Chapter 2 #2
We—as I promised in my interview—watched documentaries, learned about spiders, had tea parties, and wrote stories.
I knitted her a multicolored blanket for her bed, which she demanded I reproduce for the living room too.
We listened to music, painted on canvas, and basked in the sunshine, staring at the clouds. Being with Clara was not a hardship.
The transplant helped her heal, while my time with Clara Shaw healed me from bruises and wounds I thought I’d carry with me forever.
She was interesting, inherently cheerful, and loved an adventure.
She loved me. She said it one day a few weeks after I’d moved in.
Offhandedly. Natural. I was putting her to bed—it was the first time Beau had let me because he’d had an emergency at the restaurant.
I’d loved lying with her, feeling her little body curled into mine as I read her stories.
“Good night, Hannah, love you.” That simple. That genuine.
I’d frozen in place before I’d tucked her hair behind her ear and said, “I love you too, Clara.” Because what else did you say to a four, almost five-year-old recovering from leukemia who said that to you?
And it wasn’t an indulgence. I did. Love her.
I had never had the gift of loving something so purely, of knowing someone who gave me so much yet demanded nothing in return.
Whose love didn’t have conditions. Whose love didn’t feel like a noose around my neck.
It was a tricky situation I’d found myself in, loving the child, hating the father.
Every day, Beau made me want to quit. Every day, Clara made me want to stay forever, to be more than just a passing presence in her life, a half-remembered person in her memories.
“Hannah!” Her mouth was full, fork and knife in her hands, sitting at the breakfast bar. Beau was at the stove, presumably cooking pancakes, having salvaged enough of the mess to make them.
The mess itself was nowhere to be found; the kitchen was spotless.
Like the rest of the house. Despite the obvious clutter and disorder that a four-year-old could make—similar to an atomic bomb hitting your living room—the house was always spotless.
No dirt. No dust. Another thing that made me tiptoe around, feeling as if Beau was watching me if I dared spill.
I was tidy and clean. Maybe not naturally.
Living in filth most of my life made me kind of manic about keeping my space clean.
One of the few ways Beau and I were similar.
One of the only ways.
Since I managed to summon manners, smiles and general human decency.
“Did you know it’s eight days until my birthday?” Clara asked once she’d taken a large swallow, holding up nine fingers.
I gingerly walked to the coffee pot, giving Beau a large berth and keeping my eye on Hannah.
I held my breath against his lingering scent, mixed with pancakes and maple syrup.
“Hmmmm.” I thrummed my chin. “Eight days, really?” I poured my coffee. “And you’ll be, what? Eighteen?”
Clara rolled her eyes good-naturedly, as if she were humoring my joke much above her station. “Five.” She held up as many fingers before she resumed eating her pancakes.
“Five.” I tapped my head. “Remember, Clara’s fifth birthday is in eight days,” I mimed cementing the date as if I hadn’t already. As if I hadn’t been preparing for weeks.
“How many people are coming to the party, Daddy?” Hannah turned to ask him.
“Thirteen or thereabouts.” He gave her the same response he had the numerous other times she’d asked the question.
Her eyes lit up. That was the most people she’d be around since the transplant. Pre-approved by her doctor, who said that as long as it was outside and she was masked, she could have a small gathering.
“Thirteen,” she repeated in awe. “Thirteen presents.”
“You don’t get a present for everyone attending,” Beau growled.
But not his real growl, the one he gave me that was full of menace and meanness.
No, this was a faux growl, meant to sound mean but we all knew there was nothing behind it.
“Your birthday is not about presents. It’s about celebrating, spending time with family and friends. ”
Hannah nodded somberly.
“And presents,” I mouthed to her.
She grinned into her pancakes.
“Here. Sit. Eat.”
A plate of pancakes was placed in front of me with no ceremony, the plate coming down so heavily on the counter, I was surprised it didn’t crack.
I glanced over at Beau. He was already across the kitchen from me, as if he were trying to stay as far away from me as possible.
Then I looked at the plate of pancakes in front of me.
It wasn’t just pancakes with a square of butter on top like I was used to from IHOP—the only time I had pancakes made for me by someone else.
