The Aftermath

by Matayo, Amy

  “Are you her dad?” I ask, the question a little sharper and more suspicious than I intended.

  His eyebrows push together as he takes me in, and then looks at the girl again. “No, I was just—”

  “Then, who are you? And what are you doing here?” Sure this is a restaurant, but I’m not interested in chitchat. There’s something disconcerting about seeing a strange man sitting with a small child alone in a closed restaurant, even a man as clean and put together as this guy. His dark hair is flecked with shades of auburn. He’s wearing black expensive-looking pants, a cream button-down rolled at the sleeves, shiny dress shoes, and looks a little like he stepped off a movie set. Where did he come from? Certainly not from around here. He’s too dressed up to be useful, and too casual to have been affected by the storm. He’s more than likely a curious tourist or a well-paid journalist looking for a winning story.

  Or maybe my instinct for harsh judgment is what’s wrong with the world—everyone’s suspicious, everyone looks for the bad in others—but the feeling is there nonetheless. He’s sitting on a stool next to the little girl, one that he picked up off the floor and propped there without my permission, mind you. But even worse? The little girl is laughing.

  Here I am holding a carton of ice cream and a cupcake large enough to give all the kids at the neighborhood playground a sugar rush, and he gets the laughs. My competitive streak shoves compassion out of the way in a battle for dominance. And still, he hasn’t answered me. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he’s stubborn. Maybe his concern begins and ends with the girl. Regardless, I try again and speak louder. I’m too tired and stressed to give much thought about manners or hospitality.

  “Um…again, who are you? My store is closed for repairs, so would you mind stepping away from her and walking out the door?”

  I nod to the little girl, tough to do with milk balanced under your chin, but the man doesn’t move. He just looks at me with a raised eyebrow and an amused expression.

  That smirk.

  It irritates me.

  He’s way too confident. Even my heart thinks so…

  If the way it’s hammering inside my chest is any indication.

  CHAPTER 6

  Chad

  The woman in front of me has a slight northern accent that’s blended with a soft southern twang, an odd combination considering the two things don’t go together at all. Even stranger, she has pink hair. Unnatural hair color is one of my greatest pet peeves. Call me behind the times or completely uncool, but I can’t stand it.

  I like blondes, have a weakness for brunettes, and don’t get me started on redheads. A redhead is made figuratively and quite literally of fire, inside and out. My first crush in school was a girl with red hair. Her name was Heather, and she was hot, as hot as one can be in second grade. But with her Spiderman socks and lopsided pigtails, she had all the boys begging for mere scraps of her attention. Crumbs, even. Once she offered me a cracker from her almost-empty pack of peanut butter ones, and I took it. Then I dropped it on the floor. But that didn’t stop me. I picked it up, wiped it off on the only clean patch I could find on my jeans, and popped it in my mouth. The five-second rule was invented for a reason, and that cracker gave me bragging rights among my friends for an entire week.

  Elementary school was over a long time ago.

  Now I’m staring at pink hair and wondering what in the world I’ve stumbled onto—a Cyndi Lauper fan fest circa 1984, apparently. The chick asking questions is wearing a white gauzy dress, red and white checked tights, has just past shoulder-length hair the color of pink melted cotton candy with a green clip at the front, and none of it works together. If her glare is any indication, her personality is equally erratic. Pink is generally a soft, girly color. In stark contrast, this woman has an obviously large chip on her shoulder, and right now it’s aimed at me.

  “I’d rather not leave, but thanks.” I pretend to ignore her and focus again on the little girl, giving her a wink that makes her smile again. I assumed this was the woman’s daughter, but clearly, I was mistaken. Now that I know the kid is alone, there’s no way I’m going anywhere until we have a talk. This room is destroyed, and broken glass is everywhere, not exactly the place you want to stumble upon a child sitting all alone.

  The woman clears her throat. “Well, I’d rather you not stay, so thanks to you as well.”

