by Emerson Rose
“I don’t want to give her up, Sawyer. She’s my daughter just as much as she is yours, but if I can’t make it, I don’t want her to suffer, you know?”
“Sam, it’s all right. We will figure it all out. Just call Brad, okay?”
“Okay, I love you, big brother. Thank you,” she says with a wet sniffle.
“I love you too, Sis. Dry your tears. I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.” She hangs up the phone, and I want to hurl mine across the room against the wall. So much for my good mood. I swear, I’m gonna kill that pansy ass motherfucker when I get my hands on him for hurting my sister like this.
I don’t want Malory in that kind of that environment. She doesn’t need to be witness to a crumbling marriage and all the fallout that comes with it. Sam wouldn’t come right out and ask me to take her, but I know it would ease her responsibility. I don’t know what I’m going to do, though. I can’t be a single father and a Marine, but I can’t be a father without a job either.
All this because fucking Craig can’t keep his dick in his pants.
It’s past dinnertime. I wasn’t in the mood to sit down and play big happy family with my sister and Craig. I’m not good at keeping my anger under my hat, and I’m so angry with Craig right now, I feel borderline homicidal.
I pull into the double driveway of their four-bedroom suburban cookie cutter house and brace myself for combat. Before I can get out and storm the front line, a text pings on my phone. It’s Violet. Just seeing her name is like a dose of Valium. Every twisted muscle in my neck relaxes, and I open the text to see what she has to say.
I miss you and your cupcakes, and thank you for the sunglasses. I wore them today. They’re beautiful – Love, Target girl
Visions of pink and white frosting smeared on her silky dark skin fill my head, and the fury that was just pumping through my arteries lessons. Violet may have singlehandedly saved old Craig’s life with her simple text.
I’m glad you liked them. I miss you too. I loved watching you lick frosting off my—well, you were there. I don’t have to tell you. I’ll bring more dessert Friday – Love, MSS
I press send just as a little hand knocks on my window.
“Daddy, look what I made!” Malory slaps what I can only guess is a painting of abstract art on my window, and it’s still wet. I stretch my neck left and right and open the door. Its times like this that I know I did the right thing letting Sam raise Malory. I can blame almost every neurotic idiosyncrasy I have on the Corps, but this? This is OCD, pure and simple.
“It’s stuck,” she says, pushing her bottom lip out in a pout.
“That’s okay, it’s beautiful, honey.” I close the door and hug her tentatively. She’s got blue paint in her hair and on her cheek, but I do my best not to show how much it bothers me.
I peel the painting off my window and hold it out away from my body by the only corner that’s dry. My skin is crawling, and that familiar ball of anxiety starts to ravel in my chest.
Sam appears out of nowhere and grabs the painting from my hand.
“Oh, honey, let’s keep your artwork inside. We don’t want it to get ruined, and it’s not dry yet. Hey, Sawyer.” She kisses me on the cheek, and I take Malory’s slimy hand and grimace as we head inside.
“Daddy’s going to wash his hands. Why don’t you come with me and wash up, too?” I say, making a beeline for the closest bathroom.
“Can she take a shower, Sam?” I call over my shoulder. The more I look at her, the more paint I see. I wonder why I can smear frosting on Violet’s skin from head to toe, but I can’t stand the feel or sight of paint on my little girl. Something about that woman makes me almost normal.
“Sure, knock yourself out. Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”
I rinse our hands in the sink and turn on the shower.
“Arms up.”
She lifts her arms high, giggling when I brush my pinky fingers against her bare armpits. I peel her shirt off and let her take off her own shorts. She steps in and immediately, the bottom of the tub is covered in green and blue paint. I watch it flow down the drain and think about how it would be to have Malory living with me in my house.
I’m so flawed, so damaged. I can’t imagine living in an environment that’s not sterile and catalogued. Children are the opposite of sterile. Violet is wrong. Being anal isn’t a good quality in a parent. It’s stifling and suppressive. Kids need to be allowed the freedom to grow and express themselves. They require endless amounts of patience and understanding, undivided attention, and time. I have nothing to offer this beautiful child who looks so much like her mother. Looking at Malory is like looking into Katie’s eyes every time I see her, a constant reminder of what a failure I was as a husband.
“Daddy, I need shampoo. I can’t reach it.” Malory is pressed against the side of the shower, reaching for the bottle of shampoo. I take it down and squirt some into my hands and lather her hair. Even the suds are light blue.
“How did you get so messy?” I ask.
“Auntie Sam said go crazy!” she yells, waving her arms in big circles. Yep, sounds like Sam. “And guess what, Daddy?”
“What, honey?”
“She let me paint at Uncle Craig’s desk.”
I laugh. Now I’m getting the whole picture. Samantha’s finding her own ways to seek revenge on a whole different level.
“That’s great. I hope you were super messy,” I say and dab a clump of soapsuds on her nose.
Her mouth hangs open and she gasps. “You do?”
I stretch to remove the showerhead from its cradle to rinse her hair.
