The Truth According to Ginny Moon Benjamin Ludwig (books to read in your 30s .txt) 📖

to let me watch when she breast-feeds. Before Maura used to put a white cloth over her shoulder or a receiving blanket to hide Baby Wendy’s head. I wasn’t allowed to look. But now I’m supposed to watch because it encourages attachment.

The second thing I’m supposed to do is help out a little more with the baby. Like getting things ready for its bath or picking out a storybook when it’s time to read. So this morning I asked if I could carry the diaper bag when we went to the grocery store. But Maura wouldn’t let me.

The third thing I’m supposed to do is hold the baby while Maura watches. Once a day. Maura says we aren’t there yet.

Outside I hear the mail truck coming down the road. I hear it slow down and stop at the neighbor’s house. Then it starts up and slows down and stops in front of the Blue House. I hear the sound of the mailbox door open and close. Then the mail truck drives away.

“There goes the mail truck,” says Maura. “Ginny, I’m expecting something important, so I want to run outside and see if it came. Wendy is almost asleep, so I’m going to put her down in her crib. Do you think you’ll be all right if I go get the mail?”

I look up. “Yes,” I say but it doesn’t sound like my voice. It doesn’t sound like Ginny’s. I know exactly whose it is.

“Good. Now, just stay here. Get yourself a coloring book or maybe something to read, and just relax until I get back. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Great,” says Maura. “Just remember, if Wendy starts crying, everything will be fine. I’ll be right back. And if the sound bothers you too much, just go right into your room and shut the door. But really, it shouldn’t happen. She just finished eating. She’s already asleep. I’m sure I can set her down without waking her up.”

Maura stands up with Baby Wendy. The baby’s eyes are closed. She walks past me into the kitchen and goes upstairs. She comes down exactly forty-four seconds later.

“There,” she says. “Now, I’ll be right back. Be a good girl, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

She sits down on the bench by the door to the screen porch and puts her boots on. Then she gets her coat. She zips it up and pulls on her gloves and hat. She smiles at me one last time. And leaves.

I stand up.

In summer or spring or fall when there’s no snow it takes approximately four minutes to get the mail. When it’s cold and snowy in the winter it takes five. So Maura will be gone for approximately five minutes.

Which means I have plenty of time.

I get up and run into the kitchen and grab a dish towel from the counter. It is white with two green lines around the edges. Two green lines as green and thin as snakes. Maura used the towel a little while ago to dry some baby spoons and a little bowl. Baby Wendy didn’t eat the rice cereal and pears she made for it.

The towel is still damp. I hold it with one hand and lift the other one to turn on the stove but then I start to get anxious. I put my hand back down again and run into the living room to look out the window. Through it I see Maura in the driveway halfway to the road.

I run back into the kitchen and turn the front right burner on. The same one I used in the Little White House to make eggs. Only this time I’m not cooking. I’m setting the white-and-green dish towel on fire on purpose so that it will make the counter and maybe the cabinets start to burn. Then Maura will come in and put the fire out and yell and scream and call the police to take me away and this Forever will end. Approximately five minutes from now.

It’s all part of my new secret plan.

I stand over the burner. The towel is in my hands in a tight, tight ball. The burner turns orange. I smell hot metal.

And then Baby Wendy starts to fuss.

In my brain I say, Well dang!

I step back to listen. The fussing gets louder.

I run back to the living room again and look out the window again and now Maura is standing next to the mailbox talking to someone. Mrs. Taylor. They are talking and talking and upstairs the crying is getting louder and behind me I know the burner in the kitchen by now is red, red, red.

I put the towel on my shoulder and start to pick at my fingers.

Maura said to go in my room if the baby starts crying. Maura said she’d be right back. She didn’t say anything at all about stopping to talk with Mrs. Taylor.

I look down the hallway toward my room. I think. Then I run into the kitchen again. I turn the burner off and pull the towel from my shoulder and hold it in front of me. By two corners. I put the corners together and lay the towel flat on the counter. Then I fold it in half again and smooth it out. Nice and even, even though my hands are shaking from the crying. Because I need everything to be all set and ready to go when I get back.

I turn and run up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs the crying is so loud that I have to cover my ears even though it’s on the other side of the bedroom door. I look through the bathroom out the window and still see Maura and Mrs. Taylor talking at the mailbox.

So I push the bedroom door open and walk right up to the crib. The baby’s eyes are closed. It doesn’t see me yet. I bend down close and say, “Ush, ush, ush.”

But the baby doesn’t stop. It just gets louder. Its tiny hands are in fists and