Chapter 19
Jane
O n Thursday afternoon, I’m hard at work (sort of) in my home office when the doorbell rings. The last person who rang our doorbell wanted to convert us to their religion, but since it could be the package I’m expecting, I head downstairs. However, when I open the door, it’s clear this isn’t a delivery.
There’s a woman and a little girl on the doorstep. Our next-door neighbors. I’ve seen them from a distance, but I’ve never talked to them before. The dark-haired girl is wearing a Frozen knapsack, her hands gripping the purple straps.
“Hi,” the woman says. “Is Evan here?”
“Sorry, he’s not,” I say.
“I thought he worked from home?”
“Usually, but not this afternoon.” He has a rare in-person meeting.
The woman hesitates. She has a panicked look on her face, but I have no idea what’s going on. “I’m Deena. I know we’ve never spoken before, but our husbands are friends, and I was hoping he—or you?—could do me a favor. My father had a heart attack, and he’s at the hospital, and I’d prefer not to bring Skylar. Could you watch her? Just for an hour, until Gordon gets home.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you so much…”
“Jane. I’m Jane.”
Deena bends down and puts her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Be good for Jane, okay? Here’s the key to our house if you need it.”
She hurries down the driveway before I can say anything, and I recall the last time I went to the hospital—when I was about Skylar’s age. Fortunately, I haven’t needed to go since my mom died.
I’m surprised that Deena left Skylar with me, given she doesn’t know me at all, but I understand not wanting to bring a child to a hospital in an emergency, and I guess she knows Evan. Besides, people are probably more comfortable leaving kids with an unfamiliar woman than an unfamiliar man.
I curse myself for not making an effort to get to know our neighbors. When I lived in a high-rise, I didn’t know my neighbors, either, but now that we have a house, it feels different.
I look down at Skylar, who’s still gripping the straps of her knapsack. I’d usually do another hour of work, but it’s not like I have anything critical that needs to get done today.
“Would you feel more comfortable at your house?” I ask, making my voice slightly more upbeat than usual.
She nods, looking down.
Once I put on my shoes and grab everything I need, we head next door. Skylar struggles with the key in the lock, so I do it for her.
The layout of the house is a little different from ours, but the biggest difference is that it’s clearly home to a kid, as evidenced by all the colorful toys.
“Can I have a snack?” Skylar asks. “I haven’t had one yet.”
“Sure.” I follow her into the kitchen. “What do you usually eat?”
“Ants on a log. I can make it myself.”
I watch as she pulls a Tupperware of cut celery out of the fridge, followed by a jar of peanut butter. Then she grabs a butter knife and a plate.
“Can you get the raisins for me? Please?” She points to a high cupboard.
It’s rare for me to help someone reach something—I’m not exactly tall—so this is a nice change. I get the bag of raisins, and she gets to work on making her snack at the kitchen table.
I haven’t looked after a kid by myself in years. I find myself wishing that Evan were here, but this seems manageable. She’s fairly independent; she just can’t be left by herself.
Though I’ve never had ants on a log before, I have a sneaking suspicion that they don’t usually involve this much peanut butter or this many raisins.
“You can have some.” Skylar gestures to the food laid out on the table.
I shake my head. “Maybe later.”
We sit there in silence for a couple of minutes while she munches on her celery. I feel like I should say something, but I’m not sure what.
“School just started, right?” I say. “What grade are you in?”
She holds up a single finger, then pushes around the food on her plate. “Will my zaidy be okay?”
Oh dear.
“Um. I don’t know.” I have no idea what the situation is, and I have distinct memories of being told my mother was going to be okay—and she wasn’t. I don’t wish to lie to this child I barely know. “I hope so.” I pause. “My friend’s grandfather had a heart attack, and he lived for a long time afterward.”
This is true. Lana’s grandfather had a heart attack when we were in university, and he just passed away last year. But I don’t know much about this sort of thing—or how to talk to children about it.
“Maybe you could make him a card?” I say. “A get-well-soon card?”
Skylar nods as she crunches her celery.
