by a hooligan. I am a good driver, so they can go screw themselves.

I follow the yellow sign into a strip mall and peer into the empty storefronts as my car edges through the parking lot. Crooked vacancy signs hang in most of the windows. The old store names still tacked above the doors are a depressing reminder that a recession is tiptoeing across the nation. I point a gun finger where a nail salon used to be and pull the imaginary trigger. How many little dreams had hit the dust in this crap hole plaza? In the far right corner near a gargantuan dumpster, sits the Sunny Side Up Daycare. I pull my car underneath the grungy egg yolk sign and tap my fingers on the steering wheel. To do, or not to do? Might as well go take a look.

I jump out, head for the door, and remember that there is a baby in the car. Sons of guns and motherfuckers. I retrace my steps, making sure no one has seen my blunder, and creep back to unlatch Estella’s car seat. She is mercifully silent as I haul her through the doors of Sunny Side Up Daycare. The first thing I notice is that anyone can just walk into this crapstablishment and steal a kid. Where are the key card locked doors? I eye the receptionist. She is a frumpy twenty-something wearing blue eye shadow over dull brown eyes. She wants a boyfriend. You can tell by her overzealous use of perfume and cleavage. She has eyeliner on her bottom lid. Everyone knows you don’t put liner on your lower lid.

“Hellooo,” I chirp cheerfully.

She smiles at me and raises her eyebrows.

“I need to speak with your director,” I say loudly, just in case she is as slow as she looks.

“What’s it about?”

 Why do people always staff their front desks with half-wits?

“Well, I have a baby,” I snap, “ – and this is a daycare.”

Her nose twitches. It’s her only indication that I’ve royally pissed her off. I tap my foot on the linoleum as she pages the director of the daycare. I take a look around while I wait. Pale yellow walls, bright orange suns painted across them, a stained blue carpet scattered with this morning’s Cheerios. The Director emerges minutes later. She is a mid-life crisis blonde wearing a Tickle me Elmo t-shirt, scuffed pink Keds and two melon-sized breast implants. I eye her in disgust and paste on a smile.

Before I can utter a word, she says: “Wow, that’s a new one."

“She was premature,” I lie. “She’s older than she looks.”

“I’m Dieter,” she says, holding out her hand. I take it and shake.

“Would you like a tour of Sunny Side?”

I want to say “Hell no,” but I nod politely, and Dieter leads me through a set of double doors that she opens with a key card.

The place is dingy, even Dieter must see that. Every room has its own unique pee smell, ranging from – Oh my God – to a subtle piney/pee combo. Dieter is either immune to the smell, or she’s choosing to ignore it. I can barely contain my gag. She highlights the student/caregiver ratio, which is six to one and points gaily to a classroom of singing four year olds who all have snot dribbling from their noses.

Sharing is caring.

“Our playground equipment is brand new, but of course your little one won’t need that for a while.” She opens a door marked “Teenies” and steps inside.

Immediately, I am greeted with multiple infant voices all braying like little baby donkeys. It is quite unnerving, and almost instantly, Estella wakes up and joins the donkey chorus. I swing her car seat back and forth, and surprisingly, her crying tapers off until she’s quiet again. It is clean. I’ll give Dieter that. There are six cribs pushed against the walls. Each one has a crocheted Muppet hanging over it.

“We just said goodbye to one of our babies,” Dieter tells me. “So we have room for little – ”

“Estella,” I smile.

“This is Miss Misty,” she says, introducing me to the caregiver. I smile at another dumpy girl, shake another hand with chipped nail polish.

In the end, I decide to leave Estella there for a test run. Dieter suggests it. “Just for a few hours to see how you feel – ” she says. I wonder if it’s normal – leaving your baby with strangers to see how you feel. I could slice myself open with a knife and I wouldn’t feel a thing. I nod.

“I’ve never left her with anyone,” I say. It is the truth … mostly.

Dieter nods sympathetically. “We will take good care of her. I’ll just need you to fill out some paperwork in the front.”

I hand the car seat to Miss Misty and make a show of kissing Estella’s forehead, and then I run to the car to fetch the diaper bag that a good mother would have carried in with her.

Thirty minutes later, I am finally free – free of the insufferable belly, free of the noisy baby … free, free, free. Just then my phone rings. I collect it from the passenger seat where I’d tossed it earlier and see that Caleb is calling me. I smile despite myself. To this day, when Caleb calls I get butterflies in my stomach. I am about to answer it when I realize that he is probably calling to ask about Estella. I bite my lip and send him to voicemail. I can’t ever tell him what I just did. He’d probably jump onto the first flight available and storm into Miami clutching divorce papers. Maybe he’d even get her to draw them up for him. I know that I am being unreasonable and that he hasn’t spoken to her since my trial ended over a year and a half ago, but thoughts of that raven haired witch plague me every day. I push thoughts of my trial and my attorney to the back of my mind to rehash later.

I am determined to enjoy my baby-free time. I stop at home to change out of my jeans and put on something chic. I choose white linen pants and a Gucci blouse from my shopping trip, and I slip into a pair of kitten heels. By the time I am back in the car and halfway to the restaurant, I realize that I forgot my phone on the kitchen counter.

I meet Katine and a few of our friends for sushi and sake. When I walk into the restaurant, they all clamor around me like I’ve been gone for a year. I air kiss each of them, and we sit down to order. Either Katine has warned them not to ask me about the baby, or they don’t care because none of them breathes a word about her. Part of me is relieved because had I been called upon to discuss my feelings as a new mother, I would have burst into tears … though there is a slight annoyance there, as well. Even if Estella has been made a no-no topic, they could at least ask how I am feeling.