“Yes, is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes,” she says matter of factly and presses her lips together in a straight line, as if she’s daring me to say otherwise. She’s right. She’s only six, and she knows I have a problem. Maybe I should finally consider Katie’s suggestion and take my ass to a psychiatrist. I can’t imagine it would help. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks, and I’m getting to be an old dog.
“Okay, smarty pants, let’s get you out so we can eat dinner. What’s Auntie Sam making for dinner?”
“Pot roast.” She cups the side of her mouth and whispers, “And vegetables, ew.”
“You don’t like vegetables much, do you, Mal?”
“No, hate ‘em.”
“We can just eat roast, then. How’s that?”
“Dope.”
I stop rubbing her hair dry with the towel and throw my head back and laugh. This kid is killing me with her responses today.
“Did you just say dope?”
“Yup.”
“Where’d you learn that?”
“From Davy.”
I shake my head and wrap the towel around her, tucking the corner in along the top edge to keep it from falling off. I point her in the direction of her room and gently swat her behind.
“Get dressed, Boo, and hurry.”
She takes off running, her little feet slapping against the hard wood. I search under the sink for bleach to clean the sink and shower with, and when I’m done, I take Malory’s paint-covered clothes to the kitchen and open the stainless steel garbage can with the foot pedal. I’m about to drop them in when Sam stops me.
“Those are salvageable, you know. It’s just paint.”
“I wonder if Craig will be able to salvage his office.”
A sly he can go fuck himself smile slides across her face.
“She told you about that, did she? Little traitor. She was supposed to keep that a secret.”
“Where is Mr. Wonderful anyway?”
“Probably with THOT.”
“I’m sorry, with what?”
“It’s slang for that hoe over there. The kids have been decoding the latest slang for me.”
“Ah, I see. That explains Malory using dope as an adjective.”
“Yep, she’s dope.”
“You guys are having a lot of fun today. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”
&
nbsp; “Thank you for giving me your lawyer’s number. He reassured me, as you did, that my future isn’t so dim. I’m still in shock and my heart’s in a billion pieces, but I have you, so . . .” She gives me a side hug with one arm while she stirs something on the stove.
“Yup, you got me, and I’m pretty legit.”
Her eyes light up. “You’ve been brushing up on slang too.”
“I work with young Marines. I hear things.”
“Huh, yeah I guess you do, don’t you? So tell me what—or who—is making you so much more tolerable today?”
“Remember when I told you I bumped into a woman at Target a few months ago, and then saw her at a bar that night?”
“Yes, I believe that’s when you started acting like a major douche waffle.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, and I believe douche waffle may be one of the slang terms you want to cut from your arsenal. I think it’s out.”
“Whatever, I like it, and I think I’ll be able to work it into a lot of conversations in the immediate future. Anyway, did you find your Target girl again?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Finally came to your senses, huh?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“I never thought I’d see the day you would want to spend more than one night with a woman, but then again, I never thought I’d see the day Craig asked for a divorce either.” Her voice cracks at the mention of Craig.
“Let’s talk about something else, Sis.”
“No, tell me about her. I’m sorry. I’ll be good. I promise, no more tears.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Her name is Violet, and she’s a computer software designer for Facebook in San Diego.”
“What a beautiful name.”
“She’s a beautiful woman.”
Sam stops stirring and places the wooden spoon across the pan. She turns around, and with her hands on her hips, she clucks her tongue and shakes her head back and forth.
“You, Major Sawyer Steele, are in love. I’ve haven’t heard that tone in your voice for years.”
I smirk and shrug my shoulders. No sense denying it.
She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me fiercely. Malory runs into the kitchen, followed by her eight-year-old ‘brother’, Davie, and seven-year-old ‘sister’, Summer.
“Ew, why are you guys huggin?” Davie says, clearly repulsed by our show of affection.
“Daddy loves Auntie Sam, duh,” Malory says with an air of superiority.
“Your Uncle Sawyer has a girlfriend,” Sam says.
Summer’s face falls. She’s always had a crush on her Uncle Sawyer.
“Don’t worry, you’ll always be my girl,” I say pulling her into our hug. She smiles with that reassurance.
“Hey, what bout me?” Malory says, squeezing in for her share of love. I can’t take anymore crowding, and Sam senses it, releasing me and clapping her hands together.
“Ok, now let’s get back to business here. Malory, get the salad out of the refrigerator. Davie, fill up the glasses with lemonade, and Summer, fold up some paper towels for napkins. Hurry up, chop, chop.”
The kids all snap into action, working together, and I stand in awe of my sister. I can command two hundred Marines, but they asked to be there. If they don’t do what I say, they’re out. Kids have to constantly be convinced they want to be part of a team, and my sister is a pro at that.
We sit down and eat. Craig doesn’t show up, and I can tell my sister is having a difficult time. She’s probably having visions of her husband screwing some young twat in a hotel room on the beach. He must be having some sort of quarter-life crisis or something. His life is the definition of perfect. His wife is gorgeous, kind, hard working and faithful. Those are rare qualities in a woman these days. He has a thriving business and a good career, kids who love him, financial security, and a wife who loves him. Who fucks that up for a piece of ass?
