Read Online Cutting Teeth: A Novel by Julia Fierro - Free Book Online
Authors: Julia Fierro
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it, lower Manhattan in apocalyptic smolder.
She waited until Josh was busy brushing his cheek against the cheeks of each of the mommies in pretend kisses, then she went into the kitchen, and dug the sliver of Xanax from her pocket. It was only a half of a pill, she told herself. She downed it with a swig of flat root beer, the crumbling pill bitter on her tongue.
She snapped the rubber band on her wrist five times. The quick bite of the rubber catching her arm hairs refocused her.
Then she washed her hands.
Nicole had read and reread the CDC’s guidelines on how to wash to avoid disease. Hot water. As hot as she could stand. Wash top and bottom, between fingers, under nails, and up your wrists. Due to the overuse of sanitizers, the site had informed, the Supergerms’ favorite hiding place is the wrists. Finally, you wiped your hands with a towel, and then—this was the tricky part—used the towel to turn off the faucet.
Josh walked into the kitchen and stopped in front of her, his hands on his hips in a stance she had always disliked because it felt effeminate, and she wanted him to be manly. Rocklike. Unbreakable. She also expected him to banish her daily worries with maternal-style tenderness—a hypocrisy he had pointed out in their couples’ therapy. Since they’d met at college, so many years ago, Josh had been the first and only person who could put Nicole almost at ease, who made her feel almost safe, and despite his gentle voice that was just a note too high, he’d always had muscular forearms, with thick cords of vein that wriggled under his skin and indicated pumping blood and strength.
“Nic,” Josh said, his voice nearly a whisper. His chin was tucked to his chest, and his large brown eyes (Wyatt’s eyes, she thought) looked up at her—one part concern, one part inspection.
He stepped closer and took her in his arms and into the warmth of his body. Its solidity was a sudden comfort. His smell, which had always reminded her of cinnamon, made her feel as if she was home, made her realize how exhausted she was and how badly she wanted him to lift her, like a sleeping child, and carry her upstairs to the bedroom, where she would lie next to him, sleep comalike all night and through the next day. Dead to the mommies and daddies waiting below. Dead to the relentless forward momentum of the world. Oh, how she wished she could die and come back to life after the doomsday warning had expired. Because it wasn’t the end she feared, so much as the waiting for it not to happen.
Josh massaged her scalp with his fingertips, and said, “You’ve got to relax. This worrying isn’t good for you. Or for Wyatt.”
She closed her eyes and let her head rock back and forth with the sliding of his fingers.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She knew what he really meant was, do we need to have a talk? Do I have to call Dr. Greenbaum to schedule an intervention where we can discuss upping your meds? Do I have to hide the dish sponge so you don’t scrub your hands raw, Nicole? Do I have to conceal the knife block behind the microwave so you don’t perseverate (a verb he’d gleaned from their couples’ therapy) about slicing yourself every time you walk into the kitchen?
“Aw, you are so sweet, honey,” Nicole said, in a voice she knew sounded both appreciative and condescending. “I’m fine.”
The Xanax spread through her like liquid calm, and as she blew on her hands that burned pink, she almost believed herself.
domestic bliss
Rip
It had been over a year since Rip first began calling himself a mommy.
In the beginning, it had been a joke.
Now, they, the mommies, were the only ones who understood it was no longer a joke. Nicole, Susanna, and Tiffany.
Even Leigh. Although, Rip thought, the discomfort Leigh felt around him was obvious. Like that afternoon, when she’d turned her head as he kissed her hello.
Rip stood on the deck alone, the cool sea air lapping at the back of his sunburned neck. He
She waited until Josh was busy brushing his cheek against the cheeks of each of the mommies in pretend kisses, then she went into the kitchen, and dug the sliver of Xanax from her pocket. It was only a half of a pill, she told herself. She downed it with a swig of flat root beer, the crumbling pill bitter on her tongue.
She snapped the rubber band on her wrist five times. The quick bite of the rubber catching her arm hairs refocused her.
Then she washed her hands.
Nicole had read and reread the CDC’s guidelines on how to wash to avoid disease. Hot water. As hot as she could stand. Wash top and bottom, between fingers, under nails, and up your wrists. Due to the overuse of sanitizers, the site had informed, the Supergerms’ favorite hiding place is the wrists. Finally, you wiped your hands with a towel, and then—this was the tricky part—used the towel to turn off the faucet.
Josh walked into the kitchen and stopped in front of her, his hands on his hips in a stance she had always disliked because it felt effeminate, and she wanted him to be manly. Rocklike. Unbreakable. She also expected him to banish her daily worries with maternal-style tenderness—a hypocrisy he had pointed out in their couples’ therapy. Since they’d met at college, so many years ago, Josh had been the first and only person who could put Nicole almost at ease, who made her feel almost safe, and despite his gentle voice that was just a note too high, he’d always had muscular forearms, with thick cords of vein that wriggled under his skin and indicated pumping blood and strength.
“Nic,” Josh said, his voice nearly a whisper. His chin was tucked to his chest, and his large brown eyes (Wyatt’s eyes, she thought) looked up at her—one part concern, one part inspection.
He stepped closer and took her in his arms and into the warmth of his body. Its solidity was a sudden comfort. His smell, which had always reminded her of cinnamon, made her feel as if she was home, made her realize how exhausted she was and how badly she wanted him to lift her, like a sleeping child, and carry her upstairs to the bedroom, where she would lie next to him, sleep comalike all night and through the next day. Dead to the mommies and daddies waiting below. Dead to the relentless forward momentum of the world. Oh, how she wished she could die and come back to life after the doomsday warning had expired. Because it wasn’t the end she feared, so much as the waiting for it not to happen.
Josh massaged her scalp with his fingertips, and said, “You’ve got to relax. This worrying isn’t good for you. Or for Wyatt.”
She closed her eyes and let her head rock back and forth with the sliding of his fingers.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She knew what he really meant was, do we need to have a talk? Do I have to call Dr. Greenbaum to schedule an intervention where we can discuss upping your meds? Do I have to hide the dish sponge so you don’t scrub your hands raw, Nicole? Do I have to conceal the knife block behind the microwave so you don’t perseverate (a verb he’d gleaned from their couples’ therapy) about slicing yourself every time you walk into the kitchen?
“Aw, you are so sweet, honey,” Nicole said, in a voice she knew sounded both appreciative and condescending. “I’m fine.”
The Xanax spread through her like liquid calm, and as she blew on her hands that burned pink, she almost believed herself.
domestic bliss
Rip
It had been over a year since Rip first began calling himself a mommy.
In the beginning, it had been a joke.
Now, they, the mommies, were the only ones who understood it was no longer a joke. Nicole, Susanna, and Tiffany.
Even Leigh. Although, Rip thought, the discomfort Leigh felt around him was obvious. Like that afternoon, when she’d turned her head as he kissed her hello.
Rip stood on the deck alone, the cool sea air lapping at the back of his sunburned neck. He
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