Title: Inventory
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Mostly not mine, but let a girl dream.
Summary: A springtime afternoon, from Abby's POV.
Author's Notes: My sister's in town with her baby, and no one's been writing new stuff lately, so I sat down, and this is what appeared. I had Carby in mind, but that's not necessarily incorporated.The italic parts are Abby's thoughts, or a journal, or a conversation, I left it up in the air. I hope you enjoy it!
Sometimes I wish I'd been a little more careful doing everything I'd done. If I'd slowed down and sat back, just to watch what was going on, maybe good things would have come sooner.
Lifting the tiny brush from my toe, I scrape away a splash of purple with my fingernail. I wipe my finger on a strand of grass beside me and look up when a happy shriek erupts a few yards away.
"There you go," my mother coos. "All grown up on the swing!" Giggles and a flash of yellow sundress whoosh past me. "Look how much she likes it," my mom calls. I smile, six toes to go.
I wish I'd been a bit more aggressive, and sought out those things I desired. I used to wait, sipping my coffee, smoking a cigarette; waiting for the good times to dawn.
Delia shouts more now, not so happily. She is lifted out of the swing by her grandmother, and I laugh as she's passed to me. My mom plays the role of fair-weather fan very nicely. I'm the one to deal with a fuss.
"Come here, baby," I grin, and she grins back at me. "Did you like that?"
I have always enjoyed making people laugh, though usually it has been with my dry sarcasm. Now I aim to encourage a new kind of laughter—happy.
And I told him once I wished he would leave me, that's another regret I have. I shouldn't have seen myself as such a danger. I wasn't really, now I know.
On a blanket, my mother and I eat our sandwiches, and Delia chews on her favorite ice cube tray. I'm listening to my mother recount an article from the paper, about how it's a great time to buy into Chicago real estate.
"It's always been a great time if you have the money," I tell her. "Prices just go up and up."
"Well, I was thinking about it."
"What?" I'm surprised.
"Well you're here, and Delia," she pats the baby's back. "And I like the city…"
"That would be great," I tell her, though really I don't know. For a week, she's fine. But years? I can just imagine the stress, the worry, the babysitting.
I should express my feelings more. Those other faults, I've mostly resolved. But still, I keep everything internal. When something hurt, I was never one to let it show. I hide my worries, my fantasies, my internal dialogue. I don't know why, I just never felt it was appropriate to let those things be known.
"Abby?" my mom inquires. I've been silent for a while.
"Do you want ice cream?" I ask, rising to strap Delia into her stroller. The baby's face screws up, on the verge of a yell. I hand her a hat to suck.
"Abby…" my mother presses.
"I have been craving mint chocolate chip for a week now!" She scowls. "Really mom, I said it would be good."
The stroller bumps along as I push it over the grass and onto the hike-and-bike trail.
"Two sugar cones please."
Mostly I think I'm okay, with just a few razor sharp edges in need of filing. I'm much better than I was, at least.
On the El, Delia is asleep in my mother's lap. I'd like to lean against her shoulder, too, and sleep. Surprised at such a daughterly urge, I am quick to resist. Instead, I lean against the pole by my headrest, there for passengers to hold on an overcrowded train. I allow my eyelids to drift closed.
"Ravioli?" she asks.
"What was that?"
"Dinner."
"Uh, sure." It is so good to have a cook around.
I'm letting myself see that I need my mother, I guess. Admitting to myself I'm not alone, which is something I've never done. More than not showing others my inner thoughts, I've rarely even permitted myself to see them. I should have let myself know when I was angry or sad or needed help or was in love.
After a stop at the grocery store for dinner supplies, I'm again holding a screaming baby as we climb the stairs to the door. I rattle the handle and my mom thrusts the key upside down. He opens the door, arms outstretched, and lifts a suddenly quiet Delia from my grasp. I resent his calming powers.
"How was it?" he asks, and she beams.
He takes groceries from my mom, and taps his lips on my cheek. "Sit down ladies, you look exhausted."
I love coming home, where my good life is. Where I'm learning to fit in, and not much else matters.
Step Four: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Please review, your comments make my day. I thought I might continue this, maybe from other POVs, what do you think? Thanks!