I play a couple of board games with the kids and throw a football to Davie in the yard before calling it a night. Craig’s still not home when I leave, and I’m worried about my sister, which means I’m worried about my daughter. It’s an impossible position to be in. I want to protect her from the hardships the family is about to experience, but taking her home with me, even temporarily, is unfathomable.
22
Sexting
Violet
“You okay over there, Violet?” Marie asks, popping her head around her monitor. We decided to move her desk into my office for our latest project so we don’t have to keep running back and forth between our offices all the time. Now the only things separating us are our thirty-inch computer monitors.
“Brazilian wax this morning,” I say, sitting up on one cheek, cringing.
She scrunches up her face, and a shiver runs through her body. “Oh God, say no more. Wait, do say more. Why are you waxing your lady bits? Do you have a hot date?”
“Not tonight, but this weekend, yes. It’s with the guy I met a few months back in Oceanside when I went down for the wedding that never happened.”
“Mr. Hot Marine from the sidewalk?”
“That’s the one. Hey, I could ask him if he has any nice friends to hook you up with.”
She instantly shakes her head no.
“I’ll just live vicariously through you, Violet. Thanks though.”
“Such a waste. You’re a great person, Marie, you know?”
“Sure, great,” she says, rolling her eyes.
I’m having trouble concentrating today, what with the sting between my legs from being waxed and the excitement of my upcoming weekend. I can’t wait to see Major again. Double dating with Kimber and Garcia will be fun too. That’s something I don’t have much of anymore—fun.
I’ve been waxed head to toe, I had a mani/pedi, and I even had my hair trimmed. The only thing I’m worried about now is my baby bump. It decided to pop out this week of all weeks, and unless I blame it on being bloated after a big meal, I’m going to have some explaining to do soon.
Major knows my body well enough to notice a change like this. I’m in pretty good shape, so the smallest amount of weight gain is easy to see. I’m still fine in clothes, but naked, different story. I think it’s time to tell the Major he’s going to be a daddy again. Ever since I learned how he feels about fatherhood, I’m concerned now more than ever about his reaction.
“You wanna take an early lunch today?” I ask Marie.
“Sure. Why? What’s up?”
“I’m just sort of worthless today. I think I need some fresh air.”
“Yeah, or some shopping.”
This surprises me. Marie isn’t exactly fashion conscious, and neither am I. I have to let a salesperson put all my outfits together. The only things I’m any good at picking out are lingerie and shoes.
“We could. Anything specific you have in mind? I’m not the best shopper, in case you didn’t notice.” I pinch my boring white shirt at the shoulder, lifting up the material and dropping it.
“I like the way you dress. It’s so . . . I don’t know, so—”
“So I don’t give a shit what people think?”
“Yes, that!”
“Well, if that’s the look you’re going for, I’m your girl. Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the middle of a lingerie boutique on Mission Blvd. holding up a pair of lacy black and red, barely there panties. What the hell am I’m doing here? I’m pregnant. This stuff is what you wear to get pregnant. It’s too late for that. I don’t even know what Major likes, but here I am, picking out uncomfortable sexy underthings to stuff my pregnant body into.
“I like those,” Marie says from behind me. I turn around and find her with ten of the skimpiest pieces in the store dangling from velvet hangers.
“Uh, Marie, is there something you’d like to tell me? Like are you a closet sex kitten or something?”
“Oh gosh no. These aren’t for me, they’re for you,” she
says, thrusting the scraps of lace and satin into my hands.
I must be doing a better job of hiding my extra pounds than I thought. She’s gotta be kidding, thinking I can fit into some of these things. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe they aren’t actually supposed to ‘fit’.
“Go try them on. Fitting room is back there.”
“You’re pretty familiar with this place, Marie. You sure you haven’t been here before?”
“I have a friend who shops here. I help her sometimes.”
“Okay then, I’ll see what I can do.”
In the dressing room, I strip down and turn to the side to look at the profile of my belly. There’s definitely a bump. I swear it’s bigger now than it was this morning before work. Can that happen? Do babies grow that fast? No, of course not. I’m not growing a vampire like Bella in Twilight. It’s just my imagination. Has to be.
I slip into a black little number—emphasis on little—and look at myself in the mirror with my hands on my hips. Not bad. It camouflages Mr. or Ms. Bump nicely. Definitely a contender. Next up is a white three-piece set with a garter that works nicely over my tummy too. Number three is a no-fucking-way, and four and five are out as well.
When I’m slipping out of the last set, a perfectly manicured hand thrusts a baby doll nighty and matching panties between the slit in the curtain.
“I thought you might prefer something with a little more coverage in your condition,” says a voice I don’t recognize.
I poke my head out, holding the curtain around my body, and find a saleswoman in her thirties or forties, smiling unapologetically.
“What do you mean, in my condition?”
She lowers her eyes to my bump and then back to my face.
“How did you know?”
She shrugs. “It’s my job to know women’s bodies. I could just tell. You should really tell your girlfriend, you know. It’s obvious by her choice of lingerie that she has no idea.”