by Lindsey Hart
I like that Shade seems to like her. He doesn’t take to everyone, and definitely not so naturally. I like how she tries to do things even though she knows she’s going to be bad at them. She doesn’t seem to mind humiliating herself, and I guess she’s kind of funny. At least, I think so, but it’s hard to say because I haven’t spent enough time with her. She plays with Shade, and I know that because I walked in on them in the backyard yesterday. Shade was worn-out last night and fell asleep two hours earlier than normal, so Feeney must be doing something right. I also like that she’s naturally caring. She’s worried about me feeding my son junk food, which is sweet. I like how good she smells, and I like that she’s pretty.
But, I also dislike how she smells good and is pretty. I dislike the fact that I’ve noticed both of those things. I dislike that I thought about her at work today in odd moments that caught me off-guard, and I dislike having her in my head, but I don’t think I’m being dishonorable to Britt’s memory. I already know nothing can change those memories or even come close to touching them. They’re locked away inside me like a vault to a treasure. I dislike that by trying hard, Feeney nearly burned down the house again. I found one of my dress shirts with a huge burn mark in the shape of an iron. I don’t like that I have a list of likes at all.
When I get home from work, I’m thankful to see the house still standing because it means Feeney didn’t manage to light it on fire today. Small mercies. That’s what life’s about. Shade obviously heard the front door open because he comes running to give me a big hug. I scoop him clean off the floor, noting how heavy he’s getting. He is already four, and sometimes it literally feels like I blinked, and all those years went by since he was a baby. It still feels like we just walked in the front door with him for the first time. I know every parent says this, but some moments, I feel like it’s true. There are other moments when I feel like life is passing so slowly, and I’m a thousand years old. Mummified and still alive. Wouldn’t that make an awesomely gruesome horror movie?
“Dad?” Shade looks up at me the second I put him down. He looks like he’s about to burst.
“Yes?”
“Do you know why flies stink so bad?”
What a strange question. I have an inkling, but I feign ignorance. “I really don’t know.”
“It’s because they have a radical butt hole.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s because they eat poop!” Feeney rounds the bend. She’s flushed, and her cheeks are scarlet—partly from exertion, partly due to embarrassment. She sweeps her hair back from her forehead with the back of her arm, and I notice it’s slightly damp. I can only imagine what she was just doing.
I can imagine a few other things too. Feeney with damp skin, damp hair…damp…
Don’t go there. Ever. Another thing to add to the dislikes list. The random thoughts I have that don’t belong in my head and which, for the life of me, I can’t control. They’re all related to her.
“It’s not because they eat poop!” Shade turns to me for confirmation. “Do they eat poop?”
“They certainly do!” Feeney argues. “But that’s good. Because they help break down waste. They also eat garbage and dead…uh…never mind.”
“Ewwww!” Shade squeals.
“Nature lesson for today…” Feeney shrugs. “I’m making something for dinner. Don’t come into the kitchen. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Am I going to be poisoned by it?” I sniff the air, but I smell nothing—no scent of food, and no choking smoke either.
“No!” Feeney scoffs. “And I’m not cooking it, so don’t even make a smart joke about me burning it.”
“Do you burn everything or just food and shirts?”
Her cheeks flush an even brighter red while her eyes are the craziest shade of green I’ve ever seen. I didn’t know eyes like hers existed. Maybe they’re color contacts. They’re that vibrant. They light up and glow when she’s annoyed, like now, and I decide that no, they can’t be contacts because I don’t think they change color like that.
“I’m making a salad. Surprise ruined,” she says acerbically. “And I’m sorry about the shirt. Take it out of my pay.”
“That shirt cost two thousand dollars.”
“No, it didn’t!” But her jaw drops.
“You’re right. Lucky for you.”
I actually enjoy the way her full, rosy lips part. Her whole face now matches the shade of her cheeks, and her hand hovers near her throat. I fixate on her lips for just a second. They’re soft, full, and slightly parted, and I can see the tiniest flash of her pink tongue.
I add that to the list of dislikes. Nope. Those lips of hers are not kissable or desirable. This can work without me developing a strange and annoying attraction.
I walk past her and join Shade. He already took out our favorite board game and is setting it up. Actually, it’s his favorite, but that’s okay. Anything he loves, I can get on board with, as long as it’s not bad or harmful. If he told me he wanted to juggle knives or light something on fire, that would be a hard no. But boardgames? Boardgames have this dad’s approval.
Feeney scuttles off to the kitchen, and I throw myself into the game so I don’t think about her anymore.
Except I do.
Of course I do.
When she calls us half an hour later, Shade goes running. I follow at a much slower pace because I don’t want to appear eager. Never mind. Not appear. I’m not eager. I follow slower because this is how I walk.
The table is laid out with a bowl of tossed salad, hard-boiled eggs, a loaf of bread, pickles, all the condiments, and cut oranges.
An actual healthy meal.
“Mmmm! Eggs!”
“Mmmm, hands,” Feeney reminds him gently.
“Oh. Right.” He runs around the island, pulls out his stool from inside the cupboard, and sets it in front of the sink. He goes to work, lathering up his hands and washing them off before drying them neatly with the towel hanging from the oven door.
