“Chrissy.
“Chrissy, wake up.
“Chrissy, honey, ease up on my leg.”
I hear my name in the distance, tugging my consciousness back to solid ground. My eyelids feel heavy so it’s a slow process prying them open.
I begin to blink awake, taking in the scene before me.
I’m lying down.
On something hard.
Oh, God. A lap.
And I’m gripping a leg for dear life. More importantly, a muscular thigh.
Shit.
My eyes shoot open, but it takes a moment to focus, because there’s an object super close to my face. My eyesight finally kicks in, and I register a set of wide little eyes staring back at me.
Startling the piss right outta me.
“Holy shit.” The words slip out of my mouth and I fly upright, unfortunately making contact with a hard object.
“Jesus, Chrissy.” I hear Ian groan behind me.
Shit.
I look around, hair all wild and in my face. I turn to see Ian sitting on the couch next to me, holding his chin.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” I reach out to touch his wounded chin, and then quickly jerk back.
What am I doing? No touching.
“Shit, I . . . I . . .” Am apparently forgetting how to speak.
“Chrissy, stop saying shit.”
Ugh. That might be harder than the odd situation I’m currently in. If you haven’t noticed, that’s my favorite word. I don’t know what I would do if shit was never invented. You know that song in The Sound of Music; ‘My Favorite Things’? Well, the word shit being close to my top.
Internal freak-out in full progress.
“Chrissy, calm down.”
“I am calm.” I’m totally not calm. I focus on Ian, holding his chin. “Are you okay?” I ask him. “Did I hurt you?”
“You did just head butt me in the chin at ninety miles an hour.”
“I’m so sorry . . . I just . . . I just didn’t realize where I was.” I flush with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, um, on your lap.”
“It’s okay.” He smiles. “You were exhausted. I came back with coffee and you were all lights out. I sat down and you took a dive into my lap. I didn’t want to move you and wake you up.”
What are the chances I’m still asleep and this is all a dream? As in, not happening right now?
“I would have let you continue to sleep, but you were squeezing my leg for dear life.” He looks at me like he wants to say more. Oh, God. If he even mentions me moaning out loud, I am running.
“And plus, I think someone here is anxious to say hello.”
I’d momentarily forgotten the other person in the room. I immediately turn to the little girl standing in front of us, holding a blanket and small pillow.
With shiny blue eyes and wavy little red curls popping out in all directions, this little person stares me down, while chewing on the corner of her pillowcase.
She is beautiful. And her tiny little features shockingly resemble a little girl I once knew.
It’s like staring at myself when I was a child.
If nothing else, I’m consistent, so the first thing I say to this little stranger is, “How can I help you today?” Obviously training question number two. At least by the end of this visit Ian will realize I did him a favor by not sticking him with a dingbat like me.
“Are you a princess?” she asks, not even fazed by my random intro question.
“Well, um, I think I am.” I believe they call us divas now.
“Do you live in a castle?”
“I guess I do.” I decide high-rises are the perfect modern equivalent to castles.
“Why are you sleeping on Eeen’s lap?”
“Oh, umm . . .” Embarrassment creeps into my flushed cheeks. “Um, well. I was very tired last night and I think I fell asleep.”
“Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like the color pink?”
“Yes.”
“Are you allergic to peanuts?”
“I can’t eat too many or it makes my throat itchy,” I reply quickly, preparing for the next question that I’m sure is already on the tip of her tongue.
But it’s not a question. “You drool like me when you sleep.”
I throw my hands to my mouth, and sure enough I feel the crusted line down the side of my face.
“You make funny noises in your sleep, too.”
“Oh, my God,” I gasp. This is not happening. I’m horrified at my appearance and even more horrified about my obviously inappropriate dream.
Ian’s chuckle thankfully saves me from any more of the mini human interrogation. “Pippa, why don’t we give Chrissy a time-out for a little while.”
“Why? Has she been a bad girl?”
