by P. Dangelico
By the way, this is the same cleaning crew under express orders to come every other day because he doesn’t like people in his home.
Like…what? This is the kind of stuff that baffles me. It’s a mystery why he’s so comfortable with me in his personal space and no one else. And I mean no one. No one ever shows up. No one visits. No one calls. Does he have any friends? Doesn’t look like it. Which of course makes me then feel sorry for him. Empathy strikes again.
On the flip side, he hasn’t asked me to stay over yet. I’m not looking forward to all the awkwardness that will create because I am definitely not comfortable with him in my personal space.
“Not going to the playground in the Park. That’s for sure,” I mutter.
“Why not?”
Because the nannies delight in the kids eating poop. If he knew, he’d make us both wear hazmat suits.
“Because the nannies are staging a silent insurrection.”
“I don’t think I want to know what that means.”
“You don’t, trust me.”
The smile in his eyes doesn’t extend to his lips. It’s like he won’t allow himself any joy. It makes me wonder what it would take. What would require him to loosen that grip he has on every normal human emotion? It must be exhausting holding on so tight. Or maybe he’s been this way for so long he doesn’t even realize it anymore. The only time he can’t help himself is when he spends time with Maisie.
“Whose funeral are you attending today?”
His brow scrunches, confusion fills his eyes. “I’m not going to a funeral.”
“Hmm, you’re not?” I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing at his expression.
“What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing, boss.”
Jordan opens the refrigerator and frowns. He pulls a small container of cream and holds it up for my edification.
“What’s this?”
“Cream. It’s a dairy product derived from cow’s milk. Some people like to cook with it, some people put it in their coffee––”
He’s not amused, his face remains a block of ice. “Didn’t we talk about buying only organic?”
Is that his damage? For heaven’s sake…
“We did.” That’s my cream I should tell him. I don’t give it to Maisie. But I can’t bring myself to soothe his tortured soul. His overreactions have been like this for three weeks. I’ve learned to save my energy.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say? I explained to you why it’s important for Maisie to eat organic––”
I blame the lack of coffee. I haven’t had my second cup yet and the thoughts in my head accidentally slip out. “Dear Diary, the nanny was bad again today…”
For this I get a blink and a hard stare.
I get off the stool and grab the cream out of his hand. “This is for my coffee.” Then I grab the fresh pot, pour two mugs, splash some cream in mine, and hand him the black one––how he likes it. I know, shocker.
I take my seat at the kitchen counter again and Jordan slides the sugar jar closer to me.
“That goes for you as well,” he says softly. He sounds a little remorseful. So maybe miracles do happen. “You shouldn’t consume anything that’s not organic. It’s not healthy.”
Should I tell him my mother would forget to feed me some days after my father died?
“I was on the national school lunch program for a few years, Jordan. That ship has sailed.” Taking a sip of my coffee, I avert my eyes. I don’t want to see the reaction to my overshare right now. “I thought Maisie and I would visit the Museum of Natural History today.”
Maisie’s ditched the new doll and is having a grand time with her old blocks.
“Let me know what you decide. I’ll be home in time for dinner.”
With that, he finishes his coffee and grabs the jacket off the stool. Taking his empty cup and mine, I rinse them off, place them in one of his two dishwashers, and he leaves.
We’ve settled into a comfortable routine. When I arrive at seven a.m., he has Maisie dressed and fed already. I handle the child care for the day, feed her dinner––sometimes he’s here to help, sometimes not. Then I give her a bath and put her to sleep and he takes over parenting duties for the night.
It’s a cozy, well-orchestrated home life, an odd counterfeit of the real thing. Not to mention that I still don’t know anything about the events that led to Maisie coming to live with him, and he doesn’t make it easy to ask.
Half an hour after lunch, Maisie and I take an Uber across town to the museum. It was the perfect call, her little face lights up with wonder the moment we step inside and she sees the blue whale hanging over us.
