Free One Small Thing by Jessica Barksdale Inclan Page A

desperation.
     
    She slipped down the wall, her butt on the floor, and hugged her knees. These past two years had been a game, a mirage, a fantasy. Dan had played along with her as had Valerie and Isabel and Loren, but, as her father used to say, she’d “put the cart before the horse.” A huge, stupid, ridiculous cart with no horse in sight.
     
    Wiping her eyes, she thought of what she used to do when she came home from high school her freshman year. Mara was in college at Wellesley, Loren was at cheerleading practice, and her mother was in her nest in her downstairs room, her face pressed flat against her pillow, her hand tired and limp on an open book. The bedroom was always hot and smelled like Oil of Olay and Caress soap. Quietly, Avery would open the window, bending down to breathe in clean air, turning back to her mother who never moved a muscle, not until at least six when the darkness woke her.
     
    Going back upstairs, Avery would flick on the television and listen to the shows as she cleaned up the breakfast dishes and the sad half-empty glasses of water and coffee and plates of uneaten soda crackers and toast Isabel had left around the house. Once a week, she would vacuum everything, the machine leaving straight, comforting lines in the red carpet. She would feed their dog Pippin, change the water in her steel bowl, and drop flakes into the aquarium, feeding the last of her father’s exotic fish. The sad fish swam in the murky water as the filter burbled. Then she would take out a pad of paper and make lists: her homework, her dream boyfriends, her perfect life. She’d never gotten the dream boyfriend--her long legs and full breasts hidden in the folds of Loren’s too-big hand-me-downs--but she’d always finished her homework, and then her perfect life had just about come true.
     
    But the list she had been keeping for the past two years needed to be torn up. Standing up and walking around the nursery, Avery touched everything, and then began to pick things up and place them in the closet and dresser—the animal mobile Valerie had found for her while shopping for Tomás, the case of baby wipes from Target, the diaper genie, the boxes and bags of teething rings, Destin, Johnson’s Baby Lotion, Burt’s Baby Bees Soap. She put the paint and brushes by the door, so she could take them to the garage. She stripped the mattress of the cute sheep and ducky sheets and bumper, folding them up and putting them in the closet as well. Upending the mattress, she leaned it against the wall. Later, she’d have Dan come back in here to dismantle the crib. Maybe Luis would help him. Or maybe it was too sad a task to invite anyone in for.
     
    Finally, she opened the window, the plastic, cotton, wood smell leaking out into the morning air. She breathed in and turned around, as if expecting to see her mother, sleeping.
     
    Later, after she made the coffee and emptied the dishwasher, she clicked on her Palm Pilot and looked up the number. They would be out of the office because of the holiday weekend, but she could leave a message. It would be better that way. She wouldn’t have to talk with Mary, who would ask questions and try to commiserate and cajole. She wouldn’t have to explain to the well-meaning nurse that she’d made a mistake, made the wrong kind of list, prepared for the wrong set of circumstances altogether.
     
    Avery dialed and then listened to the long options, irritated by the voicemail system. As she waited, she looked to the hall, hoping Dan wouldn’t come out now. Finally, she pushed 1 to leave a message, walking into the family room as she did.
     
    “Hi, this is Avery Tacconi. I need to cancel all my appointments for a while. I found out I need to deal with a family situation, and we won’t be doing the next round of IUI. I will call to reschedule when things are settled. Thanks. Thanks for all your help.” As she pressed the phone off, she saw Mary’s face, heard her say, “You don’t