Excerpts

The Bus

Sometimes people are unable to control the direction their lives take.

Her apologetic glance briefly grasped the wandering eyes that had trained themselves on her a moment too long when her baby released an angry shriek. Her frizzled hair reasured her under he North Face tuque, from a previous life, with a gentle stroke on her rubicund cheek. She turned back towards her son.

The buzz of countless earbuds disrupted the quiet on the transit bus, punctuated erratically by the empty chatter fighting the rush of snowy gale outside. A glistening river was starting to collect below the baby's nose as it defrosted like snow covered mittens before a fireplace. The threadbare blanket gave a valiant effort when she tried to wipe it away, but succeeded only in smearing it into the gathering drool. Her exhaustion was evident by the half-moon bruises under her eyes, and the slightly hunched shoulders drooping with the weight of the world. Evident in her chapped lips and bitten down nail buds, and in the too pale skin of her face.

The chips had fallen onto the table and this was what she was dealt: a snivelling baby, who she would not have minded had the father not folded first hand after insisting they play War, a child's game, for the first few days. She played her cards as best she could and duitifully accepted the result. She was satisfied, but would have chosen a better life for her son.

The stench of wet cat food and stale urine lingered in the air from the senior who had recently vacated the adjacent seat, unable to be masked by the sickly sweat dollar-store perfume wafting from the rear of the bus. Unintentionally, she found herself trying to subtly inhale only through her mouth, and tried to wipe away the childhood memories of visiting her late grandmother in the insanity ward of the asylum.

The baby had quieted, blissfully content with it's Rubbermade that was leaking formula. She was unable to afford a car and still support her son. Diapers, baby food, and clothes that only lasted a month were quicksand for any earnings. She hadn't planned to be raising this baby alone, but the father had fled like a coward. She could not hold back the thoughts whispering to her, of what her life could have been, had he stuck around. Now she was destined to be a low class single mother, relying on The Salvation Army for winter jackets, and hoarding all spare change like gold.