1
EVIE
Resting my head on the window, I let the rocking of the bus lull me. I so desperately want to close my eyes, but falling asleep would be a great way to get my bag snatched. Losing even the ten dollars in my wallet would be devastating. Over the last two years, I’ve become a master at making do with nothing. I can feed Mia for three days with ten bucks.
A smile creases my face when I think of my little girl. She’s worth every skipped meal, aching muscle, and sleepless night. She’s my entire world. My anxiousness to see her chases away some of my exhaustion.
I’m used to being on my feet. My former job as a nurse in the NICU kept me busy during my entire twelve-hour shift. I’m used to only sitting for lunch and the occasional charting. But the custodial work I’m doing now is so much harder, physically at least.
Maybe mentally too. I loved everything about being a nurse. And I was damn good at it, too. I started as an LPN right out of school and started working at twenty. Over my thirteen-year career, I did everything from grunt work to charge nurse for the entire NICU. Everyone respected me, and I truly felt like I was making a difference. Now, even though I know my work is important to the running of the care home, I hate it. I can do so much more.
Everything is different now. I’m grateful for my job at the nursing home. Grateful for the paycheck, especially after spending six months searching for work. Turns out getting accused of stealing drugs from a hospital is a big fucking red flag to most employers. Somehow, everyone knew. Columbus isn’t a small town, but the medical world is full of gossip and I guess the word spread.Don’t hire Evie Collins, she steals meds. She’s got to be an addict.
It didn’t matter how many times I explained I was framed, that Brent was lying, and so were his cop buddies. No one believed me. Before I knew it, I was signing an agreement that I would never work as a nurse in Ohio again, and in return, they wouldn’t press charges. It all happened so fast, but I thought we’d be ok. That I’d land on my feet. That somehow the truth would come out and I’d be cleared. I still believed that helping Holly escape Brent, her abusive husband, was the right thing to do.
Then CPS took Mia and my world crumbled. The workers had been tipped off…I’ll give you one guess who told them. They took her away that day. According to the anonymous tip, I was an addict, and for the safety of the child, she needed to be removed from my care. The next six months were hell. I had to fight every single step of the way to get her back. I don’t know if that’s how difficult the system always is, or if Brent’s dirty cop friends were influencing things, but every penny I had went to lawyers and therapists, trying to prove I was stable and able to parent.
By the time they were forced to admit that I was a capable parent, I was living in a one-bedroom in not the nicest part of town and working as a custodian. But it didn’t matter, as long as I had Mia back. It didn’t matter where we lived or what I had to do to put food on the table. But every once in a while, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut when I saw Holly’s bruises. Then, of course, I feel like a dick and convince myself that helping her was the right thing to do.
That got harder and harder to believe over this last year, as I struggled to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table, all while earning a third of what I used to as a nurse. There was no more hospital daycare for Mia. Instead, she stays with a grandmother in our apartment building for whatever I can scrape together that week. Sonja is a godsend, who doesn’t press me for much money since my night shifts mean Mia sleeps the whole time she’s there.
It’s exhausting picking my daughter up at seven in the morning, being a mom all day, then dropping her off and going to do it all over again. I triple-lock the doors and tuck Mia next to me in bed with an old iPad so I can get a few hours of sleep. I used to look down on parents who let little kids spend hours on screens, but my attitude changed pretty fast when those screens meant that I could have a few hours to rest. When I wake up, we cuddle and play. The next day it’s rinse and repeat. I don’t even remember what it feels like to get a full night’s sleep.
Or to feel full.
My baby’s eating and growing while I waste away. At first, I didn’t mind. I had extra weight to lose, so skipping meals wasn’t a big deal. But now I’m not doing so well. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I look way older than thirty-six, my skin pale, bags under my eyes. And the dizziness is scaring me. I get so lightheaded sometimes. I know it’s due to malnutrition. But some weeks, even with help from the food bank, there’s still not enough for both of us. But I have to believe that things will get better. Hope is the only thing keeping me going most days.
As we round the corner, I see the flashing police lights. I sit up in my seat, my heart starting an erratic pounding. This isn’t the first time my building has been lit up like that. Usually, it’s a drug dealer being arrested or a domestic dispute. But tonight, there are more lights, more cops…and a coroner’s van.
I yank on the cord, signaling the driver to stop, and fly off the bus. I run as fast as I can, which is still pathetically slow, glancing briefly at the covered bodies as I pass. I don’t want to think about the people under those sheets. I don’t want to know who they are, and who’s going to miss them. I don’t have the capacity to care about anyone but Mia. But, I admit to myself, I’ll probably not be able to stop myself from thinking about the mothers who’ve lost their babies in my front yard.
Rushing up the steps, I yank open the always unlocked security door, and up the two flights to Sonja’s floor. I have to brace my arm against the wall as a wave of dizziness passes over me. Sonja’s door is open and police officers are loitering outside.
The scream comes from the deepest, most primal part of my body.
“Mia!”
I’m running, battering against the cop guarding the door. “My baby. My Mia. Where’s my baby!”
Even dizzy and under my usual fighting weight, the cop has a hard time with my five-foot-ten frame. And I swear I will tear him apart if he doesn’t get out of my way. His eyes are wide, and it’s not until later that I’ll realize his hand is creeping towards a weapon on his belt.
“Mama.”
Mia’s soft voice stops me in my tracks, my arm cocked back, ready to punch the asshole who dares stand between me and my daughter. Then there she is. The most precious little girl in the world, crying in Sonja’s arms.
The cop moves aside and I sweep in, pulling her into my arms, breathing in that perfect smell, anchoring myself with the sensation of her arms tight around my neck. Pressing my nose into her neck, I soak in the faint odor of sour milk. Most three-year-olds are past the stinky neck stage, but Mia’s always been behind the curve. Her coordination is good enough now to hold a cup, but she makes a habit of chugging her milk like an alcoholic chugs a beer, and it always gets caught in the crease of her chubby little neck. The smell settles me, soothes me. I close my eyes and breath, telling myself that she’s ok.
Finally, I meet Sonja’s eyes. “What happened?” I ask, my throat still tight with panic.
Sonja’s eyes are wide, teary. “They were shooting. Bunch of punks. Some bullets came through the window.”
Vomit actually crawls up my throat into my mouth, and I swallow it back down. My eyes are teary from the bile and the fear, and I gulp lungfuls of air. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no…but the bedroom window shattered. The babies were crying.”
My left arm tightens on Mia, but I use the right to pull Sonja into my body. She’s shaking, and I realize I am too. We hold each other tightly until Mia fusses. We don’t speak, but in our eyes is the realization of the precious souls we could have lost tonight. Her grandkids and Mia all share a bed at night. They were all in that bedroom together.
I murmur a goodbye, and rush upstairs to my apartment, not taking a breath until we’re both locked inside and curled up on the bed together. I run my fingers over Mia’s brows, down her cheeks, over and over, soothing her to sleep. It works, and once she’s out, I let the tears fall silently. What am I going to do? How do I keep this precious baby safe?
