by Tobias Wade
Sometimes, though, you just have to smash a psychopath in the face with a door half a dozen times.
Sometimes, you have to be the tiger.
Daddy’s Little Princess
I had been wholly unprepared to be a single father. Carla had been the super-parent, ensuring all of our little Fiona’s needs were met, that she was happy and healthy. I felt like a bumbling oaf beside her natural effortlessness, and it made me love her all the more.
When she passed away after a short, aggressive battle with cancer, I was lost. It was easy to pretend at first, when I was surrounded by the support of friends and family, but they slowly trickled back out and returned to their own lives. Then it was just me and my baby girl.
She was a strong, willful child, and I saw her mother every time I looked at her. She had the same smile, the same deep blue eyes and strawberry blonde curls. I loved her and I pitied her, left alone with an ill equipped father and no mother to make up for him.
I was reminded of all my short comings every time she cried, and nothing I did seemed to comfort her. Some nights I’d just sit outside her bedroom door, tears streaming down my cheeks, begging Carla to come back and tell me what to do. I knew that, without her mom, there would always be a void in my child’s life. Not knowing how to fill it terrified me.
So I did what I did best and returned to work at my law firm. I couldn’t give Fiona her mommy, but I could make sure she had everything else she could ever want. The next few years were spent growing: absorbing smaller offices, taking on new partners and clients, until we were one of the largest firms in the city. All the while I made sure Fiona knew it was all for her.
Anything she wanted, she got. Horseback riding, ballet, tennis, clothes, toys, nothing was off limits. All she had to do was ask, and it was her’s. Every day when I came home, I’d be greeted by her tearing down the stairs to throw herself in my arms.
“I missed you, Daddy!”
And I knew it was all worth it.
“Telephone call on line one for you, Mr. Harper.” My assistant, Helen, knocked gently on my office door.
“Who is it?” I shoved aside the file I’d been reviewing, a frustrating divorce settlement, and reached for the phone.
“It’s Angela.”
I dismissed her with a quick nod and picked up. “This is Bill.”
“Hi, Mr. Harper, it’s, um, Angela.” Fiona’s tutor always sounded nervous when she spoke to me, and now was no exception.
“Everything ok?”
“Yeah, kind of, it’s just...well, I think Fiona fired me? Can she do that?”
I sighed, rubbing the fingertips of my free hand in small circles against my temple. “Is she there? Put her on.”
“Daddy!” Fiona said indignantly as soon as the phone was handed off. “I hate Angela! She’s mean and stupid and doesn’t know what she’s doing!”
“What happened, baby girl?”
“I hate her!”
“She’s a good tutor, sweetie.” And very expensive. “Mrs. Montgomery wouldn’t have recommended anyone who was stupid or mean.”
“Well she did, and I want her to go away! I don’t wanna work with her anymore. I won’t!”
She started to cry bitterly. My heart sank. I couldn’t stand to hear her so distressed.
“Ok, ok. If you really don’t like her that much, we’ll find you someone else.”
I hung up and dragged a hand down my face, wondering just where I was going to find another tutor. Fiona had never really fit in at school; she’d been mercilessly bullied by the other children and made into an outcast. The teachers were no help. They tried to blame Fiona, saying she was the one causing problems. They even dared to suggest she might benefit from counseling.
“Of course she’s acting out!” I had snapped when the principal called me in to discuss the matter. “She’s being tormented, and no one will help her!”
She’d looked at me with a condescending frown, like she and her staff knew my daughter better than I did. I could see why Fiona was having such trouble.
The day she came home, crying and screaming that she was never going back, I knew something had to be done. The next week I withdrew her in favor of homeschooling. I hired a private tutor, cost be damned, and turned one of our spare bedrooms into her very own classroom.
Fiona was ecstatic! I hadn’t seen her so excited about her education in a long time. The tutor, touted as the best one in the region, lasted a month. The next one managed to hang on just a bit longer, and the one after that only made it through two weeks.
Fiona was a sensitive child with special needs, and the tutors were having trouble meeting them. They didn’t know how to speak to her. They were too critical, and didn’t bother trying to learn the best method to teach her so that she would respond. I could understand her frustration and had similar experiences during my childhood.
She was asleep by the time I got home that night. I peeked into her room, lit softly by her favorite Minnie Mouse night light, and leaned against her doorframe. I was going to find someone special for my little girl. Someone who would understand her and meet her needs. I would find someone to make her happy. I blew a kiss across the room and let the door drift slowly shut as I turned for my own bed.
Josephine Green was the fifth tutor that I’d interviewed in a week. She provided an impressive resume for someone still in her thirties, and her recommendations were nothing short of glowing. I was still skeptical. People with more experience under their belts had failed Fiona, so how could Josephine expect to do any better?
“Why are you interested in tutoring my daughter, Ms. Green?” I asked plainly when she sat across from me in my home office.
“I’ve heard that she is an...intense child,” Ms. Green replied carefully. “I have a background in teaching students who require more time and attention than others. I prefer it, actually; I find that kind of one-on-one work to be the most rewarding.”