I let it slide. I drink four of those mini glasses of sake and then order wine.

Katine raises her glass to me. “To having you back!” she bellows, and we all take a drink.

I feel fantastic. I am officially back, though it has been a tough decade. In my sake-induced haze, I vow to make my thirties the best years of my life. By three o’clock, lunch is over and we are all sloshed, but not ready to head home.

“So,” Katine whispers to me as we eventually exit the restaurant. “Where’s the kid?”

“Daycare.” I giggle and cover my mouth with my hand.

Katine winks at me conspiratorially. It had been her idea after all.

“Does Caleb know?” she asks.

I look at her like the dumb blonde that she is. “Seriously, Katine? Would I be wearing this if Caleb knew that his little precious was in a stranger’s care?” I wiggle my wedding band at her.

She widens her eyes and puckers her lips like she doesn’t believe me. “Come on. Caleb would never leave you, I mean, he had his chance with that Olivia girl and – “ She slaps her hand over her mouth and looks at me like she’s said too much.

I stop dead in my tracks, ready to slap her. The bitch. How dare she bring her up!

I am breathless, full of sake and anger when I say: “Caleb never ever considered leaving me. She was nothing. Don’t you go telling people those lies, Katine.”

I know my face is red. I can feel it burning under the resentment. Katine’s eyebrows unhinge. They dip down, giving the impression that she’s genuinely sorry.

“I ... I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I know this pretty, blonde devil too well to buy into her Emmy-worthy apologies. I give her a disdainful look, and she smiles at me with saccharine sweetness.

“I just meant that he loves you. Not even that hot little piece of ass could take him from you.”

Now I am seething. It is one thing to mention that trash’s name, but to give credence to her obvious good looks crosses the girlfriend/loyalty line.

“Leah, wait,” she calls after me as I storm off. I don’t wait to hear her excuse – her favorite one being that she is from Russia and doesn’t always understand the right way to communicate since English is her second language. I have heard them all before, and I know my slithering best friend. She likes to sugarcoat slurs, slander and underhanded insults. You are so courageous to wear that skirt, I’d be afraid my cellulite would show. Katine is bulimic and doesn’t have a stitch of cellulite. So, obviously she was referring to mine.

Katine Reinlaskz is as fun as a monkey at the zoo, but cross her and she’ll rip you to shreds. Our relationship, which has existed since middle school, has been a vicious tug of war to possess things greater than the other. My first car cost sixty thousand, hers cost eighty. My sweet sixteen had three hundred guests – hers had four. I won with Caleb, though. Katine has been divorced twice. The first was a Vegas wedding, which lasted approximately twenty-four hours before it was annulled, and the second was to a fifty-year-old oil tycoon that ended up being a complete miser after they were already married. She drips jealousy when it comes to Caleb – handsome, rich, gentlemanly, sexy Caleb. Every girl's dream and I got him. I use every opportunity to flaunt my major life triumph, but ever since that trouble with Olivia, Katine’s envy has been replaced with smugness. She even had the gall to tell me once that she admired Olivia’s gumption.

I take short, choppy steps to my car, being careful not to fall in my heels, and slide into the driver’s seat. The clock on the dash says it's six o’clock. I am in no position to drive, but I don’t even have my cell phone to call someone to pick me up. And who would I call, anyway? My friends are all similarly drunk and the ones who aren’t here would raise their eyebrows and gossip if they caught me like this.

Suddenly, I remember Estella.

“Shit,” I slam my hand against the steering wheel. I was supposed to pick her up at five, and I have no way of calling the daycare. I start the car and reverse out of the spot without looking. I hear a car horn and then the jarring crunch of metal. I don’t even need to look to know that it’s bad. I jump unsteadily out of the driver’s seat and make my way to the rear of the car. An old Ford is folded around the bumper of my Range Rover. It looks almost comical. I suppress the urge to laugh, and then I have to suppress the urge to cry because I see the flickering blue and red lights of a police car approaching us. The driver is an older man. His wife sits in the passenger side of the car, clutching her neck. I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest, waiting for the inevitable ambulance siren that signifies sue-happy opportunists.

I lean down so I can see the old hag. “Really?” I say through the window. “Your neck hurts?”

Sure enough, an ambulance follows the patrol car into the parking lot. The medics jump from the cab and race to the Ford. I don’t get to see what happens next because a mean looking officer is approaching me, and I know I have seconds to get it together and act sober.

“Ma’am,” he says over dark lenses. “Do you realize you backed into them without even looking? I watched the whole thing happen.”

Really? I was surprised he could see anything through his Blade wannabe sunglasses.

I smile innocently. “I know. I was in a panic. I have to pick my baby up from the babysitter,” I lie, “and I am running late...”

I bite my lip because it usually excites men when I do it.

He considers me for a minute, and I pray he won’t smell the liquor on my breath. I watch his eyes drift to my backseat where the base of Estella’s car seat sits.

“I’m going to need to see your license and registration,” he says finally.

This is standard procedure – so far, so good. We go through the accident process that I am all too familiar with. I see the old lady being loaded into the ambulance, and I watch as they drive away with the lights flashing. Her husband, callously enough, stays behind to take care of matters.

“Damn fakers,” I whisper under my breath.

The officer shoots me a half smile, but it is enough to tell that he is on my side. I sidle up to him and inquire when I will be able to leave to get my daughter.

“It was so hard to leave her,” I tell him. “I had a business dinner.” He nods like he understands.