Free Second House from the Corner by Sadeqa Johnson Page B

and the chore of dinner circling my spine. I inhale, then exhale slowly while Liv feeds. When she’s had her fill, I strap her in her car seat, give her a plush toy to chew, and get behind the wheel. Then I push it. We pull up to karate eight minutes late, which now cuts into my preparing-dinner time. I pull in front of the karate center, unhook Rory, and stand by the car so that I can watch him and the girls at the same time.
    â€œDon’t come outside until you see my car.”
    â€œI know, Mama.” He goes in. Karate makes him too cool for a good-bye kiss. I wait until he crosses through the second door and then wait some more to make sure he doesn’t come back out and say that he’s forgotten something.
    Liv and Twyla have entered their own world with words I can’t understand when I get back into the car. It only takes five minutes to get home and I park in our driveway. Drag the girls up the front stairs.
    â€œPlay with Liv,” I tell Two.
    Shoes off, clothes thrown on the sofa. I’m in my underwear. I want to go upstairs, hide from my children, from cooking dinner, lock myself in my closet, chug a stiff drink, and push the pressure away. But I only have thirty minutes to get the soup on the stove, so I force my body into the kitchen. As I pull the ingredients from the refrigerator, that overwhelmed feeling is there, taking shape as words in my head. The monologue for the Dames, I see the scene playing out before my eyes. Drowning mom. I drop the chicken on the counter, find Rory’s notebook and a pencil, and start jotting down what comes.
    Husband ain’t home when I need him. Things are so bad that I hid in the back of my closet. I was back so far that I was behind the tan wool coat that my mother bought me when I was working in corporate America. My head against the slinky black dress that became too tight two pregnancies ago. I’m saving the clothes in case I wake up one day and have a life. If I wasn’t so damn responsible, I’d have a bottle of hard liquor hidden here, in a crumbled paper bag to slurp down on days like this when I feel like I’m suffocating in my own skin. This job called motherhood feels like—
    â€œI’m ready, Mommy.”
    I glance down at Two. She has ignored my command to play with Liv and has gone to the closet for her apron.
    â€œI wanna help.”
    â€œHang on, baby.”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œGive me a minute.” I clutch the notebook and read over what I wrote. It’s a good start. I can make this exhausted, overworked mom funny and relatable. Say with this character what mothers don’t usually say to each other. That sometimes motherhood sucks. Sure we love our children, but the job is taxing and thankless. Most mothers like to pretend that raising children is the best job in the world, but the reality is, we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into and now we’re stuck, grinning, bearing, and medicating ourselves through it. Yes, that’s what I am going to portray in my monologue to the Dames. It’s risky, shedding a light on what’s real, but so what? I was taught that acting is imitating life. The Dames will not accuse me of playing it safe with this piece. I’m bringing my A game.
    â€œMommy, are you going to let me help or not?” Two has her hands on her hips, looking grown.
    I’m wondering where she has learned to ask like that, but then she smiles that goofy grin that makes me cave and I kiss her fingertips.
    â€œOkay, baby. Let’s wash our hands.”
    I hold her wrists as she pours the chicken stock and shakes in the seasonings. She loses interest when Liv starts eating her doll’s hair and I start sautéing the chicken. Five minutes before we need to pick Rory up, I turn the soup to a simmer, pop in the cornbread, and head back out with the girls. Luckily it’s summer and I don’t have to fool with coats. Rory is standing in