“You’ve heard, hmm?” I knew that word of a difficult client traveled fast in any profession, but it still irritated me to have it confirmed that my Fiona was the subject of gossip. “I take it you’re aware that we’ve had a bit of a revolving door in terms of tutors?”
“Yes. I’m friendly with many of her former teachers. We work in a small community.”
I eyed her for a long, quiet minute. She met my gaze evenly, unflustered and composed. I found myself smiling slightly. Her honesty was refreshing.
“And you came anyway?”
“Like I said, I prefer working with children like Fiona. I enjoy the challenge.”
We parted with a handshake and, although I met with a few others after her, I knew I’d already found Fiona’s next teacher.
Their relationship had a tumultuous start. Fiona, so used to being abandoned, was resistant to Josephine. She hid behind me on her first day until I coaxed her to her desk. She refused to answer questions, pouted at any attempt to make conversation, and stared resolutely at her lap while Josephine wrote on the dry erase board.
The second day was no better. Fiona threw a fit, scattering her unfinished work across the floor and throwing things around the room. The third day she just flopped herself over the beanbag chair in the reading corner and cried until her face was purple.
But Josephine stayed.
She allowed Fiona to express herself without interruption, waiting until the tears and the yelling had been exhausted to ask if Fiona was ready to begin the lesson. The more it became clear that Josephine wasn’t going anywhere, the less combative Fiona became. My daughter started sitting at her desk and engaging with Josephine. She still struggled to complete assignments, but her schoolwork started to improve.
I saw such kindness in Josephine, such gentleness, warmth, and understanding. And for the first time since the death of my wife, I found myself drawn to another woman. I found excuses to stop in when I knew Josephine would be at my home, and to call her after she’d gone for the day. Wh
at started as monthly progress meetings became weekly, then almost daily. Our conversations started to shift away from Fiona, and we learned about each other’s likes and dislikes, about our passions and lives.
The first time I invited Josephine to stay for dinner, Fiona was ecstatic. She grabbed Josephine’s hand and tugged her from the school room to the dining room, chattering happily about what we were going to have. We glanced at each other shyly from across the table like school children while Fiona obliviously rambled, both aware that this meal marked a change in our relationship.
When I finally gained the courage to ask Josephine out on a proper date, all of my Highschool awkwardness came rushing back. I, a man who could deliver impeccable monologues in court, found myself stumbling over words. Luckily, she found it endearing, and she accepted.
It was a whirlwind romance, one we kept separate from Fiona; I didn’t want it to affect her relationship with Josephine. Even when Fiona wasn’t physically with us, her presence was always felt. She was constantly at the forefront of my mind, although there was a sense of guilt and betrayal lurking beneath my happiness. Josephine couldn’t quite leave Fiona behind either, but for different reasons.
She broached the topic of my daughter slowly, treading lightly to test her boundaries. She’d off handedly mention that Fiona had been overly demanding during lessons, or that it seemed she was trying to avoid her work. I’d brush it off, laughing that kids will be kids. Josephine didn’t see the humor. It was the only issue between us, and one that I viewed as inconsequential. I knew she’d see that Fiona was just a little needier than most, and we’d be able to move on.
As the months wore on and we became more comfortable with one another, Fiona started to take notice. She demanded to know why Ms. Green was over so often, why I was going out more, and where I was going, and no amount of excuses appeased her. As I had feared, she started to withdraw from Josephine, becoming sullen and refusing to do her work.
Fiona became clingy, wanting extra snuggles during movie nights. She’d ask for just one more story before bedtime, trailing after me around the house. She’d latch on and cry whenever I said I was leaving and she couldn’t come. Watching her suffer so was heart wrenching.
“Daddy?” she whispered as I was tucking her in one night.
“Yes?”
“Are things changing?”
“What do you mean?” I frowned down at her.
“A-am I still your little princess?” Her lip quivered dangerously, and I immediately knelt and gave her chin a gentle tweak.
“Of course you are. You always will be.”
She threw her arms around my neck and squeezed with delight. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, Princess.”
Despite my assurance, things between Fiona and Josephine continued to deteriorate. They came to me separately with complaints about the other. Fiona claimed Josephine was mean, Josephine said Fiona was hostile. Fiona said Josephine was being hard on her, Josephine said Fiona was being petulant. I felt myself being torn between the two people I cared for most, and it ate away at me. I tried to defuse the situation, tried to make them see the other’s side, but I could feel things starting to boil over.
It finally came to a head while Josephine and I were in the kitchen making supper together. The silence between us was thick and tense. She was having to work to keep her mouth pursed into a thin white line.
“What?” I finally asked, setting my knife aside. “Just say whatever you have to say.”
“What’s the point? You don’t listen anyway,” she snapped back without looking up from the salad she was making.
“Don’t be like that...”
“Be like what? Frustrated? Upset? I have tried and tried to tell you how I’m feeling, but you either aren’t hearing me or you don’t care!”
“Of course I do!”
She slammed the cucumber she’d been chopping and turned to me, her face pinched and angry. “No, you really don’t, Bill! You haven’t done a damn thing about Fiona! She walks all over you and treats everyone else like garbage!”