No, these were perfectly shaped, covered with a berry compote, and what appeared to be cream or yogurt on the side. It looked restaurant-quality. Which shouldn’t have surprised me since Beau was a chef.
A lot of care had gone into the plate, going directly against every other time Beau interacted with me—like I was annoying him by simply existing. By being in his house.
If he was home at mealtimes, he cooked for Clara. No mac and cheese cups, nothing packaged. All homemade, healthy, beyond delicious. Kinds of foods I’d never heard of before, that I’d never been able to afford, that I couldn’t have even dreamed of.
The best cuts of steaks, colorful salads full of texture and homemade dressing.
The freshest fish I’d ever eaten. Lobster rolls on bread made by Beau first thing in the morning.
Lobster everything, since it was the family business.
Clara rarely had the same thing twice in a row.
Every day was a new culinary adventure for her.
And if he cooked for Clara, he cooked for me too.
At the start, I’d been thankful and touched, thinking it was a good sign in the progression of our relationship toward cordiality.
I was wrong.
Beau presented the food to me in much the same way as the pancakes, begrudgingly, as if someone were holding a gun to his head.
I’d tried to gently tell him he didn’t need to cook for me, that I’d take care of myself.
I’d quickly given up on that because of the flat glares I got in response.
They were so full of hostility, fury, that they made me shrink back, trying to make myself as small and quiet as possible.
It made me angry, furious, that he managed to have that kind of power over me.
And I was embarrassed that I let him treat me that way.
That I didn’t leave, or at the very least speak up for myself.
If I wanted to be petty, I could’ve refused to eat them. But that would’ve been criminal because Beau was a seriously good chef. I grew up on things that came out of a package and had to be microwaved. I’d taught myself how to ‘cook’ out of necessity. I wasn’t exactly good, but I was passable.
When I moved in with Waylon, he expected me to cook. I’d tried to experiment with the Julia Child’s book I’d found at Goodwill, but he’d thrown the plate of Boeuf Bourguignon against the wall and told me not to feed him that “snobby French bullshit” again.
Back to casseroles and meatloaf it was.
Once I was free of Waylon, I ate whatever was cheapest and quickest since I was bogged down with studying. And though the family I nannied for part-time didn’t require a whole lot of cooking, I’d eat whatever and whenever the kids did.
Just the thought of having to cook for Clara made me incredibly intimidated, made me feel poor, uncouth, and nervous.
The food she was eating—now that she had her appetite back—was so vibrant and complicated, I doubted I could prepare it.
So far, that had not been an issue. Beau prepped all the meals he wouldn’t be around to cook, labeling them neatly in glass containers in the fridge.
One for me, one for Hannah. Same with her snacks.
The organization of the fridge was something to behold; it looked like it could’ve been in a magazine or displayed on some rich woman’s social media videos.
I was afraid to put any of my own food in there.
Not that there was really an occasion for me to buy my own food since Beau fed me so well.
I’d never eaten so many fresh, healthy foods.
I felt it in my body, I had more energy.
Even though my skin wasn’t prone to acne beyond hormonal breakouts, I generally looked better.
My eyes were brighter. My body regained its natural curves.
Which made it more difficult to hate Beau.
Well, not really since it was the only nice thing he did for me and he likely only did it so it didn’t incite questions from Clara.
He was never even remotely rude to me around her; he didn’t set that example.
He didn’t model that it was normal for men to be assholes to women.
In front of his daughter, he was painfully polite.
Though the bar for Beau and all men was set in hell, being so coldly polite in front of a child was not something to celebrate.
“Thank you,” I said in a small voice, looking down at the pancakes while taking them to perch with Clara on the breakfast bar.
Beau didn’t respond to my thanks. He rarely did.
And if he did, it was a grunt or a nod. I told myself not to let it make me angry.
But it still hurt. I didn’t have the energy to feel anger; I didn’t let myself after seeing what happened to women who let men make them enraged and bitter.
Let men wear them down. That wouldn’t be me.
If I kept feeling the pain, I wouldn’t become jaded, hardened. One day, there would be a man who deserved my softness and treasured it. No way would I let Beau stain any future relationships for me.
It was the secret I nurtured—that although I was an independent woman who strived to never need anyone to save me, I dreamed of romance, of true love. A happy ending.