A young mother powders her face, admiring her prominent features. She pins away a

lock of loose hair. Rising from the small vanity, the woman searches for validation in a mirror. Every detail is in place, every subtlety has been addressed. She is perfect. She smiles faintly and slips on a gaudy ring, reminded only vaguely of her previous marriage. It is no longer a concern of hers, though it may be bold to assume it ever was.

“Ma’am?”

“What? Is it important? I have somewhere to be.”

“The boy is sick. I thought you would like to know.”

The woman takes a composing breath, assuring herself she will not be late.

“Show me to his room. I’ll check on him before I go.”

The maid rushes along, leading the woman to her stepson’s bedroom. The scene is almost comical, with the tall temptress greatly dwarfing her inferior. Her voice rings across marble flooring, its high pitch amplified in acoustic.

“I can’t believe Arthur is in Cali again this week. I told him about the party a month ago, and he knows how important this is to me. I warned him that the boy would be an issue.”

When they reach the boy, his room is dim. The curtains are drawn, and his figure is obscured by a large blanket. The woman approaches the small bed, impatiently glancing over her stepson’s damp features. He is unmistakably ill. But, surely, he would be fine if she went along to her party.

“You—what’s your name? Olive, yes? Come here and take his temperature, please. I have to be going.”

“It reads 99, ma’am,” she says, already having performed this action.

“Well, have you given him anything for it? Surely you know how to handle this situation. With your line of work, you must know how to deal with a slight cold.”

“Well, yes, but I had hoped that perhaps…”

The woman is already gone. Her heels click-clack on marble as she leaves the boy behind.  The maid sighs and turns to the child, pitying him.

If only that silly mother of his would open her eyes…

***

My blankets are like a cocoon. I learned that word from my friend, Speedy. But actually his name is really Jerry. One time, my new mommy got mad at me because she didn’t know who Speedy is, so I try really hard to only call him Jerry now. Jerry told me I was sweating when I woke up, but I feel super cold now. I don’t really like the cold. It makes me shiver, and shivering feels bad.

I cough, and my eyes get more wet. I think that Olivia might think I’m crying, but my eyes are really just getting teary because I’m sick. I listen to Olivia come in and move things in my room. I forgot to clean it last month. Well, maybe it was a week ago. I don’t really know, but I definitely forgot to clean it.

“Open wide, sweetheart.”

“Olivia?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Well, my tummy kind of hurts. Can I have some medicine?”

“I’m sorry, babe. I already gave you some, remember? After lunch?”

“But it really, really hurts.”

Olivia tells me I need to keep my mouth closed for a little bit longer so she can take my temperature, and then we can talk about the medicine. I have a fever of 99.7, Olivia says. I think that’s a bad thing, but I don’t really know. She tells me she’s going to get my mommy, but I don’t want her to. Jerry says my new mommy is just a girl who likes money. One time I heard him call her a witch, only I’m not allowed to say that word.

“...that the boy would be an issue.”

My new mommy’s shoes are really loud. Usually I think it’s funny, even when I sneak into her room to wear them. But now it’s making my head hurt. I’m glad when she stops walking, but I still want to tell her to be quiet when she’s talking because her voice is super squeaky, like a bird.

“...take his temperature, please. I have to be going.”

I want to tell her that Olivia already did that, but I decide I’m too tired. Olivia doesn’t even take my temperature, though. She just tells the witch I have 99, which is wrong, because I definitely have 99.7, unless Olivia lied to me. But she probably only lied to my new mommy, because Olivia never lies to me. I love her. I asked her yesterday if she was going to be my mommy when the witch left, but she just told me that wouldn’t be fair. She said that Mommy makes Daddy happy, which means we should be happy for him. Also, I’m not supposed to call her a witch.

Sometimes I wish that my old mommy will come back, but I don’t really remember her. I wonder if she used to be an astronaut. My new mommy definitely isn’t an astronaut. Astronauts are really cool and they’re always good guys. If my new mommy was an astronaut, then she would let me eat cookies and space food all of the time.

Olivia gives me a really big hug. I know that my new mommy left, because Olivia doesn’t look mad like she does when the witch is here.

“You’ll feel better soon, sweetheart. I promise.”

Olivia tells me to go to sleep and then she leaves. I really wanted to ask her about the medicine again, but my throat hurts so I just turn over and hide in the blankets. I’m kind of mad at Olivia for forgetting the medicine, but she is really nice to me so I don’t like being mad for a long time.

A year ago I asked Olivia why my new mommy is mad at me a lot. Olivia didn’t really like that question. She told me I should be nice to my new mommy because she needs somebody to show her how to do it right. I think that the witch’s mommy was probably also mean, because mommies are supposed to teach their kids how to be nice. Or maybe she didn’t have a mommy and she fell from the sky instead of being born, or maybe her mommy died because she wasn’t healthy because she had too much cake. Or maybe her mommy had to leave, like mine did.

***

The woman arrives home late that evening. Hardly sober and yet impressively composed, she passes the foyer with heels in hand. Her night had been an entrancing one. By all measures, it was perfect; just as she had expected it to be. With such anticipation, she would have accepted nothing less. For months, she had worked tirelessly with her closest friends, though the term is used broadly.  The woman has never been fortuitous enough to have friends, and probably never will be.

She walks the hall with heavy steps, heading toward her bedroom. Yet, she hesitates at an open door. She wonders if, perhaps, she should check in on the boy. Her stepson, she reminds herself. The word tastes so odd on her tongue. Not foreign, no, but odd. It is as though with that single word, the woman feels a sudden awareness of her life. For all intents and purposes, it has been a good one thus far. She has never worked, or experienced anything other than self-inflicted hunger. She is involved in the most prestigious of events, and has opportunities that most can only dream of.

Yet, she is on her fourth marriage. She cannot leave her spacious home without assuring herself once, twice, three times, that she is beautiful. The woman pushes aside every day the looming feeling of suffocation. Knowingly, too, she causes herself guilt by pushing away the boy. Her stepson.

Her body begins to sag slowly, and her heels fall to the floor. She bites back tears, which could be the result of inebriation, or they could be the result of plastic years. She shakes her head, pushing away her burdening thoughts. The woman rises again and peers around the corner of the doorway. The boy, though he can hardly be seen with the poor aid of a nightlight, is clearly sleeping. If it weren’t for the hair sticking to his damp forehead, one may not even tell he is sick.

Her stepson, she thinks. He looks so peaceful. She wonders vaguely if he cares for her at all; he certainly has no reason to. But he could. And if he did, he may be the only person who does care for her. In these moments, the woman sees the possibility of a more fulfilling life. She could get to know the boy, allow him to tag along on her errands, and she would buy him sweets and toys. If she were feeling especially giving, she may even ask Olive to teach her some games to play with the boy, though that would depend entirely on her schedule.

But, what was she thinking? Of course, it was all silly. A terrible mistake. She is far too busy to care for a child. She has important matters to attend to. For example, tomorrow morning she will be meeting one of her friends for breakfast, which is of the utmost importance, seeing as her friend claims to have some important gossip. After that, she has an appointment with her hairdresser that she simply cannot cancel; it would take months before she got another chance to see him. She has no time for a stepson. None at all.

And as she leaves the boy for her room, she reminds herself of all the reasons why she could not spend time with him. It may be that she is inebriated, it may be that she cannot escape her plastic life, or it may be that she is too afraid to be the figure she never had in her own life. Whatever the reason, it made it rather easy for her to close her bedroom door that evening, pushing away the boy once more.