But who cares what I think?
My mom says that there's nothing wrong with having a baby for someone else. That it's wrong to ignore those who are deprived. It's immoral, she says.
The no-womb woman is rich. Last weekend she and her husband took us to Café Champagne. The no-womb woman was sickening. She said to her husband, “Sweetie. Look at you.”
She picked up his napkin and dabbed his chin. He sighed and pushed her hand away even though there was a greasy glare around his mouth. But then she pulled a Wipey out of her purse and placed it beside his plate. She grabbed his hand and rubbed it against her cheek. She puckered her lips for a kiss. But the smack that followed came from the table. I could see the Wipey crumpling in his hand. He squared his shoulders, and turned away.
My mom's started moving furniture around. Except for the cat's bed.
Soon Spunky will have her kittens, and my mom will give them away. They'll go to good homes, the very best she can find. Unless she makes a mistake.
Unless she is dumb.
Unless she wises-up before it's too late.
What I expect from my mom is that she will never have another baby.
I don't look forward to the end. Krissie will watch TV. She'll turn on Sleeping Beauty or Sea Biscuit. Wonder about the parents. Then she'll crawl into bed with her comforter like she does every night.
I'll turn out the lights and climb in beside her.
In the dark, sporadic light streaks across the walls like shooting stars.
My mom's hoping in a few months we can say goodbye to the freeways and rattlesnakes. The new place should be finished by then. She says paved streets are lined with sidewalks, and there's a park just around the corner.
Sometimes we talk about Roxanne. The joke is we think she's a bad mom, as bad as those women who throw babies in dumpsters.
My mom says that what we need to do is move into a nice new neighborhood full of couples with children, where everyone is family-oriented.
“Can't wait,” Krissie says. “And Tyler will come with us.”
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