I have to admit, I’m impressed. I’m big on hygiene, but I never really remember to remind Shade about handwashing before dinner. I barely remember to get him to brush his teeth before bed and in the morning.
Once we’re all seated—Shade and Feeney beside each other and across from me, I sample the salad. Not bad. Feeney makes Shade a plate. She only puts a few pieces of lettuce and cucumber on it. It’s astounding that she’s already learned he hates tomatoes and celery. She makes him a sandwich exactly the way I would with a sliced up egg, a tiny bit of salt (I would have gone heavier on it because I’m apparently not a good, healthy dad), and a small amount of mayo. She folds the single piece of bread over and puts it on Shade’s plate.
She digs in after. She’s not afraid to make her own sandwich with all sorts of strange things. She puts the egg on, then adds salt and pepper, pickles, green onion, mayo, and hot sauce. Ugh. What an abomination of a sandwich. I struggle to add food preferences as a strike against her on the list.
I struggle even more when I make my sandwich and taste it. I don’t know what she did to those eggs or how and where she got those pickles or the vegetables, but they’re delicious. Everything tastes like actual food.
“The farmer’s market,” she explains, even though I didn’t voice any of my thoughts. “It’s all grown locally, so it’s organic and fresh.”
“Oh.” I cram more sandwich into my mouth. “Yeah. It’s good.” I don’t ask how much it all costs because it doesn’t matter. She’d probably just lecture me about supporting local and eating fresh and organic anyway.
My body will thank me, especially since I hate cooking. I really shouldn’t bug her about her lack of skills when mine is only slightly better, but I haven’t burned pasta, just saying. I’m exhausted after work, though, so it’s usually easier to order something. I do work out every single morning to deal with the stress of what I do for a living, so thankfully, it hasn’t caught up to me yet. I also try and order healthy stuff at least
three nights out of five, and on the weekends, I make an effort to scrape together something that isn’t fried or covered in cheese, so I figured I was doing okay.
Somehow, after Britt died, I managed to stay on the right side of the dirt. I know a lot of people who don’t because they can’t. Their bodies might be here, but obviously, the parts that matter go long before they ever physically do. I’ve been here for Shade, trying to keep everything together. I’ve thrown myself into work, and it’s paid off. Ironically enough, it was Britt’s death that opened my mind. I guess it was because I was working so hard, purposefully focusing on it so I wouldn’t have to think about her not being here or feel the pain. But of course I noticed. Of course I felt it. My work kept me sane, my work kept me alive, and it all paid off. All that focus. All that energy. All that sudden creativity.
I’d trade everything in my life to have Britt back for a day. Not Shade, obviously, but everything else. The house, the money, the company, all of it. Just for one day.
I always told her I loved her, even before she got sick. I always made sure she knew she was my entire world—both her and Shade when he came along. I have no regrets about that. She was scared when she died—scared to leave me, scared to leave Shade. She wanted to live so badly because she had us to live for. One day wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. All the time in the world couldn’t be enough. That’s annoyingly cliché, and it makes me think of all the other things. About the gaping hole in my heart, about how I struggle to find meaning in my life even though I now have just about everything, about how I know I’ll never find anyone like Britt, and I’ll never want to because I’ve walked around with the pain of losing her for over two years now. Everyone talks about that. Or maybe they don’t, but people know. I know it sounds stupid to those who have never lost anyone they cherish, and also for me to say I wish it was me and not her, but those are things everyone says. Everyone knows.
I just feel like they don’t really know. They can’t have any idea.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?” My fork goes careening across the plate of salad, making a horribly sharp noise.
I look at Shade, but I can see Feeney looking at me. She’s staring at me in the kind of way that would make anyone squirm because it’s very direct and knowing. Like she can see straight into my heart, mind, soul—all the places I’d like to keep locked up—my own secret vault.
I’m for sure adding that to the negative side of the list—her knowing look.
“Do flies really eat poop?”
Feeney snorts and covers her mouth. She doesn’t tell Shade we’re eating and to not talk about poop while we’re eating. She also doesn’t act like poop is the world’s worst dinner table topic. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all, which makes me like her more. I don’t have a block of ice in my heart, and I’m done with clichés. I most certainly have a heart, and it’s warm and gooey, just like everyone else’s. It’s alive, human, and filled to the brim with emotion. I’m not against liking her because liking her is a bonus. Liking her helps. It’s everything else that I can’t stand.
“Yes,” I stab a huge piece of tomato onto my fork. I don’t like them either, but these ones are surprisingly delicious. “They really do.”
CHAPTER 8
Feeney
I know it’s probably totally taboo, and I shouldn’t stick my nose in it, but I can’t help it. It’s eight days until Christmas, and the house is totally barren. Not a single decoration in sight. Not even a mention. Maybe Luke finds Christmas triggering. Maybe he doesn’t like it because it reminds him of loss. Maybe this, maybe that. He still has a four-year-old son that I know he would do anything for, so I decided to take a chance and ask Shade how he feels.
We’re eating breakfast—pancakes I managed not to burn, with the added bonus of a whole bunch of cut-up fruit on top—when I just go for it.
