Page 72 of Cashmere Ruin
“April.”
No answer.
I make my way across the empty living room and follow the noise. Could the baby be sick? My protective instincts flare all at once, phone already in my hand to drag the doctor out of her office and through that door within the next five minutes.
But when I get to the bedroom, I realize my mistake: it wasn’t May crying after all. She’s safely in her crib, sound asleep, her little chest rising and falling and her tiny hands curled tightly around her blanket. No sign of the annoying security cat, either.
But on the bed, under a shaking mountain of blankets and pillows, something’s still crying. “April…?”
April’s head emerges from the nest. She seems startled to see me, like she hadn’t even heard me come in. Judging by the darkness in the room, she must’ve been like this for a while, enough not to notice the sun setting.
“Go away,” she sniffles.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Go away.”
“Last time I checked, this was still myplace. Not yours.”
She mutters something unintelligible in return.
“If you want me to catch that, you’ll have to at least come up for air.”
“I said, of course it’s not mine!” she snaps. “Nothing is ever mine, is it? Not my future, not my life, not even my baby. There’s always someone else in line.”
“Your bab—what the hell are you talking about?”
“Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to understand?”
“I said, forget it,” she mumbles. “Stay or leave; I don’t care. Just don’t bother me.”
Then she burrows back into her fortress. I spot her accursed cat peeking from her arms, his one-eyed glare grumpier than ever.Go away, he seems to echo.
I could. I should. Whatever’s going on here, it clearly has nothing to do with me. This woman took my kid from me and threw me away like I was nothing—why should I give a shit about her feelings?
Why should I give a shit abouther?
Except you do.
“Get up.”
“No.”
“I said, get up.”
“Why? So you can put me in a chair across from you and play house with a bunch of food I won’t touch?”
“April—”
“So you can tell me what a horrible mother I am, too?!”
“SO I CAN MAKE SURE YOU’RE OKAY, GODDAMMIT!”
The outburst shocks her. That makes two of us.
“Get up,” I repeat for the third time, my voice a weary, hollow husk of itself. “Get out of bed right now and let me look at you.”