Page 17 of Yes, Coach (Bluebell Bruisers #2)
CHAPTER
SEVEN
CLARA JUNE
Foolishly, I believed that having Tanner resting at home would be easier than having him at the hospital. But as my cell phone rings from my apron pocket for the sixth time in two hours, I’m starting to think I greatly overestimated things.
“And I’ll take the roast beef sandwich. What’re my options for the side?” asks Davie, a lifelong Bluebell resident and daily Goode’s Diner customer. I tap the end of my pencil against my pad, ignoring the vibrating coming from my pocket.
I repeat the sides that I’ve listed to Davie nearly everyday for the last four years. “French fries, sweet potato fries, fruit salad, green salad or ambrosia salad.”
He nods his head, eyes narrowed in deep thought as if there’s a shot in hell he’s gonna order anything but the fries.
“Alright. I’ll have the fries with that. Thank you, sugar.”
I already jotted down fries as his side, so I take his menu and slip into the kitchen, digging my phone out of my pocket. With my shoulder keeping the phone taut to my ear, I clip the order to the counter near the cooks.
“What’s up, buddy?” I ask Tanner, knowing it’s him full well because the other two boys are in school.
“You remember to take your Tylenol at 11?” I ask, recalling the times I wrote down in the kitchen on the back of an electric company bill.
I told him at what time he needs to take Tylenol and at what time he’s allowed to take a muscle relaxer.
I even put the pills out. Along with drinks, and snacks, all right next to him on the couch. He really shouldn’t need anything.
“Clara June, it’s Chrissy.”
Chrissy is another waitress here. And she only calls when she needs something. I glance at my watch again. Three more hours and I’m off, and I can go home, check on Tanner, make food for the boys, and enjoy a really hot shower.
“Hi Chrissy,” I reply, hesitantly. She didn’t call Goode’s directly, so she isn’t sick. She called me, which means one thing and one thing only.
“Do you think you could cover my afternoon shift? Maverick Jr. is sick, and my mom can’t watch him, you know, ‘cause of her immune disorder.” She smacks her gum as she waits for me to reply, and in the background I hear her son, coughing and crying.
She isn’t lying, but still, I have the strongest inclination to be annoyed.
I don’t want to stay here another moment longer than I need to.
I just brought Tanner home yesterday.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and stare out the back window to the employee parking lot tucked near the alley.
I spot my very old sedan, fresh from the shop with a new timing belt, brake pads, steering fluid, and the expensive list goes on.
Paired with Tanner’s hospital bills, I’m about to be in a financial crater once the next round of monthly bills comes.
“Sure,” I tell her, because while I’d rather get a gynecological exam in front of the entire town than work one more minute today, we need the money. Evening shifts yield the most tips, too. “I’ll let Donna know.”
I deliver the plate of eggs, take two more orders, and sneak into the cooler for a moment to call Rawley. He’s on his lunch break, so I know he’ll answer.
“What’s up?” he picks up on the first ring, whooping and laughter filling in the line around him.
“Hey, I have to pick up an extra shift tonight. Do you think you can grab Archie from the after school program?”
He sighs as if I’ve asked him to give a kidney to a stranger. Or worse. Like I asked him to give me his laptop and Playstation. “I was going to go to Jo Jo’s after school, mom.”
“Hiya, Clara June,” one of the line cooks greets as he pushes past me to collect a box of shredded cheese from the shelf.
I smile and nod, but focus on Rawley. “Can you bring her back to our house? That way you can keep an eye on Archie and Tanner until I get back.”
His sigh could move a forest of trees, I swear. “I guess. ”
“Keep your bedroom door open and don’t let Archie outside. There's lasagna in the freezer. Cooking instructions are written on the foil.”
Another painful harrumph. “Am I at least getting paid to babysit?”
“Should I deduct it from what I paid on the wasted SAT tutor?”
The line is quiet. Then a final sigh before, “Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Thank you, son. I appreciate it. You’re really helping me out.”
“Bye.”
I step out of the cooler and back into the busy restaurant. Small towns are good for so many things, but diverse restaurants and eating opportunities? Not so much. When Bluebell wants to eat out, half of them come here.
Tips are good, but my feet are sore and my heart and head are just…
not here today. I steal a sip of my Diet Coke from beneath the hostess station, redo my ponytail into something slightly less flyaway riddled, and get through the next six and half hours the way I always do, tired and stressed with a smile on my face.
