ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟚𝟚
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Cooking was my specialty.
At least I think it was.
The mansion smelled like garlic, butter, and whatever seasoning I decided to randomly buy. Music played softly from my phone somewhere across the kitchen.
Dixie stood by the dining table with a bunch of her folders spread out. A whole forest worth of paper.
I mean, it wasn't bad to say I found this weird, right? She was so invested in it, and I could tell. I really didn't like the fact she started to dismiss everything else. But no, she was still working on the case she should've gotten over.
That's the thing about Dixie West. She doesn't quit, because she strives to win.
"You know," I say from the stove, "most people leave work at work."
I watch as she glances up.
"Most people don't win as often as I do."
"Right. My mistake." I smile despite myself.
For a few minutes neither of us says much. The pan sizzles as I add more oil to the bacon.
It's nice for a moment before something on Dixie's phone buzzes. She quickly snatches it so it's not in my vision. Unluckily for her, one of her legal pads slips from beneath her arm.
It smacks against the hardwood floor. I bend down. "Got it."
Before handing it over, I scan over the information for a bit. Justin Deyes name at the top in black ink, with a bunch of notes below.
She crosses the kitchen in three steps before grabbing the paper out of my hand, but it was too late. I already saw it.
"I thought you were done." My voice is quiet.
She looks away, closing her eyes before sighing deeply. "I am."
'Dix."
"Just stop! You're acting like I committed a crime."
"Dixie, don't." I say sharp.
She goes back to the table, shoving the papers in her bag. "It doesn't mean anything, forget it."
"Justin Deyes written fifty times doesn't mean anything?"
"You're exaggerating."
My jaw tightens. "I thought you let it go."
She laughs. "Not surprised. Apparently everybody wants me to let it go."
"Dixie-"
"Judge Johnson thinks something is wrong." She turns suddenly.
Who the hell was Judge Johnson?
Oh. Right- the judge for the Justin Deyes case. I'm not even shocked they're still in contact.
But why?
"Judge Johnson?"
She stares at me like she's confused that I'm confused before palming her head, sighing.
"Right. You don't know him. Just don't dwell on it, okay?"
How was I not supposed to dwell on it?
"C'mon Dix, you barely touched your dinner, you don't sleep, you aren't eating-"
"I do sleep," She cuts in, glaring at me. "What is this, an interrogation? Because it sure does feel like one."
I click the stove off, running a hand across my face. "I don't care about the case."
"Then why are we talking about it?"
"Because every time this happens, you disappear-I.. I thought we were good, Dix."
"We are good." She sighs.
"No, we're clearly not, because you're lying and hiding things from me." I say, a little exasperated.
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
"You stop being a person and become a machine." I continue, letting it sink in.
She rolls her eyes. "God forbid I care about somebody rotting in prison."
"Dixie, is that what you really think I'm saying?" I rub my eyes. She looks at me, unfazed, crossing her arms.
I look away first. "The roof's leaking again."
Even though this house was big and spacious, there was no denying it was old. The roof leaked once a blue moon. I wanted it professionally done, but Dixie told me if I had hands, I could accomplish whatever.
And of course, I listen to my wife.
She blinks. "What?"
"The roof." I point upward.
"As much fun as this conversation is, I'd rather fix it before it starts raining in our bedroom."
I stare at her for a couple minutes without another word as I walk out of the kitchen, leaving her standing there with her files.
The second I step into the hallway, I drag a hand through my hair and let out a long breath.
Gosh.
I wasn't even angry about the case. If Dixie wanted to spend all night digging through evidence, talking to judges, chasing dead ends, fine.
Whatever.
She's Dixie.
The woman could find a conspiracy in a grocery receipt if she stared at it long enough.
What bothered me was the lying, pretending and hiding. The way she'd ripped it out of my hands like I'd caught her doing something wrong.
I just wanted her to tell me the truth.
That was it. Just the truth.
I make my way into the garage. The overhead light flickers on. Immediately, I head for the storage shelf.
Toolbox.
Toolbox.
Toolbox.
Where the hell is my toolbox?
I check the workbench, I check beneath the shelves, I move a paint can, but still nothing. I stare at the empty spot where I'm almost positive it should be.
"Where the hell..." I crouch down, and look again.
Still nothing. I straighten.
I think of all the possible places I would put my toolbox in. A million thoughts race through my head.
Oh right, it was probably in the basement.
A few months ago I'd moved a bunch of tools downstairs while reorganizing.
Or attempting to reorganize, as Dixie might say.
