by Minka Kent
The darkness naturally hides the things we don’t want to see.
A cursory glance at the kitchen clock tells me Greta will be here any minute, and I haven’t even had a chance to set the table or arrange the flowers. I tie my hair back, twisting it into a messy low bun, and retrieve a bouquet of red peonies from a brown paper bag on the counter.
“Nana’s here!” Rose squeals from down the hall.
I place myself firmly in the last remaining seconds before Greta takes over my house, relishing in them as best I can.
Cocoa, our chocolate labradoodle, blazes through the kitchen and barrels down the hall, tail wagging fiercely. If I don’t try and stop her, she’ll knock Greta to the floor, and then I’ll never hear the end of it. I abandon the flowers and chase after the dog, intervening at precisely the right moment.
Greta doles out grandmotherly hugs to the children, and she’s nothing but smiles until Grace tries to tug at the giant pearl necklace that circles her wrinkled neck. She swats Grace’s hand, giving her a stern look, and Grace backs up to the wall, arms crossed.
“Daphne.” Greta gives me a once over, her mouth a reserved smile but her gaze clearly displeased with my frazzled appearance. For as long as I’ve known Greta, she’s always deemed dressing down as a sign of disrespect. If she had her way, I’d be greeting her in nothing less than Pucci or Dior.
Rosie and Sebastian each take one of Greta’s hands, pulling her toward the kitchen, and I move quickly to close the front door before releasing Cocoa’s collar.
“Now where’s that devilishly handsome son of mine?” Greta releases the children’s hands, wandering away toward the family room in search of Graham. I’m quite positive she’d be perfectly fine not seeing the children at all. The grandmother thing is all a ruse. A familial publicity stunt.
The younger two children follow her, disappearing around the corner, and I head toward the kitchen to grab the plates and napkin rings from the butler’s pantry before she comes back.
“Flowers,” I say under my breath. I was in the middle of arranging the flowers just a second ago . . .
With an exasperated sigh, I leave the pantry with a stack of plates and place them on the island, which is now completely clear and void of any trace of red peonies.
Resisting the urge to yell out Grace’s name, I quickly scamper from room to room until I come across a pile of pulled petals that bloom into a trail that leads behind the dining room table. I spot her dirty foot sticking out from beneath a chair.
“What are you doing?” I speak in a yelled whisper, my eyes hot with angry tears. “You destroyed those flowers, Grace. Why?”
Her leg tucks in, but she doesn’t mutter a word.
“Grace,” I say, jaw tight.
No response.
Falling to my knees, I meet her gaze under the table. A single red peony flower rests in her hands, and she lifts it to her nose.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” I say. “Why did you destroy those flowers?”
Her dark eyes settle on mine, unblinking. “Because they were for Nana Greta, and I don’t like Nana Greta because she doesn’t like me.”
“Of course she likes you, don’t be silly.” I’m lying. I’m lying through my teeth. I’ve seen the way Greta looks at Grace, and there’s no love in her eyes, only forced smiles and careful distances.
“No. She doesn’t.” Grace sighs, her shoulders hunched. “You don’t have to lie to me, Mama.”
For a moment, I don’t see my troubled child. And I don’t think about all the things she does that drive me up a wall or how she’s ruined far too many beautiful family moments to count.
She’s hurting.
And right now, she needs her mother . . . the only one she has.
The only one she’ll ever have.
“Come.” I open my arms, staying put and waiting for her to move toward me. That’s how it’s always been with Grace. Everything has to be her idea.
Hesitating for a few seconds, she eventually decides to crawl out from under the table, curling up in my lap. She may be ten, but she still fits. Her arms wrap around my waist and she presses her cheek against my shoulder.
It’s been a long time since I’ve held her. In fact, I can’t recall the last time. Years ago, perhaps.
Together we breathe, sitting in silence.
“Daphne?” Graham’s voice calls from the next room.
I look down at Grace. “We have to get up now. Want to help me set the table?”
She shakes her head, squeezing me tighter. She doesn’t want to move, as if she feels safe and protected in this dark space beneath the table; in my arms.
“Come on, don’t do this,” I say, gently pushing her off my lap.
Grace whines the way Sebastian does when he’s not getting his way, but I ignore it, rising up until she slides off my lap and lands in a flaccid, protesting puddle on the floor.
“I’d love your help, Grace. It would mean the world to me.” I inject lightness into my tone, clasping my hands together and feigning excitement when really I’m worried she’s going to intentionally smash a few pieces of china when I’m not looking.
She groans, rising up, dragging her feet as she follows me to the kitchen, her arms limp and shoulders slumped forward.
“Mommy, can I tell you something?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“And promise you won’t be mad at me?” Her dark eyes are wide, scared almost, but I’m the one who’s afraid here. I’m afraid of what she’s about to confess.
I exhale. “Okay.”
“You know when you were looking for your keys the other morning, before school?”
I nod. Lips tight. The girls were on their way to the bus stop and I was running late for Sebastian’s preschool drop off. Graham had to run home to give me the spare from his key ring, and he underhandedly lectured me on not being so forgetful.
