With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
It Pours
Mrs. Palmer’s brown suede coat sways over her heavyset frame as she undoes all the buckles that hold Babygirl safe in the car. I try not to anxiously peer past the car door or push her and undo Babygirl myself. I tug the scarf around my neck to keep Mrs. Palmer from seeing my hands are trembling.
Mrs. Palmer plucks Babygirl from her car seat and backs out of the car. She’d be a pretty woman if she didn’t always have her face looking like she smelled something ripe. She didn’t like me from jump, since before I was pregnant, but Tyrone said she’s like that with everyone. She hands Babygirl over carefully and the gentle way she does it makes me almost like her.
I rub my head against the top of Babygirl’s soft hair. She whimpers up at me, and even through the crown of hair I can feel how warm she is. I murmur to her a bit before tucking her to me. I’m small, but never too small to carry my kid like she’s the most precious thing I have. From the trunk of the car Mrs. Palmer pulls out Babygirl’s stroller and diaper bag.
“Thank you, Mrs. Palmer. I appreciate it. Again, I’m sorry about this.”
She clears her throat and gives a brisk nod. “Well, I certainly won’t be dropping work every time you and your grandmother are too negligent to take care of Emma. I know you and Tyrone have an informal arrangement, and I would be remiss if I didn’t say that so far it seems to be working for you two, but you best believe that if he ever chooses to challenge that arrangement in court, I will ensure this incident is put on the record.”
The polite smile slides off my face. Did Mrs. Palmer just hint at Tyrone wanting custody of Babygirl? Did she just imply she would be supportive of that, even though she’s never actually wanted Babygirl? I place my trembling hand on my child’s hot cheek to keep it from doing harm to Mrs. Palmer.
“Hey, Babygirl—”
“I really wish you would start calling her by her name. All this ‘Babygirl’ mess is likely to confuse her.”
I ignore the shit out of Mrs. Palmer because if I said anything right now it would probably burn a permanent hole right through her higher-than-mighty attitude. And I have to remember this is my daughter’s grandmother. “Babygirl, I’ve got you now. Gonna get some medicine in you and make you feel better,” I say firmly, kissing the top of her head. I put a hand on her cheek. Besides her whimpers, she’s unbelievably quiet. “Goodbye, Mrs. Palmer.” I tug the baby bag over my shoulder and drag the stroller with me toward the house steps.
“Wait a second. I picked this up figuring you might not have any—and a little more never hurts if you do.”
She hands over a brown paper bag. I peek inside. Children’s Tylenol. I grab it with the same hand holding Babygirl.
“For the fever. And really, you should be more responsible about your cell phone. You have a child, Emoni. People need to contact you about her.” She hesitates a second, then runs two fingers down Babygirl’s cheek. She wiggles those fingers through the air as a goodbye and walks back to her car. She’s off before I can wave back. Before I can say thank you. Before I can say I always have plenty of Children’s Tylenol. Before I can ask her why Tyrone wasn’t the one to pick up Babygirl, or why I’m accused of being the irresponsible one but he’s so often excused from having to be as much of a father as I am a mother.