“No, honey, she hasn’t been a bad girl.”
“Is it because she was on your lap?”
That comment I choke on.
Ian laughs again. “No, Pip, she’s not in trouble.”
“Is she going to live with me now?”
“We’ll see, honey. How about we work on getting your belly filled before we ask Chrissy any more questions, okay?”
She turns her inquisitive big blue eyes back to me. “Do you like pampakes?”
“I do,” I answer truthfully.
“Me too!” she squeals. “You are just like me. Mommy always said you and I were awike.”
And with that comment shot like an arrow straight through my heart, she slips away into the kitchen.
“You okay?”
“Huh?” I snap out of the daze her words created. “I’m fine.” I run my fingers through my unruly hair—I know it’s a mess—and rub the crusted drool off my face.
“I know this all has to be hard for you,” Ian says, “but there are some papers you need to sign. I had a few things set in motion for the funeral. They need a family member’s signature.”
I’m the only family Amy has, but I wonder why John’s family didn’t step in. Sadly, for a moment there I forgot why I was here. Ian’s reminder brings me back to the reality at hand. But before he goes to get the papers, I have a question for him.
I grab his arm to stop him. “Ian, wait. I need to ask you something.”
He halts and looks at my hold on his arm.
“Sorry.” I jerk my hand away, my fingertips tingling. “Um, how did you end up staying in Ashford?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why did you stay in Ashford?” When we used to talk about our dreams, his never consisted of staying in shithole Ashford. His plans were to finish two years at the local college while I finished up high school, then we would attend whatever college offered him his academic scholarship.
He looks at me thoughtfully, his kind smile turning a bit sad before he answers. “I obviously stayed close with Amy after you left. Introduced her and John and they hit it off immediately. In no time he swept her off her feet and they were married. Nothing big. A small ceremony at the town hall,” he pauses as if he is remembering that day. “By the time your mom died, Amy was already pregnant with Pippa. At that time I had already passed on the scholarship. I had no connections anywhere but here, so I decided to stay.” He pauses, deep in thought. “And I guess I always thought that I wanted to be close. In case you ever came home.”
His statement throws me. He sees the shock on my face. He does nothing to ease my confusion.
Or my guilt.
“I’m gonna head home and shower. Then I’ll be back to take you and Pip to the funeral home.”
“Okay,” I mutter, thinking about his confession about me. He’s almost at the door when a different realization hits me. “Wait!” I jump up off the couch. “You’re not going to just leave me here alone with her, are you? What am I supposed to do with her?”
“Well . . . you go talk to her and help her make pampakes.” He opens the door and keeps walking.
<
br /> He did not just ditch me!
I’m tempted to run after and beg him to stay. But that might give him the wrong idea, and this doesn’t seem the right time to tell him I’m engaged. Shit. But I still need his help with Pippa. By the time I decide, he is already starting his truck. I slam the front door in frustration. The last twenty-four hours have been insanely draining. I haven’t felt this helpless in years.
I turn and stare across the room at the opening to the kitchen. I hear a dinging sound.
Just go talk to her.
Well, that sounds easy. Not!
About as easy as those at home self-waxing kits. No pain, they say. Just cool and pull, they say.
“Oh, suck it up, Christina, how hard can this be?” I can do this. She’s four. I am. . . .
I am totally freaked out by her. I have no experience with kids. I’ve never babysat. I’ve never even dog sat before. Anytime I think of how to take care of a kid, the warning of ‘don’t get them wet or feed them after midnight’ pops up.
I swallow a shaky giggle, but there’s nothing funny about the little person waiting for me in the kitchen. I can’t remember the last time I even ate pancakes. Living in California for all this time, I’ve learned to survive on caffeine and power drinks. You don’t stay a player in the top-tier of Sonoma social life by eating pancakes.
