Ghostwriter

Chapter 1

Colton coos in my arms, casting a toothless smile at me as if he meant to heave all his stomach's contents onto my chest, my back, and into my big plastic bag filled with new clothes for him and me. His mouth is dirty now too, the white film dripping down his chin.

Little bugger.

A grandma looks at me and winces before waddling over and whipping a hankerchief out of her breast-pocket, "Aw, darling, let me help you,"

As if the words were a calling card, Colton starts wailing and every mother in the vicinity of Goodwill perks up, and a small horde of ladies old and young come and attempt to hold Colton and clean me up.

That's how I brought home 21 hankerchiefs and 8 numbers instead of the two slightly-used matching flower onesies for Halloween.

I added the gifts to my collection once I got to my apartment. I trash all the numbers except for one, because that woman mentioned something about grabbing me a complimentary pizza (I thought I heard something about her husband owning a small pizza shop).

I put Colton down for a nap within the hour, then start on the never-ending laundry. Bibs, onesies, tiny blue socks, and big white socks all dump into a holed white basket, which I carry on my hip down to the bottom floor of the apartment complex. I cradle the detergent and softener under my left armpit, and I hook a baby monitor onto my pant's waistline. Something taps on the base on my mind and my fingers inch.

Should I?

Don't I owe it to her? To him? To them? To their child? To everyone they offed? To the public?

My green crocs squeak on the cracked tiled floor. The thin, peeling walls betray their occupants: the Howells are arguing, Mrs. Dubmire is helping six-year-old weeping Curtis with homework, Daniel Remends is blasting music (which is sure to have Jackel Kenton complaining and John scheming and the board mumbling).

That's all on the floor below me. My floor houses mostly old couples who avoid me because I'm a college dropout. Old couples who happen to be on the board and the reason why I'm having to try and find another apartment by the end of two months, because Colton's a crier.

What would they all think?

On the base floor, I wave to Franklin Mires, our 78-year-old receptionist, who nods back before returning his attention to the phone call.

I pad to the backroom, where three of the eight washers whir to their own tune. I dump my basket on the floor, load the laundry into the washer, hook up my detergent and softener, and slam the door shut.

"Antigone Jackson! What've I told you about treating the machines right?!"

Mr. Mire's voice bounces through the bottom floor.

"Sorry Mr. Mires!"

"Darn right you are!"

He returns to his call, and I insert three quarters into the machine before taking my cleaning supplies back upstairs. I nab the three shiny letters out of the box by my door. The heavy green door swings shut behind me, and I take two steps to the left to avoid the smell of the trashcan by the door. I've got to take my trash out soon...

I place the letters on the small counterspace, which is crammed with bottles of formula and dishes yet to be washed, and start racing to fold the clothes as fast as I can before the baby wakes. I keep one eye on the baby monitor at all times, making sure that Colton doesn't come near to the edge of our bed.

His side has a baby block that attaches to his side of the bed, but my side doesn't. He doesn't wiggle and turn around too much normally, but my paranoia reaches no ends so I watch anyway. Mind my still drifts, however.