“Hey no—”
“No!” she cut me off, her voice rising. “She’s spoiled rotten. She has no sense of the real world. She’s manipulative and controlling, and she needs to grow up! How do you ever expect her to get anywhere in life when you’ve allowed her to live like this? How is she ever going to cope in college?”
“We have a while before we have to worry about that,” I said defensively, my own temper starting to flare.
“You have two years! She’s sixteen, for God’s sake! I’ve dealt with some pretty damaged kids before, Bill, but Fiona takes the damn cake.”
We glared at each other, eyes narrowed, hands balled into fists. I wanted to refute her, to scream in her face and tell her she was wrong, but I found I had no voice. I knew I babied Fiona, but she needed it! She was such a sensitive girl, and her mom’s death had hit her so hard… How do you tell a five year old that Mommy’s gone forever? I had to make sure she’d always known she was loved. I had to fill the void left by my wife. How could I make Josephine see that?
“I did what I needed to! I know she can be difficult...”
“Difficult? She’s broken! She needs a shrink, not a tutor!”
“Ms. Green?”
The sound of Fiona’s voice, so small and shy, from behind Josephine made us both jump.
“Fiona,” Josephine turned to face her, “I’m sorry, sweetie, I didn’t hear you come i—”
Her words ended abruptly, swallowed by a sharp gasp. She stiffened and became very still. Fiona giggled.
“Jo?” I asked, confused.
She made a wet gurgling sound and slowly, her hands went up to her throat.
“Josephine?” I took a step forward and rested a hand on her shoulder.
She fell forward, out of my grasp. She landed with a heavy thud, face down on my kitchen floor. The straight edged tip of a pair of scissors burst through the back of her neck.
Slowly, I tore my eyes from the fast growing pool of blood spurting from Josephine’s neck and looked up. My daughter was standing in front of me, grinning behind a red stained hand.
“Wh-what have you done?” I croaked, “Why?!”
“She was mean,” Fiona said, her grin fading. “She was saying bad things about me. She wanted you to hate me! She wanted you all to herself, but you’re my daddy!”
She stepped over Josephine’s body and wrapped her arms around my neck, her cheek pressed against my chest. When my arms remained limply at my sides, she started to sob.
“You don’t hate me, do you?” She hiccupped, “Daddy?”
“N-no,” I said in a daze, patting her mechanically on the back, “I could never hate you.”
“Am I still your little princess?”
“Of course...”
Her tears stopped, and she sighed contentedly. I stared down at Josephine over the top of her head, horrified. What was I going to do? What could I do? The only thing I’d ever done, I realized, my gut twisting; I had to protect my little girl. I had to get rid of the body, all the evidence. The thought made me sick, and my vision swam behind tears. It wasn’t Fiona’s fault. I made her like this. I did this. Now I had to fix it.
“Daddy?” she murmured into my shirt.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, baby girl.”
Crinklebottom
Crinklebottom had been passed down in my family for the past couple of generations. It’s a nighttime companion to help ward off bad dreams and those pesky monsters who live under the bed. In his first incarnation, he was a stuffed brown bear with button eyes that my great grandmother sewed for my grandfather when he was a boy. When my mother was old enough to be afraid of the dark, Grandpa gave her a sock monkey with a bright red fez to sleep with. When it was my turn to inherit my own Crinklebottom, Mom tucked me in with a small blue bunny.
&nbs
p; It didn’t matter what form Crinklebottom took, his story was always the same: he’d been sent by The Sandman, King of Sleep, to watch over us. Although he might look small, he was a fierce warrior, loyal and courageous and always ready to protect his friend. Having a Crinklebottom helped all the kids on my mom’s side of the family sleep soundly throughout their younger years, and it became a cherished memory as we got older. It would be no different for my own five year old daughter.
The first morning Alexia even hinted at being afraid of the dark after a particularly bad dream, I dropped her off at school and immediately set off to the toy store. I was excited to share a piece of family history with her, something maybe she would in turn share with her own children in some far distant future. I spent a long hour going up and down the aisles of stuffed animals. I wasn’t going to settle on just any old critter; it had to speak to me.
I passed by the Disney and Pixar section, finding nothing amongst the rows of brightly colored bears. I couldn’t find any blue bunnies that looked close enough to mine for me to be satisfied. Eventually, Alexia’s love for the bovine kind (she’d been obsessed since she saw some commercial pushing cheese with a talking cow) drew me to a bean filled cow with soft black and white fur. I picked it up, studied its dark, twinkling eyes, and knew I’d found the newest member of Clan Crinklebottom.
Maybe it was a bit silly. My wife certainly thought so, but I pulled out all the stops when it came to getting Cow Crinklebottom ready for Alexia. A colorful gift bag, a couple flowers, even a card from The Sandman himself to explain her new friend. I laid it all out on her bed, garnished with a few chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil, and stood back, pleased with my work.
“Couldn’t you have just given it to her like a normal parent?” Marta asked from the doorway.
I scoffed at my wife. “This is not just any toy! This is—”
“Crunklebutt, yeah, you’ve told me,” she teased.