“I hid them in the flower pot.” Her chin tucks against her chest, but her eyes hold on mine.
“Why did you do that, Grace?” I inhale deeply, trying to contain my frustration. I want her to feel like she can tell me everything, and this could be a make-or-break moment for us. “Do you want to tell Mommy why you’d do that? You made your brother late for school, and that wasn’t very nice.”
She bites her lip, glancing at the ground and back. “I wanted to take your car for a drive the night before.”
My jaw hangs. She’s ten years old.
“I thought it would be fun. And I took your keys from your purse, but then Daddy came home from work, and I didn’t want to get in trouble, so I hid them in the flower pot.”
“Why didn’t you tell me where they were? You saw me looking for them.”
“I didn’t want you to yell at me.”
“Grace, I’ve never yelled at you.” I don’t yell. It was never my mother’s style and it’ll never be mine. My fists are clenched at my sides, my jaw tight too, but I try to maintain a calm and loving gaze as best I can.
“I took money from your wallet too,” she says quickly.
“How much?” I suppose the amount is irrelevant.
“I don’t know. It’s upstairs in my nightstand. You can have it back.”
Damn right I’ll be taking it back.
Lowering myself to her level, I brush her dark hair from her round face and tilt my head. “Is something going on that you need to talk to me about? You’ve been stealing lately, and getting into trouble, and not listening.”
Grace shrugs, and I remember reading in a parenting book once that children, at this age, are incapable of knowing why they do the things they do. They react to things in their own ways, and acting out can be a cry for help or it can be a basic cry for attention.
I need to spend more time with her.
“Let’s go eat, okay?” I slip my hand in hers. “We’ll talk later. Just the two of us.”
“Promise?”
I nod.
Greta is seated at the head of the table in
the next room, sipping a glass of pinot noir Graham must have poured for her. We have a small reserve in the wine cellar, bottles hand-picked and kept in stock for Greta’s visits.
“Dinner smells wonderful, Daphne,” Greta says. “When are we eating?”
I look to Graham, then back to his mother. “The kids don’t go to bed for another forty minutes or so. Didn’t you want to spend a little more time with them? They only see you once a month.”
Greta’s lips purse, her pink lipstick bleeding into tiny wrinkles. Graham shoots me a look, silently sharing his frustration at me for putting Greta in her place.
“The kids really look forward to it,” I say with a smile. My phone buzzes in my bag, but I ignore it. An unknown number has called me three times since this afternoon, but I refuse to answer a blocked call. “They miss you, is all I was trying to say.”
“My, my.” Greta twirls her necklace around two manicured fingers. “I suppose I was getting ahead of myself, wasn’t I? That’s what I get for showing up hungry and expecting to eat.”
She rises, ruffling Sebastian’s hair and taking his hand. Greta leads him to the family room, and Rose follows, Grace several reluctant steps behind.
“Need any help?” Graham stands at the marble island, a glass of pinot in hand, picking off a stray piece of lint from his charcoal-colored cashmere sweater.
Cocoa scratches at the back door. I stand frozen, waiting for him to take the initiative to let her outside for once. He does. To my surprise.
“Can you set the table while I run upstairs and fix my hair?” I ask.
He scrunches his nose. “Your hair looks fine.”
I drag my palm across one side. “Grace ran her sticky fingers through it a little bit ago.”
“So now you have to wash it again?” He seems annoyed by his assumption.
“No,” I say. “I just want to get the chocolate out.”
“Are you going to be up there all night?” He exhales, sipping his wine. “I know how you get. You say you’ll be down in five minutes and you’re up there for an hour.”
My arms fold across my chest. “I don’t understand the attitude tonight. Did something happen today?”
He stares over my shoulder, out our back door into our pristinely landscaped backyard oasis. Graham is standing before me, yet he’s somewhere else. Maybe he wishes he were with her tonight.
My chest tightens when I think about him missing her. Preferring her.
After an endless minute of silence, his gaze flicks to mine. “It’s just been a long day with the kids. I could use your help down here.”
Welcome to my world.
“But your mother is here,” I say, brows lifted.
He cocks his head to the side. He and I both know Greta doesn’t lift a finger when it comes to the kids, but he’d never come out and admit that.
“Five minutes. I promise.” Before Graham has a chance to protest, I run upstairs.
Peeling off my jeans, I slip into a pair of black leggings and pull a cream-colored tunic over my head. Grabbing my phone from my jeans pocket, I hurry toward the bathroom, determined to fix my hair at warp-speed just to prove a point.
Brandishing a round brush, an ionic hair dryer, and a can of super hold hairspray, I’m hard at work when my screen lights up with a text. It isn’t a number I have stored in my phone, but it’s one I instantly recognize.
I NEED TO SEE YOU AGAIN.
Swiping my phone off the counter, I clear the message and turn my phone off.
Seven
Daphne
I park three blocks away Tuesday morning, behind an old brick building that used to house a tattoo parlor. It’s empty now, and no one ever uses the alley except on Sunday nights when the corner deli gets its weekly bread delivery.
I send a text and check my reflection in the visor mirror.