  If it’s a battle she wants, it’s a battle she’ll get. The kid is barefoot and dirty on nearly every inch of her body. Her hair is tangled on one side—the side that slipped free from a pigtail a while ago. The other side is still up, although from the looks of things, that elastic is permanently stuck. There’s dirt on her face, dried blood on her feet coming from a one-inch cut that already looks infected. Has this lady even tried to clean it up? Every suspicious cell in my body is vibrating like a high-tech toothbrush with new batteries. Rapid buzz. Teeth-chattering strength.

  This needs to be addressed.

  “The way I see it, someone needs to take care of her, and I’m doing you a favor. You left her out here all alone, this place is in shambles, and there’s broken glass everywhere. Have you seen her feet? Thought about getting a bandage or—I don’t know—a wet cloth to clean her up?” I take a deep breath and tell myself to calm the heck down. “My name’s Chad, and I’m not a threat to this kid. But a few things might be if she doesn’t get cleaned up soon. Namely, an infection in that foot.”

  The woman’s mouth falls open at the same time a small carton of milk slips from underneath her chin and falls to the floor. Next, a block of ice cream escapes from underneath her arm and opens upon landing, a large chunk of what looks like chocolate peanut butter breaking away and sliding a few inches across the floor.

  “Crap!”

  “You had time to make cupcakes?”

  She growls. “Yes, I pushed all the broken glass out of the way and whipped these up really quick. No, I made them two days ago. Hopefully, they still taste alright.”

  Testy, this one.

  She sets a plate containing a cupcake on the counter, then kicks the already melting ice cream under the bar, understandable since this entire room is a mosh pit of chaotic ruin, and what difference will it make? But chocolate peanut butter is my favorite kind. What a waste.

  The whole display is honestly entertaining, a case study in physical comedy. Might be even funnier if I wasn’t so mad. Not wanting the child to see my anger, I make bug eyes at the little girl and smile when she giggles. I’ve always had a soft spot for kids, but this one is cute, especially with that gap in her front teeth.

  Even if she is a tad neglected.

  “Is she always like this?” I whisper to the little girl. Another smile that twists my chest in the strangest way greets me.

  “For your information,” the woman says, plunking the ice cream carton on the counter in front of me, minus a lid. Next, she deposits the milk, a large container of orange juice, and a cupcake that smells so good it’s making me soft in the middle. My stomach growls on sight, and it occurs to me; I should probably start acting a little nicer. “I do have bandages. Also, I’ve never seen her before today.”

  She pulls bandages and a tube of some antibiotic something from her back pocket and plunks them on the counter.

  I stare at them for a moment, then look at the woman.

  “Who does she belong to?

  “I have no idea.” The woman gives me a cautious look, and my spine grows cold from top to bottom. For a moment, I’m right there on that porch once again. But only for a moment. What are the odds of that happening twice?

  About as common as being involved in more than one tornado, I suppose.

  I don’t allow myself to think it right now. The idea makes me sick, and there are more pressing things to consider now—case in point, that foot.

  “Mind if I take care of your foot? Clean it up a little?”

  She doesn’t respond, simply inserts a filthy thumb into her mouth and begins to suck while I fight the urge to g
rimace. She can’t be more than five years old, so I’m not sure what I expected. Permission? Gratitude? A full-blown dissertation on the whereabouts of her actual mother and father? A tale of how she happened upon this bakery, how her feet came to look so awful, why she hasn’t bathed, and a recent weather update? I cringe at that last thought. The weather outlook appears terrible for the whole city. If the sun comes out tomorrow, it will probably sear the town with the burn of flippancy. Life goes on, didn’t anyone tell you that?

  I wiggle my fingers, and she extends her leg. “Can I have a wet rag?” I ask the woman. She opens a drawer and runs a towel under the faucet, then hands it to me without an argument. It’s an improvement, however slight. I dab it first on the wound, wincing when the girl flinches. We’ll worry about her hands and face in a minute. This cut might be deeper than it first appeared.

