Routines

Serevina slammed the microwave door shut. She pressed the 1, the 0, the 0 again, and the Start button. The resulting hum was a symphony of convenience, one she'd grown familiar with since RJ arrived. Somehow, even as their mother was wasting away, there seemed to be more time, more opportunity. As the stork approached, the remnants of who she was seemed to fall to the wayside in favor of nursery décor, breastfeeding lectures and webinars about the early signs of postpartum depression.

The microwave beeped. She looked at the directions on the plastic wrap sealed to the top of the tray. "Stir, then place back in for an additional minute." Not one to disobey, she heeded the poorly printed instructions and placed the plastic tray back into the microwave. Another minute, and it would beep again. Hopefully the shrill tone wouldn't wake the baby strapped to her chest. He never wanted to be put down.

She didn't know where her sister was. She wasn't going to the push the issue, not this time. Elena had done so much already, and she had her own way of processing things. At least this time it was a man instead of mini-bottles. Though, as Serevina knew well enough, the comfort of a man could be addictive in its own right.

The microwave beeped a second time. She touched her finger to the top of the tray. The meal was lukewarm. They usually were. The directions were flawed. She slammed the door again. Pressed the button again. She thought to complain, but the thought faded. She would make it work. She was a beggar, not a chooser.

The door handle jiggled and Elena walked through the entryway wearing a sheepish grin. She hadn't come home last night and offered an apology equally as lukewarm as Serevina's TV dinner. The baby strapped to Serevina's chest stirred and began to wail loudly against her sternum, rooting manically in search of food and comfort. Serevina sighed. Elena grimaced.

Serevina shot a silent plea toward her baby sister. Wordlessly, Elena pulled the infant from his carrier and placed him awkwardly over her shoulder. Serevina watched nervously but said nothing. Elena had been criticized enough.

The microwave beeped again, insistent that its contents be removed. In the midst of the newborn's crying, Elena opened a drawer to her right, pulled out a plastic fork and handed it to her big sister. Like magic, a bottle appeared within the chipped polish of Elena's fingertips and she slowly headed up the stairs to feed her howling nephew.

Serevina watched them ascend the stairs, exhaling deeply as the door to the nursery closed. She opened the microwave door and dropped the steaming tray onto the dining room table. She twiddled the plastic fork between her fingers, then finally stabbed the pennies-on-the-dollar mystery meat and shoved it into her mouth.

If there was no one else, at least there was Elena.