Waiting For a Good One

She cannot keep a job; she has had several. Anger issues. Cannot spell or write either, or be nice, but those are secondary problems. Showed up at ten, was supposed to be there at 7:45; always good excuses. Creative anyway. Wanted them to give her a recommendation; highly angry at them for not doing it. Called them prejudiced. They hate the Irish! She told me. Wait, their names are McCormick. She tried to find another job from the luxury of her bed, circled lots of them in the paper. Did not make the phone calls though; the valium she was taking for her perpetual migraines held her off. What about the children? Her neighbors ask her. She was too ill to worry about them. They were six, eight, ten and twelve, time for them to get jobs and take care of her. Right? The school bought them Christmas presents, and she was furious they would not give her receipts. Complained because they were not even getting a turkey for Thanksgiving, so her neighbor brought her one. That damned social worker was really mad on the first when she realized the turkey had never been cooked. She did not have a computer or anything. They should have brought her one that was cooked anyway. That was on them. The crumby neighbor is pounding on her door again. She opens one eye. Damned kids must have forgotten their keys. She can keep them for a while, she thinks. I am sick. As she falls back to sleep, she wonders what will become of her, who will take care of her? Why has this happened to her? Her uterus moves in a little hop like way, a happy baby this time. Thank god. The other ones are always wanting something, begging for stuff, complaining. Maybe this one will be the one who makes the difference. She pats her tummy and smiles. Maybe she has a good one in there, this time. Her eyes close.