When she finishes her snack, she brings her dishes to the sink and puts the celery and peanut butter away, then wipes a hand on her shirt as she heads to the next room.
“Skylar,” I say, “how about you wash your hands before you make the card?” I fear that if she doesn’t, the paper will be covered in peanut butter.
She scurries to the washroom and returns a minute later. As she folds a piece of paper in half and gets to work, I sit on the couch and text Evan to tell him where I am. I don’t want him to worry when he returns to an empty house. He doesn’t immediately respond, but I don’t expect him to—I assume he’s either on the road or still in his meeting.
“How do you spell ‘get well soon’?” Skylar asks.
I tell her, and she writes each letter down on the front of the card.
Even though she looks nothing like I did at that age, I can’t help seeing my younger self in her. It seems horribly unfair that a young child could lose a parent—or even a grandparent—but I was in grade one when my mom passed away.
I scroll through social media on my phone, not really seeing the words or the pictures, just needing to do something with my hands.
“Is this okay?” Skylar sits down beside me. On the front of her card, there are two people and a rainbow, plus something else that might be a dog. Inside, she’s written, “I love you. Skylar.”
“It’s very nice,” I tell her, swallowing. No one has said—or written—those three little words to me in over twenty years. Though I’ve said them myself, they haven’t been returned.
She scampers off. I poke my head out of the doorway to see where she’s going. She puts the card on the bench by the door before returning. She pulls a tablet out of her Frozen backpack, as well as some headphones, and starts watching an animated show that’s unfamiliar to me. Since I haven’t been given any instructions on screentime, I figure this is fine. I’m a last-minute babysitter in an emergency; I just have to make sure she’s safe and fed.
My thoughts drift to wondering what my kids would be like. Does Evan still want kids? I assume so, but we haven’t spoken about it recently.
When Skylar takes off her headphones, an hour has passed since she arrived on my doorstep. Her father still isn’t home.
“What would you like to do now?” I ask.
“Can we go outside?”
“Sure. Just on the driveway or in the backyard.”
At the front of the house, she tells me the code to the garage—she’s too short to enter it herself, but she knows it. I open it up, and she reaches for a skipping rope. “You can skip, too.” She gestures to another rope. “That one’s longer. I got them for my birthday.”
Since I don’t need to spend more time on my phone, I pick up a rope and start skipping, something I haven’t done since I was a child. Is jumping rope as popular as it used to be? We used to do it at recess. I cross my arms in front of me, then switch to skipping backward. Skylar watches me for a moment before she begins skipping herself.
“I’m not very good,” she says.
“What? You’re plenty good.”
“But I can’t do what you do.”
Now I feel like I was trying to show off, but that wasn’t my intention. “You just need a little practice. What do you want to do? Skip backward?”
She nods.
I don’t know how to explain it; it’s just something I remember how to do, like riding a bike. “Start with the rope in front of you. Now raise it up and behind.”
She tries to copy me, but the rope hits her shoes. She tries one more time, without success. “I can’t do it.”
Should I encourage her to continue trying? It doesn’t feel like this is outside of her abilities, and it’s good to learn how to keep trying, even if it’s not easy for you the first time.
But I’ve known this kid for an hour, and her grandfather is in the hospital.
I try to think of what my father was like with me at this age—his patience as he taught me to ride a bike—and there’s a twinge of pain in my chest, but it quickly dissipates. It remains hard, however, to think of how close my dad and I used to be, and how the opposite is true now.
“Maybe you can try for a little longer,” I say. “But if you can’t do it, you can try again another day. Some things take time.” I know the passing of time feels different when you’re a kid, though.
After a few more minutes, I can tell she’s getting frustrated. I encourage her to jump forward—she’s pretty good at that—before she tries again. Build up some confidence.
And then…she does it. She stops after one, excited with her success.
“Jane! Did you see me?”
“I did! You were great.”
Her face splits into a grin.
She tries again. The rope hits her feet, but she’s buoyed by the fact that she did it once, and the next time, she does it twice in a row.
Then her gaze drifts to the left. Evan has driven up.