Good at the Last Drop

By C. S. Johnson

They are coming.

I process the screech of my alarm, my thoughts already running a thousand miles an hour.

My children are coming. The house is a mess. Sister-In-Law Who Can Do No Wrong Ever will be here with Perfect Daughter. If she sees the mess in this house, our next holiday together will be a bloodbath.

My eyes stretch open fast and wide then blink wildly in protest. My hand flies up to my forehead and I brush back the frayed half-curls from my failed attempt at a perm several weeks ago. I’d gotten the perm in order to “feel pretty again,” but “feeling pretty” flew out the door a long time ago, its round-trip flight significantly delayed for four main reasons—the same reasons who are on their way home, courtesy of my sister-in-law and niece.

As exhausted and hopeful as I was earlier, my “just five minutes, and I’ll be fine,” naptime betrayed me. I overslept, and now my ego will pay the price.

I glance at my son’s alarm clock, the one he never uses as an actual alarm, preferring to use it as some kind of cat torture device to chase our fat cat around the house. There is a small pair of dirty underwear over it, and I can’t stop my smile, rueful as it is.

Reaching over, I snag the smelly briefs and propel myself to my feet, half-panicked, half-resolved. I know I’m awake for sure, now that I can clearly see the time.

“Excellent,” I murmur, balling my fists around the dirty underwear. “At least this is one thing taken care of.”

I give myself a pat on the back and a wad of chewed gum sticks to my hand.

Perfect, now I’m ready to cry.

But there really is too much to do.

The battlefield looms before me like a growing shadow. Dirty clothes line the hall, the bathroom needs fumigated, dishes fill the sink, and the kitchen is buried beneath a layer of dust. And everything is about to get worse.

My face falls into my hands.

I only have one hope.

My fingers scrape down my face, dragging out the bags under my eyes. The doctor told me not to, but there comes a time in every woman’s life when the doctor seems more monster than healer—though in a horrifying, hilarious turn of events, my doctor’s name is actually “Dr. Frankenstein.”

The clock ticks menacingly as I hurry to the cabinet.

They are coming. They are nearly here…

I push aside the herbal teas, brush past the cache of chocolate bars I keep where my kids can’t reach; I make a mad grab for the forbidden fruit that will free me even as it condemns me to another restless, angry night.

A series of buzzing and whirring ensues. My heart beats in delicious anticipation. My breath draws in the air deeply, as the beans are crushed and doused with scorching waters, as the filter fills with the residue of hope.

Just as I pull the pot from the coffeemaker to harvest the fruits of my labor, the front door crashes open.

My fingers are shaking now as I hurry.

The house is still a wreck, my hair is still a tangle. My four sons run into the house, their school bags flying and their muddy shoes tracking in more of a mess.

“Hey, Mom.” They call out their hellos before disappearing down the hall.

Just behind them, my sister-in-law croons out her greeting. “Hello. Dear? Hello, we’re here.”

The tone is the same as always, patiently warm as much as it is shaming. I cringe; I’ve never impressed my husband’s family. I take one last long, lonely look around my house. Today will be no exception.

“Please, God, just grant me this cup,” I whisper as I grab a mug—the one soaking in the sink from yesterday’s illicit foray—and fill it with the living water, mixed with the blessed crushed caffeine bitterness.

I sigh as the liquid pools down inside of me, as magical rejuvenation steals the worry from my soul—more vampiric or zombified than renewed or reborn, yet here I am. I am a mother, my house is a mess, my children are unbridled, wild spirits, my in-laws will never be impressed with my chosen path. But my heart is full and my blood churns with the destructive caffeine my doctor warns will only cause more stress. The phoenix inside me rises from the ashes, the vampire continues her march into eternal timelessness, and the zombie, for all her hunger, is momentarily satisfied.

My young niece yells at my boys then comes into the kitchen. “Auntie, this place is a mess.” She says it with the same offhanded offense my husband’s sister has spent a lifetime mastering.

I hold up my mug in salute before taking another sip of my coffee. I can handle this now. “Yes, darling. It is.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

C. S. Johnson is the award-winning, genre-hopping author of several novels, including young adults sci-fi and fantasy adventures such as the Starlight Chronicles series, the Once Upon a Princess saga, and the Divine Space Pirates trilogy. With a gift for sarcasm and an apologetic heart, she currently lives in Atlanta with her family.

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