Grim: How’s the museum?
The text comes in when we’re standing by the woolly mammoth skeleton. How is she? She’s freaking out in her stroller, excited to get out to get closer.
Me: *sends a picture of Maisie with a huge grin on her face and her grabby hands reaching for it*
Grim: she’s not scared.
Big statement. No, she’s not. He could take a few lessons.
Me: not much scares her. Nothing so far.
The subtext is obvious. I understand being protective and cautious, but his concern runs deep and dark and manifests as a little bit nutty.
Grim: …
Grim: How long will you be there?
I don’t know if I should be scared or pleased. This could go either way with him. Regardless of what I think, a subtle warm feeling spreads in my chest. Maybe he’s not a cadaver after all. Maybe he’s on life support and needs something to fight for. And even stranger, I want him to fight for it. Jordan’s a good guy––anyone that sees him with Maisie would agree––he’s just…hard to be around. Being in his company is like crashing up against a brick wall all the time. It’s easier to avoid him.
Me: enough time for u to join us. let me know when u get here.
When Jordan doesn’t text back, I take it as a positive sign. He would’ve shut me down if he had no intention of meeting us here.
In the meantime, we hit the food court. I get Maisie’s organic yogurt and fruit cup out of my bag and buy myself an ice cream cone. Then I find an open table and park the stroller in front of me. Problem is, today is the day Maisie decides the yogurt no longer pleases her. She keeps pushing the spoon away.
“No,” little Miss Demanding insists. Reaching out toward my hazelnut gelato cone, her chubby hands make a grabby motion so I do what seems natural. Despite the supreme leader’s wishes, I give her a taste.
“Small bites, Mais. Easy baby girl,” I tell her, keeping it far enough away that she doesn’t grab it with both hands.
“Bite!” she repeats.
“Small bites,” I warn again.
Taking a small mouthful, she blinks, her brain working out whether she approves or disapproves, then she smiles and giggles.
“You like that, huh? More?”
She makes an excited sound. “More,” I hear, which sounds like, “Mau.”
So I let her take a few more licks. What’s the harm, right? It’s not even a question. She’s capable of pitching a fit if I don’t and the echo in this place is impressive. I’m not about to risk it.
“First taste of ice cream?” comes from my right. A man’s voice.
Naturally, I steal a glance. The second our eyes meet, he smiles. Longish, shaggy dark blond hair in the way artists are allowed to wear it and it looks hip and cool, but not on anyone else. Hazel eyes. Around mid-thirties. He’s attractive. The two crescent-shaped divots on his cheeks even more so. But this ain’t it. I am not here to cruise single fathers. His son is sitting next to him.
“The ice cream. Is it the first time she’s tried it?”
Is he flirting with me, or is he a spy sent by Jordan? On the latter, I have legit grounds to worry about that. On the former, I’ve shut down that part of myself for so long I can’t tell anymore.
When he won’t break eye contact, I determine that h
e is, in fact, flirting with me. Next to him, his son, a smaller version of him, around five or six, is eating a sandwich and staring at his iPhone. He may as well be on another planet he’s so focused on what he’s watching.
“I think so. She’s not mine. I’m just the babysitter.”
“I’m Todd,” the stranger offers up. “My son Jake.”
Thankfully, Jake is oblivious to his father’s machinations. But now I’m getting an increasingly uncomfortable feeling. The last thing I need is for Jordan to catch me trying to hook up while on the job. I can only imagine how that would play out.
“Riley,” I reply with a tight smile because I can’t be rude. I just don’t have it in me.
“Nice to meet you uh…”––his gaze lowers and his brow furrows––“Hey, I think there’s something wrong with your girl.”
I look down and see two fire engine red spots on Maisie’s cheeks. It looks like someone branded her. There’s no mistaking what they are. The words are on the tip of my tongue but Todd beats me to it.
“I think she’s having an allergic reaction.”