  “Have you ever seen her before?” I ask the question softly while I work, doing everything I can to not scare the child. I’ve seen the news; I know this town is filled with the lost and broken, some of them children. It appears to be a common side effect.

  “I don’t think so,” the woman says, keeping her eyes on my progress. “Need more water?” I nod, and she re-wets the rag, handing it back to me. “She opened the door while I was attempting to clean up…” She waves a dismissive hand at the room. “Clearly, I didn’t make much progress, but she looked hungry. I picked her up, set her down here away from the broken glass, and told her to wait while I ran to the kitchen to get these.” She makes a sweeping gesture to the items on the counter. “And when I came back out, you were here making her laugh. Not fair, by the way. I offered cupcakes and didn’t even get a smile. Though I wish with everything in me I had more to offer than sugar.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Something tells me it’s more than she’s had today. Besides, I am known as the funny one among my friends.” Of course, this is a lie, but she doesn’t know that. The woman rolls her eyes, then gives a playful chuck at the little girl’s chin, but the child still doesn’t smile. This one thing makes the whole trip suddenly seem worth it—except for the state of the area and its people. If what I see right now in this room is any indication, it’s horrible.

  “The funny one, huh?” She sighs. “I give up. I suppose I am categorically unfunny.” She looks at me. “So, guy who walked in here unprompted and refuses to leave…what’s your name again?”

  I secure one butterfly bandage and reach for the other. “It’s Chad.” Her foot could probably use more attention. At least it’s relatively clean—the best I can do without soap and water.

  “Well, Chad. I’m assuming you’re not a doctor?”

  I shake my head and fasten the lid on the tube of ointment. “Not a doctor.” I don’t offer up my real profession. Under the circumstances, I’m not sure how she would react. “Okay, I’m done. Here you go.” I give the medication back to her and squeeze the little girl’s knee. “You’re all better.” Another smile behind that thumb makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery.

  I slide my gaze to the woman. “What’s your name? I’m assuming you’re not a doctor either.”

  “Lucky guess. I’m Riley Mae, owner of what used to be this lovely bakery.” She scans the room with what can only be described as sadness, but quickly pretends to shake it off. “Give me a second. I’m going to put this away.”

  Scooping up the medicine and bandage wrappers, she heads back through the double doors, one hitting her in the back before she has a chance to jump out of the way. I see her rub her backside before the door stops swinging, but my mind is stuck on her name.

  Riley Mae.

  It somehow matches the hair.

  An ant crawled across the counter ten minutes ago, and Riley Mae has turned that single insignificant incident into a monologue that could take up the first half of a Broadway show. Her storytelling is that thorough.

  “And so, then my grandmother told me never to step on a pile of what looked like red sand again. That way the fire ants couldn’t get me, although once I was lying in the grass looking at cloud pictures when one crawled into my shirt. That one hurt almost worse than the ones that bit my feet if you can imagine. Especially because it bit me right on the—well…you know. Just don’t do that, okay?”

  Suddenly I’ve forgotten about the story, and all I can think about is right on the—

  I attempt to focus on something else.

  “Wait, I’m having trouble keeping up. Do you mean, don’t step on a fire ant home, or don’t let them bite you right on the, ‘well…you know?’ Just trying to clear it up.”

  My attempt is futile. Worth it when her face reddens.

  Riley Mae gives me a look. “Step on one, obviously. The one in my shirt wasn’t my fault. It was October. Fire ants aren’t even supposed to be out then. Not my problem they can’t get their seasons straight.”

  “Except it was your problem when they bit you right on the—”

  “Okay, okay. You made your point. You never did tell me what you’re doing here.” She gives me a pointed look. “Or why it is you were just sitting here talking to her. Don’t you have something better to do than hang out with kids?”

  I frown at the odd, presumptuous comment as Riley Mae slides what looks like a princess cupcake across the bar. The child’s eyes light up. They should. The cake is nearly bigger than her head. She taps the child on the knee and points at me. “I think he’s a little jealous of your cupcake. You better hurry up and take a bite before he tries to swipe it.”

