Apart at the Seams Read Online Free Page A

one of the nice things about working in a quilt shop. The money isn’t great, but Evelyn understands how hard it is to combine work and motherhood.
    â€œThat’s not all you’re eating for breakfast, is it?”
    â€œNo time,” she said, and slipped her backpack onto her shoulders. “And there’s nothing in the fridge anyway.”
    I tore a banana from the bunch sitting on the counter. “Here. Take this with you. What am I going to do about the computer? My paper is due tonight. I was up until two finishing it. When I turned on the computer, it flashed for a second and then—”
    â€œMommy,” she said in her best teen-in-training, “adults are idiots” tone. “Did you save the document?”
    â€œYes, right before I shut down.”
    â€œThen you’re fine. Just get into the Cloud when you get to work.”
    â€œThe Cloud?”
    â€œIt’s this big, shared memory that lets you access your documents from any computer and backs everything up automatically. Drew installed it a couple of weeks ago, remember? Never mind,” she sighed, realizing I had no clue what she meant. She grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen from the junk drawer and scribbled out a chain of letters. “Just go to this address, log in with this user name and this password, look in the file, find your paper, and print it out.”
    â€œThanks, Bethy.”
    Bringing the banana that she’d left on the table, probably intentionally, I walked her to the door and kissed her good-bye. When I went into the living room, Bobby was sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching television.
    â€œI washed my hands!” he announced.
    â€œThank you. That’s very—”
    I stopped and tipped my head to the side, hearing the sound of rushing water. By the time I ran into the hallway, water had breached the bathroom door and was beginning to pool on the wooden floor.
    â€œBobby!”
    Not a good day. Not at all.

3
Gayla
    A fter rinsing out my mouth and spending half an hour pacing around the apartment like a caged animal in a zoo, circling walls that pressed too close, I grabbed my keys and purse and left, unable to endure one more minute trapped in those rooms. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I ran down six flights of stairs, flew through the lobby without returning the doorman’s greeting, and fled into the street.
    The temperature was hovering just above the freezing mark during this, the most miserable May on record, and I was wearing only slacks and a blouse. A few people stared at me, possibly wondering what the lady with the tears streaming down her face was doing pounding down the sidewalk without a coat. I ducked into the minimart on the corner and bought three packs of cigarettes.
    I’d smoked my last cigarette shortly after I learned of my pregnancy, giving my final pack of Benson & Hedges a burial at sea, tossing them overboard and watching as they swirled and disappeared into the white wake of the barge engines. When they were gone, I turned from the railing and walked away, and that was that. I never experienced withdrawal, never even thought about cigarettes after that day.
    Now I was desperate for a smoke. My hands shook as I tore at the cellophane and paper packaging, pulled out a slender tube of tobacco, lit the end, and inhaled as quickly and deeply as I could, ravenous for nicotine and answers.
    What had happened between this cigarette and my last? What had made my husband turn away from me and the promises we’d made to each other? What was I supposed to do with those promises now? And with my life?
    It was cold and getting colder, but I didn’t want to go back to the apartment. I couldn’t. But I couldn’t keep walking around Manhattan with no coat and no plan either. I jogged two blocks to the parking garage and asked the attendant to bring up our car. Five minutes later, I was behind the wheel and driving north.
    I