“Do you like Christmas, Shade?”
“Yup!” He nods with a mouthful of pancake. His cheeks are bulging like a hamster even though I cut the pancakes into small pieces. It’s not my fault that he shoves five pieces in at one time.
“Do you ever put up a tree or decorate the house?”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
“No. But we do go to grandpa’s, and he has a tree.”
“Your grandpa?” Right. Of course he has a grandpa.
“Yeah. And the other grandma and grandpa. They don’t like to have me over, though, because it makes them sad. I know they miss my mom, and they always say I look like her.”
“No! That’s not true. That’s not why they don’t like to have you over.”
“It is. Dad told me.”
“Jesus.”
“Dad says not to say that. Or god. It’s bad.”
“Sorry. I mean, pickles with dipping sauce. Is that better?”
“It’s funny.”
“Good.” I’m quiet for a while. I eat half of my pancake before I try again. “Are you…do you ever go over to their house? Are they mean to you?”
“They’re not mean. They’re just sad. That’s what Dad says. I mostly don’t remember my mom. I can remember a few things like her reading to me, giving me a bath, and taking me for a walk. I also remember her in the hospital before she went to heaven. She told me not to be sad and said I’d have a good life, and that one day, she’d see me again.”
Jesus for real. I have to set my fork down because there’s no way I can eat past the lump in my throat. “Do you remember her saying all of that?”
“Not really. Dad told me, though. He tells me that lots. That she’s in heaven.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Not really. I asked Dad where it is, and he says he doesn’t know. He says there are other levels of things you can’t see. It’s kind of like that. Like how you can’t see really, really far into space, but it’s out there.”
One day, when I have kids, I hope they’re this smart. Actually, no. No, I don’t. I don’t because it makes me scared and sad and surprised all at once. It makes my heart swell up with love and sorrow, and I barely even know this kid. He’s too smart to be four, but maybe he just has a really good memory, and he just recites back what he’s heard. I can’t say which one I actually hope is true. There are things no child should have to understand fully, and Shade’s already gone through that, and he’s not even five. It’s heartbreaking.
“That’s true. I don’t think anyone knows what happens after we die, but there are lots of people who try to explain it by using energy. How a person’s energy or soul or spirit goes somewhere else that we can’t see.”
“Does everything go somewhere else when it does?”
“I really don’t know, but if everything is energy, then I guess it does. Or become something else. I’m not a science expert, and I’m not religious either, so I really don’t know.”
“You said no one knows anyway.” Shade shrugs. “It sucks not having a mom. I can’t really remember what it was like, but I think she’d be more patient than some of the nannies I’ve had. She’d actually like me.”
“Some of those nannies were bad. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. You’re actually really amazing.” I reach over and ruffle his soft hair.
He looks up at me for a second, but that second is filled with emotion, then he starts eating his pancakes again.
“Would you like to put up a tree?”
“Yeah! I’d like that!”
“Do you guys have one?”
“I think so, but I can’t remember.”
“We could make some ornaments if we go out and buy crafting supplies. Have you ever made a paper chain?”
“No! What’s that?”
“Oh, just wait.”
Shade perks up. I can tell I have his interest now. He clearly likes crafts. I store that info at the back of my head because crafts can be endless. They’re a great way to kill time when there’s nothing else to do. I was always pretty artsy. I liked readi
ng and writing, but I also loved making things. I can’t say I’m overly good at one thing, but I am alright at many different things.
“Can we? Can we go buy stuff to make things?”
“For sure. We’ll spend the afternoon doing some different crafts. When your dad gets home, I’ll ask him about the tree. He’ll know if there’s one. If there isn’t, then we’ll get one. I promise.”
“Yay! That’s awesome!”
Shade eats the rest of his pancakes, but then his face gets pensive again. I can’t imagine what’s going on in his head. I feel pretty sorry for him, but I don’t really know what to do or say. I don’t have a degree in child psychology or grief counseling. All I can do is be here, which is maybe just what he needs. Or maybe I’m messing him up more, though I freaking seriously hope not.
“I think we should make my grandpa a gift. Dad doesn’t like him even though he’s his own dad.”
“Why not?”
“He calls him a hermit and a grouch. He’s not grouchy with me, but he and dad fight with each other a lot. They’re always arguing. I mean not yelling, but just always saying things the other person doesn’t like. I don’t know why they do that, especially since Dad says it’s not good to say mean things about other people or to them.”
I sigh. “Sometimes, grownups aren’t very good at following their own rules.”
“Do you have a mom and a dad?”
I freeze. The muscles at the back of my neck tense up violently. “I do. They’re…uh… sometimes they’re hard to get along with too. They like to try and decide everything for me when I have things I want to do instead. I still love them, but sometimes, we just need our own space.”
“They’re not nice?”
“They can be super nice. They also have good intentions, I’m sure, but it doesn’t always mean I’m going to like or do what they want for me. It makes everyone sad, but eventually, I’m sure we’ll work it out. I still like them very much, and they are good people. I know that.”
“Maybe we can make something for everyone that I know. And for your mom and dad too. And your friends. Do you have friends?”