  At this, the little girl smiles and picks it up in two hands. Of all the things I’ve seen today, this is the cutest.

  “She’s right. There’s no way you can eat that all by yourself.”

  In response, she opens her mouth wide and takes the biggest bite she can. Even still, she barely makes a mark. I laugh and turn back to Riley Mae. “I came in because the light was on. Most of the downtown area is dark, and this place looked somewhat decent from the outside. I stayed because she was crying all alone on that stool, and my DNA doesn’t make me a man who can just walk away.”

  Her eyes go soft at the corners. Her surprised and hopeful expression catches me off guard. It’s the first thing that’s garnered a flicker of genuine admiration since she first spotted me here. She clears her throat.

  “She was crying?”

  I nod, remembering the tears that were nearly my undoing. Relieved that this time, my father couldn’t stop me from helping. “Yep. I didn’t like seeing her by herself, and I didn’t know what else to do. So, I sat down to wait. I heard noises in the back room. I figured it was just a matter of minutes before someone came out.”

  A tiny smile makes an appearance in the corner of her mouth, and something in my chest tightens. “Thank you for staying.” When I smile back, she looks quickly away, but not before I see a faint pink stain climbing up her neck.

  Something tells me Riley Mae’s approval is a very good thing.

  I quickly look away. “So…what’s her name? You never told me.”

  Riley Mae frowns and looks at the girl. “That’s because I don’t know it. She’s only spoken one word since she walked in.”

  Alarm bells reach a crescendo inside my ears. Stories like this are all over the news. Stories like this were once on my front porch.

  “She’s probably been through some trauma.” I hold her gaze, willing her to get my meaning without having to say it out loud. Shock is a tricky emotion, and its effects can unleash at any moment. The last thing we need now is a meltdown. Once it starts, it may never stop. Reality setting in could be a very bad thing. I’ve seen it happen with adults; I can only assume it might be a hundred times worse with a child.

  Riley has gone pale, but she doesn’t look surprised. A little weaker than she did only moments ago, but that’s to be expected. The mind protects itself at all costs, especially when worst-case scenarios surround it. Judging from her appearance alone, something tells me Riley Mae generally sees the bright side. Or may
be this is her way of making up for a past filled with darkened doorways. There’s nothing bright about this situation, not even if you disguise it with colorful clothes and hair.

  She straightens her shoulders, a flash of panic followed by an effort to smash it down. Pasting on a smile, she tries a different tactic.

  “You know, there is something I do here. These cupcakes are kind of what I’m known for. People come in, and I give them one to match their personality. I’ve been doing it for years, and I never get it wrong. So, that means you’re a princess because I say so.” In response, the child takes a big bite of a princess crown, leaving a ring of frosting lining both lips. Riley smiles, then begins casually scooping chocolate ice cream into a bowl while the little girl watches. But I see the way Riley Mae’s hand shakes. Nonchalance is a tricky thing to fake.

  “Would you like some ice cream to go with your cupcake? It’s chocolate peanut butter, the best ice cream flavor ever made.”

  Bribery. The offer of ice cream is loaded, but you do what you need to do to get people to talk. And Riley’s right, it is the best.

  A thumb pops out of the tiny rosebud mouth. “Chocolate.” What do you know, it’s working.

  “That’s what you told me earlier, sweetie. Can you tell me anything else? Like, maybe your name? Or how old you are?”

  Another scoop of ice cream. The girl’s eyes watch the pile grow, her interest caught. But then the thumb goes back in her mouth and she looks at the ground. Riley Mae’s eyebrows push together in discouragement, but it gives me an idea.

  “Tell you what.” I nudge the little girl’s knee with mine. “If I guess your name in three tries, I get all the ice cream this nice lady is scooping into that big bowl.” I look at Riley, winking when she raises an eyebrow. “And if I guess your age, I get all the ice cream in the whole carton. So, you better help me out here if you want some.”