Read Online Heads or Tails by Leslie A. Gordon - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie A. Gordon
Ads: Link
pitch in or not. Amazingly, I’d been able to handle it on my own.
“She’s in the car seat,” I said.
“The base! Where’s the car seat base?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. Just like I had no idea how to properly dispose of a dirty diaper. The one I’d changed on the plane was still tucked away in my purse. I hoped the cab driver wouldn’t smell it — if he even deigned to give us a ride.
Suddenly, I remembered a blue plastic square thing that Jean had stuffed into one of the duffle bags. I crouched down to fish for it. I don’t know what Sarah had been thinking when she insisted that I only needed some formula, diapers and onesies. Jean had sent me and the baby off with two enormous bags filled with clothes, toys and other unidentifiable baby gear. I hoped Sarah would help me sort it all out.
“Do you mean this?” I asked, waving the plastic thing above my head.
“Yes! What else could I mean? Go ahead — put it in already!” For a guy who easily disparaged New Yorkers, he certainly seemed to behave in a manner far more stereotypical of New York than San Francisco.
“Um, I —. Would you mind doing it for me?”
Before I even finished asking, he shook his head vigorously, as if he’d been just waiting for that very offensive question. “Nope. Can’t do it. Liability.”
I willed myself not to cry and debated whether to just lug all my bags and the baby down to the next, hopefully more sympathetic, taxi driver in line. I was grimy, tired and just wanted to get home. Even though I was finally back in San Francisco, somehow it seemed like I’d actually arrived in a foreign land. I felt upside down, inside out.
“I don’t —. My husband normally does it,” I lied.
He shook his head. A jetliner took off overhead and my curls once again blew everywhere. From the car seat on the curb, the baby began to whimper.
I’m smarter than this car seat , I told myself. I can figure it out .
“Okay,” I said. “The baby is fussing. Could you maybe hold her while I do this?”
The driver took a quick step backward, then glanced at the next group in line for a taxi, a family of five with two school-aged kids who were swatting each other. The third child, a toddler, hacked with a phlegmy cough.
The driver exhaled audibly. “Christ. Gimme that.”
As he installed the base, which required several minutes of probing between the back seats for a long abandoned middle seat belt, I held the baby and with my other arm lugged her two large duffle bags as well as my own small carry-on into the trunk. My whole body ached.
Once on the Bayshore freeway, I tried to relax. For the last several hours, I’d been on anxious guard, expecting to be halted by someone shouting “That’s not your baby!” But no one even blinked at the two of us. In line to board, a woman behind me kept squeezing the baby’s toes and saying, “I gotcha!” As I handed over my boarding pass, the ticketing agent glanced at me furtively and whispered, “You shouldn’t let strangers touch your baby. Germs are everywhere!”
Moments later, my seat mate, the one who wouldn’t know that she was on back-up for diaper duty, smiled at us when I sat down. “Awww, how old?”
“Um, about six months? I think.”
She shot me a troubled look and didn’t speak to me again for the rest of the flight.
The cab driver continued north, directly towards the San Francisco sky, which was draped in a rich red swath of foggy haze, like a signal of my own state of high alert. The baby, who’d been remarkably mellow on the flight, scrunched her face, whimpered and smacked her thighs with her hands. I patted her black hair gingerly. She quieted for a moment but then began to howl.
“That kid’s hungry!” the cab driver barked. His confident proclamation startled me and I jumped up in my seat.
“Right!” I said.
I dug into my purse for a bottle of water and the travel package of formula, spilling specks of the beige powder as I
“She’s in the car seat,” I said.
“The base! Where’s the car seat base?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. Just like I had no idea how to properly dispose of a dirty diaper. The one I’d changed on the plane was still tucked away in my purse. I hoped the cab driver wouldn’t smell it — if he even deigned to give us a ride.
Suddenly, I remembered a blue plastic square thing that Jean had stuffed into one of the duffle bags. I crouched down to fish for it. I don’t know what Sarah had been thinking when she insisted that I only needed some formula, diapers and onesies. Jean had sent me and the baby off with two enormous bags filled with clothes, toys and other unidentifiable baby gear. I hoped Sarah would help me sort it all out.
“Do you mean this?” I asked, waving the plastic thing above my head.
“Yes! What else could I mean? Go ahead — put it in already!” For a guy who easily disparaged New Yorkers, he certainly seemed to behave in a manner far more stereotypical of New York than San Francisco.
“Um, I —. Would you mind doing it for me?”
Before I even finished asking, he shook his head vigorously, as if he’d been just waiting for that very offensive question. “Nope. Can’t do it. Liability.”
I willed myself not to cry and debated whether to just lug all my bags and the baby down to the next, hopefully more sympathetic, taxi driver in line. I was grimy, tired and just wanted to get home. Even though I was finally back in San Francisco, somehow it seemed like I’d actually arrived in a foreign land. I felt upside down, inside out.
“I don’t —. My husband normally does it,” I lied.
He shook his head. A jetliner took off overhead and my curls once again blew everywhere. From the car seat on the curb, the baby began to whimper.
I’m smarter than this car seat , I told myself. I can figure it out .
“Okay,” I said. “The baby is fussing. Could you maybe hold her while I do this?”
The driver took a quick step backward, then glanced at the next group in line for a taxi, a family of five with two school-aged kids who were swatting each other. The third child, a toddler, hacked with a phlegmy cough.
The driver exhaled audibly. “Christ. Gimme that.”
As he installed the base, which required several minutes of probing between the back seats for a long abandoned middle seat belt, I held the baby and with my other arm lugged her two large duffle bags as well as my own small carry-on into the trunk. My whole body ached.
Once on the Bayshore freeway, I tried to relax. For the last several hours, I’d been on anxious guard, expecting to be halted by someone shouting “That’s not your baby!” But no one even blinked at the two of us. In line to board, a woman behind me kept squeezing the baby’s toes and saying, “I gotcha!” As I handed over my boarding pass, the ticketing agent glanced at me furtively and whispered, “You shouldn’t let strangers touch your baby. Germs are everywhere!”
Moments later, my seat mate, the one who wouldn’t know that she was on back-up for diaper duty, smiled at us when I sat down. “Awww, how old?”
“Um, about six months? I think.”
She shot me a troubled look and didn’t speak to me again for the rest of the flight.
The cab driver continued north, directly towards the San Francisco sky, which was draped in a rich red swath of foggy haze, like a signal of my own state of high alert. The baby, who’d been remarkably mellow on the flight, scrunched her face, whimpered and smacked her thighs with her hands. I patted her black hair gingerly. She quieted for a moment but then began to howl.
“That kid’s hungry!” the cab driver barked. His confident proclamation startled me and I jumped up in my seat.
“Right!” I said.
I dug into my purse for a bottle of water and the travel package of formula, spilling specks of the beige powder as I
Similar Books