“She’s going to be fine,” the Lennox Hill emergency room doctor tells me, kindness and understanding pouring out of her. I wipe my face of the tears still flowing and wrap my arms around myself. Coming off the adrenaline rush has left me weak, and shaky, and cold to the bone. It doesn’t help that the AC is on full blast and I had the fright chills so bad I sweated through my T-shirt.
Todd, the stranger, helped me rush Maisie to the emergency room and insisted on staying. He and his son are waiting in the visitor’s lounge until Maisie gets the all clear. He’s been so incredibly sweet and helpful he has single-handedly restored my faith in humanity.
I’ve never been more scared in my life. Now I know how Jordan feels all the time and a cavern of sympathy for him has cracked open in my chest a mile wide.
“Where is she?” I hear his raised voice coming from the check-in desk, the panic in it unmistakable. I texted him as soon as we got here. No reply received.
Frantic, he scans the emergency room and our eyes meet. I know then that this is going to be bad and my heartbeat races way ahead of my breath. He’s scared and furious, a dangerous combination, and I seem to be the target of all this unleashed emotion. If I was wondering what it would take for it to come loose, I have my answer, and now that I do I’m sorry I even asked.
And I’m not the only one who notices. As he marches over to us, the nurses and other health care workers loitering in the hall part to let him pass.
“How is she?”
“Mr. West?” the doctor, an Indian woman with dark brown skin and large almond shaped eyes, asks him.
He nods at her, sparing me no greeting. He won’t even look at me. I’m shaking, barely able to hold it together.
“You’re Maisie Noble’s legal guardian?”
“Yes.”
“Maisie has had a mild to moderate allergic reaction to peanuts––”
“Peanuts?” he cuts in. For the first time since he walked up, he blasts me with his attention and I shrink back. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.
“I-I gave her a few bites of my ice cream…I mean, hazelnut gelato, and um, we think it had peanuts in it.” My mouth being bone dry from anxiety, I do my best to explain. “I didn’t know…”
No amount of explanation is going to fix this. I can see it on his face.
“Mr. West, we administered epinephrine and she’s handling it well. The symptoms are all but gone now. I do, however, advise that you be vigilant about making sure she doesn’t consume anymore products with peanuts going forward. She may grow out of the allergy later––it happens sometimes with children––but we don’t know for certain.”
“Can I see her?”
“Yes, of course,” the doctor tells him. “Right this way.”
“Jordan…,” I quietly plead, but he won’t look at me. Without thought, I touch his arm and he rips his arm away from me. It’s an automatic gesture, and yet I should’ve known not to cross his boundaries.
“You idiot!” he shouts loud enough for everyone in the ER to hear. He pulls back, takes a deep breath and runs his fingers through his hair, his nostrils flaring. “You had one job to do and…” He shakes his head like he’s trying to get a hold of the rage.
As much as I try, I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop shaking. I don’t even remember falling apart like this at my father’s funeral.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t––”
“You’re fired,” he snarls. “We’re done. I’ll mail you your last check.”
I knew it. I knew it the second he walked into the ER.
“Let me say goodbye?” I can’t stand the thought of Maisie thinking I abandoned her like her mother and father have. She didn’t do anything to deserve feeling this way. It’s my fault. I take full responsibility, but the least he could do is let me say goodbye.
“Please Jordan. I’m begging you. Just let me say goodbye.”
“I don’t want you anywhere near her.” With that, he turns and walks away while I watch him go.
“Who was that douchebag?” Todd asks, suddenly standing next to me staring after Jordan.
“No one.” I wipe my face again. “Just the guy I used to work for.”
Chapter Eight
Riley
“For one?” The teenager behind the counter gives me a deadman stare. “You want to order a twelve slice pie with extra cheese to go for like…one person?”
This is my life. This is what it’s come to.
