AllFreeNovel
Share Us
1
MIA
They saythat when it rains, it pours. In my case, when it rains in my shower, it pours in my kitchen. Wonderful.
“Okay, turn it off!” I call out.
My daughter dutifully shuts the shower off, but the puddle of water on my linoleum floor keeps growing inch by inch. Bailey comes stomping out of the bathroom and stands at the mouth of the hallway, her lips bunched to the side, her hands on her hips. “It’s leaking,” she points out.
I glance at her above the spreading water, unimpressed. Bailey rolls her lips inward to hide her grin.
My daughter is nine years old—soon to be ten in a few short months—and she is my life. Wearing an old graphic tee with a picture of the Ninja Turtles paired with loose, faded black jeans, her hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, Bailey surveys the damage like she’s an expert plumber about to tell me how to fix it. She has a way of looking completely comfortable in any situation. She’s confident, exuberant, active, and totally hilarious. She’s the best kid in the world (I might be a touch biased).
I, on the other hand, feel like I’m about to have a nervous breakdown.
Standing there watching the growing lagoon for a moment, I allow myself two or three short seconds of despair. I don’t need this. I’m already struggling to come up with next month’s rent money for this two-bedroom apartment and the attached barbershop. It’s the fifteenth of September, which means I have two weeks and a day to come up with more money than I have right now.
But worse than my money woes is the fact that this leak means I’m going to have to call my landlord, and that’s an item on my to-do list I couldreallydo without.
I grab an old towel from the stack on the kitchen table I’d prepared. I toss it haphazardly on the floor and watch it quickly saturate with water. It’s not enough, so I toss another towel down. Bailey grabs an old tea towel from the oven door handle and creates a dam on her side of the lake.
“Where are we going to shower tonight?” Bailey asks, shoving the tea towel farther into the kitchen. A rivulet of water escapes to the side and she yelps, trying to catch it with her hands, then her shirt, then her legs. Finally, she decides to lie on her side to act as a human barrier. Water absorbs into her clothes, drenching her all the way down her front and side. “There.” She beams at me, satisfied—and soaked.
I drop my shoulders, lips twitching.
Bailey gives me that impish grin—the one I can never resist.
“You did that on purpose,” I accuse.
“I didn’t want the water to get onto the carpet in the hallway!”
“And your clothes are better?”
Bailey bites her lip, leaning her head on her hand like she’s lying on a chaise and not a puddle of dirty kitchen floor water. “Yeah,” she says simply.
I click my tongue and give in to the giggles. I probably shouldn’t. I always feel like I’m doing wrong by Bailey, like I’ve never been able to be the mother she needs. But when Bailey gives me that look with her sparkling hazel eyes and messy blond hair, it’s impossible for me to resist laughing.
She does it on purpose, the little hobgoblin.
“I’m going to call Mr. Thomas,” I say, tossing another towel on the floor, finally absorbing the worst of the water. At least the puddle isn’t growing. I glance at my daughter. “You go get changed and ready for bed.”
“No shower?” Bailey stands, dripping everywhere. Despite her best efforts, the hallway carpet won’t be saved—not even a little bit.
“Wash in the sink,” I say, feeling like a terrible parent. Not only am I struggling to make rent, but I can’t even make sure my daughter has the facilities to keep herself clean.
“Okay.” Bailey wrings out her tee onto the wet towels on the floor, then disappears down the hall.
With no other choice, I grab my phone. Time to call my stinking, rude, arrogant, good-for-nothing landlord and tell him to fix this dump if he wants to get his precious (extortionate) rent payment.
Not that I’m bitter or anything.
The doorbell rings halfan hour later, when I’ve just shut the door to Bailey’s room, leaving her tucked into bed with a book. I glance down at my own appearance—messy hair, old tank top, yoga pants—and curse.
A snicker from behind the door tells me Bailey heard it, and once again, I wonder what kind of mother I really am. It’s been the two of us against the world for so long, I wonder if I’m blind to all the ways I’m failing her.
But I gather my pride around me like armor and head for the door. I have a plumbing problem to sort out and a big, bullish landlord to confront.
My apartment is a two-bedroom, one-bathroom residence that occupies one story, tucked in behind my barbershop. It’s accessible from a door at the back of the barbershop that opens onto Cove Boulevard, the main road through town, or via an entrance on the back lane.