I hear yet another ding from the kitchen, and I force my legs to head in that direction. I hear singing too. I enter the open space and gasp, “Oh my.” I barely see Pippa over the tower of pancakes piling up in front of her. Another ding and two more pancakes pop out of the toaster.
“What are you doing?” I ask, bewildered.
“I’m making pampakes.”
“For the queen’s whole army?” I inquire.
I watch her face light up. “You brought a queen? Did you wide a horse? Can I feed him? Mommy bought Lucky Charms. They’re magically delicious. I like the gween cwovers. How many horses do you have? Do they like cwovers? Do they have names?”
I don’t know when to cut in and stop her. Her animated little self throws out question after question as she hops down from the counter and opens a door. She disappears into a pantry, appearing seconds later holding, sure enough, a box of Lucky Charms.
“See, we do have some!” she squeals. Then she proceeds to dump the magical deliciousness all over the floor.
“Oh, Lord, what are you doing now?” I blurt out.
“I’m looking for the cwovers.”Ah. Clovers. “Let’s make piles. How many horses do you have?”
This little human is totally starting to freak me out.
“Honey, I didn’t come with the queen and her army. That’s just a phrase.”
“What’s a phwase?”
“Oh. Um, it’s just a saying. Like, you made enough food to feed an army.”
“But where is your army?”
Hmph. I’m not doing this right.
“No, I just mean you have made a lot of food. Who is going to eat it all?”
Poor thing just looks at me, completely confused.
“I thought you said you like pampakes?” she asks, sadness now covering her face.
Man, way to ruin the mood here.
“I do like pancakes, sweetie, but I can’t eat all those.” I bend down so we are eye-to-eye. On instinct I raise my hand and tuck a piece of her frizzy hair behind her ear. “But I bet if we really put our minds to it, together we can try.”
I can tell I’ve saved the day by the smile blowing up all over her face. She squeals again and turns to run back to the counter, stepping right through the pile of cereal, scattering and crunching it all over the floor. “Pampakes! Let’s feed some to your horses.”
I’M THREE PANCAKES IN and I think if I take one more bite I’m going to vomit them right back onto my plate. Every time I take a bite, Pippa squeals with delight and then takes one herself. She doesn’t even look fazed by the amount of food she has consumed. I, on the other hand, feel the syrup creeping up my throat every time I open my mouth.
“I’m not sure how much more I can eat, Pippa,” I say in defeat.
“But you said we can finish it together,” she whines.
“I know but my stomach is full. I’m not sure I can eat anymore.”
“Okay,” she says simply, completely over it. If I knew it would be that easy, I would have waved my white flag after my third bite.
I’m totally at a loss on what to do with Pippa. Does she know her parents are dead? Was she told what happened? Is death something a four-year-old can understand? I’m cursing Ian for leaving me here with absolutely no instructions for this girl.
I decide to get her ready for the funeral home visit.
“Pippa?” I say. She’s stuffing already-cooked pancakes back into the frozen box.
“Yep?” She doesn’t even glance my way. Intent on her task, she drags her stool over to the refrigerator and places the box back in the freezer. How many times have those poor pancakes been cooked and refrozen?
I feel more nauseous than ever, but I’m not sure if it’s the food or what’s next.
“So, today,” I begin, “we have to dress up, okay?” I finish the last of that sentence to no one because Pippa cuts me off, screaming, “Dress up, yay!” and runs out of the kitchen.
“Well that was easy,” I mumble.
While I hear her making a ruckus in her room, I head back out to my car to grab my bags. When I make it back to Pippa’s room, I stare into complete devastation. “What in the world have you done to your room?” I ask in shock. There are clothes everywhere.
“Dress up, Kissy!”
I look at her half-dressed in what looks like a sparkly Cinderella play costume. With her little face reminding me of myself, I get this nostalgic tightness in my chest. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of course, lack of sleep and complete confusion about what the hell I am doing here settles it. Tears stream from my eyes. I choke back a sob.
