Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
“Sit down,” I hiss to Miles as he jumps up from the playground bench for the ninetieth time. He stares down at me and then back at Ainsley, who is dangling one-handed from a monkey bar. He uses his baseball cap to scratch an itch on his head and then plunks stubbornly back down next to me.
“You honestly don’t think that’s dangerous?” he demands, jutting a thumb to where she’s swinging like a wind chime.
“Of course it is! Playgrounds are state-sanctioned death traps. But I’m telling you, you do not want to be that guy.” I use my chin to point toward a dad who is crouched down, arms out, at the heels of a toddler who is doing their royal best to escape his overbearing parenting.
“That guy looks like the only sane person here,” Miles grumbles.
“Yeah, maybe, but it’s no coincidence that his kid is clearly having the least fun.”
Miles grumpily crosses his arms over his chest but seems to concede the point when Ainsley does one of those slow, over-the-arm somersaults that would literally tear an adult’s rotator cuff. She releases from the bars, lands on two feet and two hands, and then jumps up, running off toward the mini climbing wall.
“Lesson number one to having a good relationship with a kid,” I tell him. “They’re literally wired to have fun, so just get out of the way.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Lesson number one isn’t keep them safe?”
“Obviously. But you can’t make it seem like that’s what you’re doing. If they think you’re the safety patrol, they spend all their time trying to get farther and farther from you. If you’re the fun patrol, they wanna be around you and then it’s more likely that you’ll be there when they actually need help.”
He tips his head to one side. “I guess that makes sense. So, what’s number two, then?”
“Don’t treat her like you’re scared of her. Like she’s a baby tiger or something, and if you’re not careful she’ll scratch your face off.”
“I don’t do that!”
I stare at him, unblinking.
“Okay. Maybe I do that. But I just wouldn’t know what to do if she ever had a meltdown.”
“You’ve dealt with my meltdowns. You’d do better than you think.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“It just is. Kids are scary. They’re ruthless.”
Ainsley comes running up to us. She runs like one of those giant blow-up dancing dolls outside car dealerships. All elbows and unexpected knees.
“Hit me!” she says, and opens her mouth like a baby bird. I take her water bottle and aggressively hydrate her. She laughs when some accidentally shoots into her hair. She turns and runs full speed back to the swings, which she lands on belly first, arms out, up up up halfway to the sky and back back back.
“Yes. Ruthless,” I deadpan.
When it’s time to go, I corral Ainsley, and Miles is right behind us. He’s got a small Nancy Drew–style notebook and a little stub of a pencil. He’s furiously writing something down, following in our wake.
Ainsley and I walk, holding hands and swinging our arms in wider and wider arcs until she almost falls down.
“Hey,” I say. “What do you think your teacher’s cooking for dinner tonight?”
She squints up at me. “Mr. Landry?”
“Yeah.”
She looks into nothing, her hair sticking up every which way and her giant Prince concert tee falling off one shoulder. “Um…he told us once that lasagna is the food of the gods. So, probably lasagna.”
I’m delighted with that answer. “Like Garfield!”
“That cat on your one shirt?”
“Yeah, he’s obsessed with lasagna.”
“Why are people obsessed with lasagna?” she asks. “I mean, it’s all right, but…”
“Miles,” I prompt. “What do you think?”
“Why people are obsessed with lasagna? I…I don’t know.”
And that’s all he says.
Ainsley was staring up at him expectantly but then looks away, bored, kicking at a rock and nearly pulling my arm out of the socket when she trips for a second.
“People are obsessed with lasagna because cheese is actually three of the five food groups,” I inform her sagely.
“That’s not—” Miles tries to cut in, but I speak over him.
“What do you think Miles is going to have for dinner?” I ask her.
“Ummmm.” She eyes him for a second. “Chicken noodle soup?”
“No way,” I cut in. “He’s a…protein shake, salad-hold-the-dressing type of guy.”
“What?” He looks so incredulous that even Ainsley laughs.
“Okay, right. If I’m making a serious guess, I’d say that Miles could eat sandwiches every meal for the rest of his life and not get tired of it.”
He looks like he’s about to argue but then shrugs in concession.
And now I’ve made it to the real issue. “And your mom? What is she gonna have for dinner?”