The project had lasted exactly thirty minutes before I got distracted and abandoned it- which meant my toolbox was probably still down there.
I head back through the mansion. The basement door sits at the end of the hallway. I grab the handle and pull. The stairs groan under my weight as I step down each step.
The motion sensor lights click on one by one.
I instantly regret coming down here. The place is a disaster.
"Son of a gun."
There were boxes, storage bins, at least four unfinished projects, random baskets- I mean, how had we let it get this far?
I rub my forehead. "This is disgusting."
The firefighter in me feels personally offended. The homeowner in me feels embarrassed, and the husband in me already knows Dixie is going to blame me. Which is fair.
The basement was my go to place for starting weird crafts that I knew were never going to be completed.
I step over three boxes, searching for my toolbox. Halfway through, I stop. If I'm already down here, I might as well just clean a little.
A little turns into twenty minutes. Twenty minutes turns into forty.
Soon I'm hauling boxes around.
The irritation from the kitchen slowly fades into the background, my mind occupied with sorting and cleaning out.
As I clean, I find a small, dusty, basket tucked behind an old television stand. I almost shove it aside before I take a quick glance at the label.
My stomach drops.
JORDYN: FIRST EVERYTHINGS
The words are written in black marker, beautiful cursive. Dixie's handwriting.
I stare at the basket. I don't dare to move. The dust coating the lid tells me it hasn't been touched in years.
I slowly kneel down, my knees hitting the concrete floor, carefully pulling it toward me.
My hands are shaking, I don't even know why. The lid comes off slowly. Inside are DVDs- dozens of them, neatly organized and labelled.
Jordyn's First Steps, Jordyn's First Words, Jordyn's First Day of Preschool, Jordyn's First Lost Tooth, Jordyn's First Birthday, Jordyn's First Bike, Jordyn's First Dance Recital-
I stop reading soon enough. The words physically hurt me.
I remember all of them. Dixie insisted we document everything, because she was terrified of forgetting. Even though I don't think she had the capacity to forget something like this.
"One day she'll want to see these."
I can hear her saying it, years ago, laughing while labeling DVDs. Carefully writing titles and stacking them into cases.
"Can you imagine her at sixteen watching these?"
I'd laughed. "She's going to be embarrassed."
"Exactly my goal."
I close my eyes. Grief was sick. We really believed she'd watch them- we thought she'd grow up.
Graduate, and get her driver's license. Go to college, fall in love.
Get married.
We thought she'd sit beside us one day rolling her eyes at baby videos.
We thought we had time.
I stare down at the basket. Inside was the life we'd planned, the future we'd saved for her.
A future that never happened.
I swallow hard, but it doesn't help.
My eyes drift toward the old television mounted against the far wall.
The DVD player still sits beneath it, covered in dust.
I should put the basket away- that's what I should do. Find the toolbox, and fix the roof. Forget I ever saw this.
Instead, I reach for a DVD.
Jordyn's First Lost Tooth. The plastic case feels impossibly light in my hands.
I stand, walking toward the television. The DVD player comes back to life after a moment.
The tray slides open. I hesitate, just for a second. Do I really want to do this, and bring back all the years of hurt?
Those thoughts don't really matter right now.
I insert the disc. The screen flickers to a static loading screen. Then a date.
Another lifetime.
I lower myself on the couch, my elbows resting on my knees. My eyes fixed on the television.
A bright voice fills the basement.
"Daddy!"
My breath catches. There she was, calling my name.
We were in our living room, on a couch. Jordyn had woken up, running to me and Dixie, telling us her tooth broke off. That's when Dixie decided to bring out our camera.
"What's up, bug?" I said, opening my arms. She crashes into me, settling herself on my lap.
"My teeth," She holds up the bloody tooth. "Will the tooth fairy come now?"
I look at Dixie, behind the camera for help. The camera footage shakes as she laughs.
"Yes, Jords. She'll be on her way when we all go to sleep." She says.
"Tonight?" Her eyes widen, she gasps.
"Tonight, tonight." Dixie confirms, chuckling.
On the television, Jordyn is now examining her tooth from every angle imaginable. "Do you think the fairy has wings?"
"Probably." I tell her.
"With big, pink wings?"
"Maybe," I shrug. "She can look however she wants."
Jordyn thinks about this, then nods seriously.
"I think she looks like mommy."
"Why me?" She asks.
"Because you're pretty."
The camera shakes as Dixie awws.
I stare at the screen, unable to move.