Free Tuesday Night Miracles by Kris Radish Page A

would appear again anytime soon.
    As if there were any clients beating down doors to snap up property that was still so expensive even the discount prices were scaring people away.
    As if Jane Castoria had something else—even one other thing—to do besides work constantly, ignore the fact that her ovaries were about to turn into rocks that would never produce a baby for her relentless husband, and scare away the few remaining people who actually might consider her a friend.
    A friend. One single friend. A woman who might now be waiting for her in the living room with nothing but pure and generous intentions.
    Thank God she has alternative plans. Won’t the world be surprised when she puts all the pieces together.
    Jane finally lifts the spicy fruit-driven wine to her lips and drains the last of it. Then she immediately looks up at the wine rack to see how much longer she can get away with drinking every night. The bottles, especially on the red side, are getting dangerously low. And there is no money from her account coming in to replace them.
    Not that Derrick would notice. It’s as if she has the plague because of this little problem with the court system. Derrick has suddenly gotten very busy at his engineering firm. Jane sees this as a mixed blessing. If something miraculous happens and she starts to get busy again, he won’t miss her. Also when he’s busy like this he seems to forget how much he wants to be a father.
    If Jane had a dollar for every time he’s talked about kids, begged her to go back for more tests, talked about adoption, or rattled on about his nieces and nephews, Jane would be able to restock her wine rack for the next few months.
    “Forty-two-year-old women are having babies all over the place,” he often reminds her. “Anything is possible.”
    For a few moments, Jane drops both of her hands to her lap and presses her fingers above where her stomach ends and where she is certain her dormant uterus sits like a useless weight. A baby would fit right there, riding between her hips, growing little fingers and toes, and twirling like a fish in the sea. She would feel it move one day, see a heartbeat, wait for the tiny ball of energy to push itself out into the world, where she would be the first person to look into its eyes.
    I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care .
    Jane presses harder each time she lies to herself, until she almost bruises her skin.
    “Babies,” she says mockingly, closing her eyes. “All everyone talks about is babies.”
    Her so-called friends have made her physically ill with their baby showers and photographs. Who cares about new teeth and first steps and the way a baby changes your life so drastically you quit your job, downsize so you can still pay your bills, and disrupt every relationship you ever had?
    Who cares if your husband looks at you as if he hates you when you tell him you don’t give a goddamn if you ever have kids? And you are not, absolutely not, going to have one more exam or do the test-tube thing!
    Who cares if your own unemotional mother thinks something is wrong with you, if you refuse to even get a puppy, if you’ve drawn a line around your heart that has a huge NO TRESPASSING sign on it?
    Who cares if you beat the shit out of that guy and now you have to go to a dumb class with one woman who looks like an Avon lady and another one who looks as if she’s on furlough from her street gang?
    Who cares if the cotton queen in charge can make you roll over and speak if she wants to, and holds a very important key to the rest of your professional and personal life?
    Who cares if this whole anger mess has given you a nervous twitch that makes your left shoulder move forward involuntarily at awkward moments?
    Jane pushes herself away from the slick granite island where she has been sitting and turns toward the refrigerator. The shiny surface is like a mirror. She can see the outline of her tight curls, the way her high cheekbones push against the