I stare back at the teenage girl taking my order at Johnny’s Pizzeria, the one down the street from my home which I risk losing to the bank if I don’t find a new stream of income quickly, with thinly veiled contempt. She’s wearing way too much mascara. If Veronica were here, she would already have the makeup remover wipes out and cleaning her face. Then she’d give her a makeover. I’d rather just slap it off her face. Because…mood.
“Did I stutter?” I ask, performing feats of wonder to remain calm.
“Uhhh…no.”
Portion shamed by a teenage food Nazi. This is the kind of week I’m having.
“Then yes, one set of plastic utensils, one Dr Pepper, and a large pie to go… and don’t say like. It’s unprofessional.”
As if I’m not already in a foul mood having been fired for doing my job––rather well, I might add––now I’m forced to justify my food choices to a person who still stinks of her mother’s milk.
After getting my way with the teenager, I drag my sorry self to Veronica’s place where I learn, at the tender age of twenty-six-years young, that there’s such a thing as an emergency date.
“The hell is an emergency date?” I ask, leaning back onto her bed while I watch her put the finishing touches to her hair.
“He’s hot, he’s a corporate attorney, and I haven’t gotten any in a month. If that’s not an emergency, I don’t know what is.”
She shakes out her long pin-straight brown hair, sweeps one side behind her ear, and checks herself in the bedroom mirror.
“Look at this,” she says, indicating to the image in the mirror. “These are my best years. I can’t let this go to waste.”
Boy, do I have a lot of lost time to make up for then.
I get off the bed and stand next to her, side by side in the mirror. In comparison, I look like Cousin It. My hair is a hot mess in a top knot, dark bags lurk under my eyes. I’m wearing my ancient red hoody so faded it’s now pink. I didn’t even take a shower today. I won’t discuss the state of my legs. Shaving has not been a priority. I’ll leave it there. Depression has gotten its hooks in me and it’s not shaking loose. I miss Maisie. I miss my job. I do not miss the bastard who fired me.
“So you’re not even a little tempted by my large pie with extra cheese? I mean…it’s hot and it’ll make you feel good inside.”
She gives me that Vega look. The one that says I’m hopeless. Maybe I am. Who knows anymore. Todd from th
e museum called me a few times and I haven’t answered or called him back. Dating isn’t a priority. Besides, my options are slim at best. Everyone I grew up with in Staten Island is either in jail, a cop, or a fireman. A big fat no to all three boxes.
“Some of us require human touch once in a while.”
I do too. I just can’t seem to find anyone I want to touch. The last person I touched was Jimmy and that was two years ago. It was nice but nothing I desperately miss.
“What are you going to do?” She’s worried about me and I can’t have that. It’s not her burden to always worry about me.
“I’ll figure something out tomorrow…something that doesn’t involve me selling my wares for money because we both know I wouldn’t get much with my lack of skillz.”
The problem is that I have no idea. I’m stuck. I had a plan, managed to execute it, and then the jerk went full psycho on me in public. To make matters worse, I miss Maisie. It’s only been five days, one hundred and twenty hours and counting since I last saw her, and I already miss her desperately. Does she think about me and wonder if I abandoned her? Because that would kill me.
“What happened to Brad?” I ask Vern on our way out.
“He spoke about himself in the third person,” she says while she locks her front door. “‘That’s a yes from Brad.’ ‘Brad needs to see Veronica again.’ Like eww. Extremely creepy.” She gets no argument from me. “You want me to cancel and we can hang? Sisters before misters.”
“Sisters before misters,” I echo and we fist bump.
I glance at the curb, where a black Mercedes S-Class idles, the corporate suit waiting patiently for her behind the wheel. “Nah, you go on. Have fun. Get naked and frolic. I can figure out how to slice my own wrists.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to report him to child services?”
She’s not joking. Not even a little bit. Veronica is the one you want in the foxhole with you when stuff goes sideways. She has zero scruples when it comes to defending herself and the ones she loves. Cross her at your own peril.