Free The Original 1982 by Lori Carson

anymore.
    We arrive at my building and find a spot across the street. I haven’t told my parents about the mugging because I know they’d freak out, but I can’t help but think about it as I give my dad the key and he holds the front door open. For a second, I clearly remember my mugger’s angry face.
    My mother brings her overnight bag inside. She’s going to stay with us for a while.
    At night, she crowds me to the edge of my narrow bed, but I’m thankful to have her there. You wake up hungry every hour. I’m so tired, it feels like I’m hallucinating or dreaming. “Sleep,” she says, and I close my eyes under the warm blankets. I know it won’t be long before you need to nurse again.
    I listen to her change your diaper. She covers your belly with noisy kisses. She calls you butterball and sweetie pie.
    After the first couple of days, we start to argue. She wants to do things her own way, and I want them done according to the books I’ve studied and my own good sense.
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with her. It’s just gas,” says my mother.
    â€œOh, baloney. I tested it on my wrist,” she says.
    â€œShe’s in pain, Mom,” I tell her.
    â€œIt’s too hot, Mom,” I say.
    I’m easily annoyed and she’s always wrong. That’s the way it feels.
    The pressure of my irritation continues to increase, until one morning I go too far. I raise my voice and say something awful. “Just give her to me!” I say in exasperation. “Why can’t you ever make things easier instead of harder?!”
    There seems no way to take the awful thing back once it’s said. I’ve hurt her feelings but I can’t bring myself to say I’m sorry. For a whole day we look after you in silence, both feeling dreadful, until finally we resume talking, tentatively, carefully, and decide together that she should go home for now.
    The days are a blur after she goes. I’m always sleeping and waking, feeding you, changing your diaper, walking you in circles, singing to you, telling you everything is going to be all right. I go days without showering. I don’t leave the apartment at all.
    When my mother calls to check on us, I try not to take out my exhaustion on her, but she is often my involuntary target. I don’t know why. Shouldn’t having my own daughter cause me to be kinder to my mother? But my anger is irrational and quick, as if she’s to blame for something.
    My sister calls from Miami. I tell her our mother is driving me crazy, but she only wants to talk about you. She asks me to hold the phone up to your ear so you’ll remember the sound of her voice. “I don’t want her to forget me,” she says.
    I remember when she was a baby. I used to climb into her crib. I used to yell to my mother, “Ma! The baby’s crying!”
    Now you’re the crying baby, Minnow. I pick you up and hold you. Usually you’re just hungry, but sometimes it’s a bad dream, or some other mysterious reason. You fit perfectly in the curve between my jaw and shoulder.
    I sing you the songs my father sang to me when I was small. He had the sweetest voice. I gave my love a cherry without a stone. I gave my love a chicken without a bone.
    Your crying wears us both out. I take you back to bed with me so we can sleep for an hour or two.

Twenty-seven
    J ules sends an enormous fruit basket, wrapped in cellophane, with a tin of sugar cookies at its center. After I polish off the cookies, I live on the apples, oranges, and pears. My hunger makes it the most delicious fruit I’ve ever tasted. Then another big package arrives from her. Inside is an exquisite dress for you, Minnow, purchased at Harrods. Jules has been living in London, in Kensington or Chelsea, since her film wrapped, but the enclosed note says she’ll see us soon. She’s coming home to spend Christmas with her family.
    When she arrives with a