“Uh oh. Am I in twouble?” I hear her little voice ask.
“Oh no, honey. I’m sorry. I just . . .” I sniffle. I have absolutely no idea what to say to her.
“Please don’t cry, Kissy. I have a dress for you, too.”
Her statement brings me back to solid ground and I summon a wobbly smile. How can someone so innocent have something so terrible happen to her? Today will be one of the saddest days of her life and she is completely oblivious.
“Thank you, Pippa. I would love it if you can help me get dressed up.”
That, no shocker, earns me a signature squeal.
Two hours later, over the two out-of-tune voices belting out the soundtrack to The Little Mermaid, I hear the front door open and close. I faintly hear my name being called, but I’m in no position to answer. And that’s because I am singing ‘Part of Your World’ like it’s my job. I mean, let’s be honest. You are never too old to sing about wanting more thingamabobs.
I hear the footsteps nearing Pippa’s bedroom and just as I get to my favorite part, a deep sound cuts my chorus short and I look at the doorway.
“Looks like you two have been busy,” Ian says, choking off a laugh that tickles my insides.
“Doesn’t she look like a pwincess, Eeeen?” Pippa asks as she finishes putting lipstick mostly around my lips.
“Why, yes she does, sweetie. You have done an amazing job on her princess makeup.” He looks at me with that twinkle in his eye. Of course I stick my tongue out at him.
As he surveys the mess, I survey him. He is handsomely dressed in a black suit and a tie is neatly tucked inside his jacket pocket. His thick brown hair is slicked back above his perfectly structured face. I met Ian when he was almost seventeen. He’s as swoon-worthy now as he was to my fifteen-year-old self. Even more so.
“Kissy said we had to dress up today, so I helped her.” Pippa smiles at Ian with her bright little eyes gleaming with happiness.
“Yes, baby, but we should get ready to go to the funeral home,” he says. I watch him, knowing what he has
to say next. “You know what we talked about yesterday, sweetie?” And Pippa nods. “Well, we need to say goodbye to your mommy and daddy. All their friends will be at the funeral home to help. So you need to dress in something very pretty.”
“But I don’t want to say bye to Mommy and Daddy. I don’t want to go to the funeral house. I want them to come home here,” she whines.
“I know, honey bear, but Mommy and Daddy are in heaven now. We have to show them that we love them very much, so we have to say goodbye.”
“Are they going to be waiting at the funeral house for me?”
My heart breaks at her question. How does one answer that? How does one make a four-year-old understand that her parents are never coming back? I see Ian struggle with what to say next. What can he say?
I kneel in front of Pippa the best I can without tearing the toddler dress I have my arms jammed into. I take her crown and straighten it on top of her little head. “Hey . . .” I speak, trying to smooth her crinkled face. “I know this is a little hard for you right now to understand, but we’re all going to do it together, okay?”
“You and Eeen too?” she asks me.
“Yes, honey. You, me and Ian.”
“Will you get to say bye to Mommy too?”
“Yes, baby, I will,” I choke out, trying to stay strong for this little girl.
She smiles at me in return. “Mommy is going to be vewy happy to talk to you, Kissy.” Her comment floors me. For someone so innocent she sure knows how to land a punch. “Mommy always said you were vewy busy and couldn’t talk. I can’t wait to see her and tell her you can talk now!”
“Oh, Pippa.” I’m unable to fight the sadness this time. I feel the tears starting to roll down my face again. Ian’s warm hand rests on my shoulder as he kneels next to me.
“Hey, honey, why don’t we pick out a pretty dress to wear,” he says.
“Okay. But can I keep on my crown? Mommy always lets me wear my crown.”
“Yes, baby. You can keep the crown.”
“I didn’t mean to make Kissy cry again,” she says to Ian, who looks over at me, concerned. I just shake my head.
“Okay, baby, why don’t you look for a dress? I’m going to help Chrissy get ready, too.”
My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3) Page 5