Hiding my phone and purse in the glove compartment, I grab my keys and climb out, double checking that all my doors are locked before tucking my hair under a baseball cap and slipping on a pair of oversized sunglasses.
A minute later, I’m stepping lightly with one destination in mind. My heart beats, my throat constricting with every step that leads me closer to the leaning yellow house at the corner of Johnathan Street and North Fourteenth.
My eyes scan the streets, my body freezing every time a car passes and relaxing every time I realize it’s one I’ve never seen before. Up ahead, the screen door on the side of his house gets caught with the wind and slams against the vinyl siding. I walk faster, almost entering a full trot, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see him peeking through the crack in the door.
Last time I came, I waited outside for three full minutes while he finished up some business inside. They were the longest three minutes of my life.
The door pulls just wide enough for me to slide in the second I approach, and the darkness behind it lures me in.
“Nice disguise.” He snickers, drawing on the end of a lit joint and handing it to me. His eyes drink me in as I remove my sunglasses. I secretly like it. “You got here just in time.”
I wet my lips and take it, puffing greedily twice before handing it back. I glance down at my casual ensemble fit for a day of errand-running, my throat burning as I hold the smoke and then exhale.
Slicking a palm down my running tank top, I ask, “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
His mouth draws into a slow grin. “Nobody dresses like that in this part of town. What are those, ninety-dollar yoga pants? And someone’s going to yank those hot pink sneakers right off your feet if you’re not careful. They look brand new. And expensive as fuck. You can’t dress like that around here.”
“I don’t have anything else.” At least nothing fit for a quick sneak into the bad part of town.
“Make the hubby take you shopping.” He laughs, taking two puffs and passing it back, and then he motions for me to follow him into his living room. It’s dingy as per usual, Grateful Dead blankets hanging like curtains from the picture window and tin foil covering the three small triangle windows in his front door.
In here, I’m a world away.
I may not be soaking my feet in the crystal blue waters of Aruba, but a mental vacation is better than no vacation at all.
I take another hit before sinking down into an arm chair. This high should last a good ninety minutes, and as soon as it wears off, I’ll have to head home. But I don’t want to think about that.
I want to be here.
Escaping my existence.
I’m not Daphne McMullen in this house. There are no carpools, no appointments, no nail salons, bake sales, bath times, or infinite hampers of laundry. No permission slips. No gourmet dinners on the table by six. No screaming kids. No fires to put out. No dressing up just to go to bed. No cheating husband to preoccupy my thoughts.
“You get my text last weekend?” he asks, settling into his saggy leather sofa. He kicks his feet up on his coffee table, shoes and all. There’s a black light shining from a lamp behind him, and it makes the laces of his sneakers glow bright.
“I did.”
“You ignored me.” He says it with a pained smirk. “That’s cold.”
“I was with family. You’re not supposed to text me on the weekends, remember?” I lean forward, handing the joint back and waving to signal that I didn’t want anymore. Too much and the high will last too long. I don’t want to be stuck here longer than I have to be, and I need to get home in time to throw my clothes in the wash, shower, and get this sweet, skunky smell out of my hair.
“I was missing you was all.” He shrugs, and when I look at him, all I see is the cherry red end of the joint in the dark. It nearly extinguishes before glowing brighter as he sucks on the end. “Your song came on.”
“Which one is that?”
“You know the one.” He chuckles a relaxed, stoner chuckle and begins to hum. Within a few bars, I recognize the tune as Billy Joel’s Uptown Girl.
“That’s not my song.” I sink back in
to the chair, blanketed in something extraordinarily other-worldly. My heart beats hard in my chest, but my body is melted, merging with the shape of the chair beneath me. My eyes close softly, and a smile claims my lips. “Everyone needs to do this. This is what the world needs. The world needs more of this.”
He laughs. “Relax, Mama. I got you.”
Within seconds, the mellowness of Pink Floyd pumps from speakers in the corners, filling the tiny confines of his living room, drowning out all my thoughts. I focus on every element of the music right down to the bass notes as they build and reverberate through my chest and rush through the end of my fingers and toes. I experience them. Really experience them. I’m one with them. One with this moment.
Higher than a kite.
Higher than a bird.
Higher than the clouds we used to fly through when Graham used to sweep me off to a weekend in wine country when it was just us two.
In the span of a four-minute song, I’m swept away. When it ends, my eyes part, two weary slits, and he comes into focus.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” I attempt to sit up straight, body hardly cooperating.
“I dunno.” He’s lying on his stomach across the couch, hands tucked under his chin like a child and eyes glassy. “There’s something kind of sad and beautiful about you. Trying to figure it out.”
“Don’t waste your time.” I adjust my position, eyes focusing on him. His smile is boyish, but his body is all man. The way he looks at me, his attention deposited like a lump sum in my direction, reminds me of Graham in our younger days.
“You want to take some of this home with you when you leave?” he asks. “On the house.”
“What kind of question is that?” I snap at him, and I instantly feel horrible for it. But what was he thinking? I’m not leaving here with drugs in my possession. All I can picture is red lights in my rearview, my teary-eyed mug shot, my children being ripped from me, Graham leaving . . .