After locking my car doors, I grab my coat and purse and trudge along the side yard until I reach the back of the house.
With my keys in the lock, I twist and push the door open, eager as ever to be home.
When Tanner was hurt, I had a vision of bringing him home from the hospital and sitting by his side for the first few days, just to make sure everything was okay, and that he didn’t need me.
Life had other plans, because life also comes with a lot of bills.
It’s ten after ten, and while the two older boys are usually still up at this hour, the house is completely dark, and I wonder for a moment if I’m in the wrong house.
But after kicking off my sneakers, I step on a peach pit, and then trip over Archie’s cowboy boots that were left in the center of the kitchen floor and yep. I’m in the right place.
I flip on the light above the kitchen sink, and let my eyes adjust to… “Jesus,” I whisper, looking around what used to be my house. Only, it’s not my house anymore.
It’s a literal garbage bag.
Half eaten lasagna sits on the stove, the cheese turning hard from sitting out so long.
Paper plates stained with grease sit on the table, and empty soda cans are crushed next to them.
It looks as if Tanner has been throwing things toward the garbage from the couch, but it’s clear that basketball isn’t his sport.
Napkins, tissues, water bottles and all sorts of things litter the floor around the relatively empty garbage can.
Where Archie’s boots were there is also a heap of dirt, and a pair of dirty socks, balled up and cast aside.
The kitchen sink isn’t fully off, so the soundtrack to my house of horrors is an apt drip, drip, drip .
A jug of milk sits on the counter, half drunk, the lid nowhere to be found, and on the wall, over the phone, a piece of paper is taped.
“Mom, Archie has a field trip tomorrow and he needs a sack lunch.”
I yank open the old yellow fridge and find an empty package of bologna, a scattering of sauces and dressings, a ziploc bag filled with something green and hairy, two apples, a loaf of white bread with duct tape keeping it closed, and— I reach in and pull out a tube of lotion.
“Why?” I ask aloud, setting the tube down on the counter.
Part of me contemplates tackling the kitchen right here and now, but I opt for checking on the boys first.
Archie is asleep in bed, wearing the clothes he wore to school. Since I didn’t implicitly tell Rawley to make Archie bathe, he didn’t, and I add one more task to my list for the morning.
Rawley’s door is shut, but light shines from beneath, and I knock gently, waiting for the okay. When he opens the door, he sizes me up. “You’re home,” he says.
I yawn. “Thanks for rearranging your schedule to help today.” I refrain from lecturing about the mess, because it’s late, I’m tired, and he did watch his brothers for me.
“Tanner took a muscle relaxer before bed. I helped him into his room,” he tells me.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, peering around him in his room. “Jo Jo went home?”
He pulls the door open so I can see his room is empty. “Yeah.”
I nod, then kiss his cheek. “Thanks Rawley. And by the way, I talked to Donna, and you can start at the diner next week.”
He sighs and by the time he’s closed his door, I’m already checking on Tanner, the back of my hand to his forehead. He’s sleeping soundly, his color is good, and according to Rawley, he took the meds he needed when he needed it.
I wanted to be here, but the truth is, they managed without me. I don’t know whether to feel happy or sad.
Then I get to my room .
Every single piece of laundry we own is dumped onto the bed, my dresser drawers are open and my closet door is wide, the light on. I’ve walked into this scene once before. Archie likely spent most of his afternoon playing dress up, and this is the outcome.
The entire house is an absolute pig sty.
Laundry needs to be done. The dishes are filthy. We need groceries. Sheets need to be changed. Sack lunches need to be made.
I sink onto the bed and work the buttons of my uniform one by one, then tug my hair from the ponytail it’s been in all day. My lower back hurts, my feet ache and my neck is sore. I’m tired, and I’m hungry, but mostly, I’m exhausted.
I decide as I roll off my socks that before I tackle the house, I’m going to treat myself to a hot shower, with the good soap, and maybe even a face mask after. I think I have one under the bathroom sink one of the boys bought me a year or so ago.
Standing up, I strip off my panties and bra, and stand next to the shower as I twist the knob. I wait a second, eager for steam, ready to step under the hot spray of sweet relaxation.
I wave my hand under the water, but after a minute, it’s still cold.
Naked, cold, sore and tired, I give the shower one more minute before stepping inside, because surely it’s warm by now.
“Mother fucker!” I scream, as icy water rains down on me, turning my body into a suit of goosebumps, my nipples into ice cutters. There is no hot water.
Lovely.