The mirth leaves Ainsley’s eyes. “I don’t know. Sushi? That’s what she gets sometimes with clients.”
“Oh. She’s not coming home for dinner again tonight?” Miles asks.
“No,” Ainsley grumbles, looking down at her shoes. She drops my hand and fiddles with her backpack, her eyes still on the ground.
“That’s like the fifth time this week,” Miles observes (un)helpfully.
Ainsley is shrinking down into her thoughts, her shoulders caving in and her backpack suddenly looking huge on her back.
Miles jolts when he catches my eye. I probably look like I’m attempting to turn him into a mushroom with nothing but the power of my glare.
Ainsley takes my hand to cross the street, but once we make it to her block she runs ahead and disappears into the lobby.
“Well, that didn’t go well,” I inform Miles.
“Yeah. I gathered that. How’d I get it wrong?”
“I was trying to find a way to get her talking instead of hearing more adult opinions. Yes, we all know that Reese is gone a lot and it obviously bugs Ainsley, but what we don’t know is how Ainsley actually feels about it all. If I want to know how you feel about it, I’ll just ask you. But that’s not how it works with Ains.”
He’s quiet. We make it to the lobby of the building and, as previously promised, she’s waiting for us with the doorman, talking to him while he leans down to hear her. As soon as he sees us he stiffens and steps out to formally open the door.
His name is Emil. He’s Ukrainian and a big soccer fan. I had to pry this information out of him. He’s so painfully professional it borders on rude. I’m certain that on the inside he’s a sugar cookie. Someday, after fifty years of marriage, we’ll soak our feet side by side while we watch television and unwrap each other’s Hershey’s kisses.
“Really?” Miles says, studying my face as the three of us pile into the elevator to head up to the apartment. “He’s like ten years old.”
“He’s twenty-two.”
“Regardless, he’s not old enough for you.”
I shrug. “I’ve got time.”
Miles laughs and drags a hand over his face.
When we arrive, Ainsley kicks off her shoes and scampers into the bowels of the apartment, away from the adults as fast as possible. Miles moves to go after her.
“Miles.”
He turns.
“Let her do her own thing.”
“You’re not even going to check on her?” he asks. When I first met him, all I would have heard was judgment in that question. But now I can hear his earnest concern and confusion.
“Kids usually need some space after school. She’ll come out when she’s hungry.”
He’s posed, looking over his shoulder at me, and behind him Reese’s gigantic black-and-white photographs loom. A face in the photo comes into focus next to his. Something big finally clicks.
“Come on,” I say, leading him into the apartment. “Let’s get her snack ready.”
We head to the kitchen and I dig out some spinach artichoke dip and chips.
He dips a chip with an absurd amount of dip and hands it to me. “Eat.”
I’m not hungry, but once a chip is dipped, what are you supposed to do?
“So,” he says after a while, sitting back and dusting chip dust off his hands. “The whole what-are-they-eating-for-dinner thing, that was you backing into talking about Reese?”
I nod. “Sort of…I’ve noticed that kids rarely answer direct questions. How do you feel about your mom’s work schedule? Those kinds of questions feel like a quiz. And she knows what she’s supposed to say. It’s fine. Canned answer, right? But if you can get a kid talking about their life in a different way then you’ll usually get more insight into how they actually feel.”
He nods. Thinks. Nods. Then pulls out that little Nancy Drew notebook and writes something down.
“This is good stuff. Gimme more,” he says.
I press two fingers to each temple and close my eyes. “Condensing a lifetime of experience into a few simple sentences…Okay, well, kids are actually pretty easy. If you can figure out how to feed and water them in a calm place, they’ll mostly be all right. Most meltdowns are because they’re hungry or thirsty or tired or overstimulated. So if you can meet their immediate needs in a low-key way, everything will probably be all right.”
“What about an emotional meltdown? Like when Ainsley misses Reese?”
“Well, a little comfort goes a long way. And then distract her. TV or a game or a book or an errand.”
“So…that’s why you set Ainsley up with TV right off the bat that very first day.”
“Yup.”
“I had thought you were being lazy.”
“But…”
“You were actually strategizing.”
“Like I said, I’ve been nannying for a long time.”
“How long?”
“I babysat for my neighborhood since I was twelve, but I got my first real experience as an au pair in Spain when I was seventeen.”
“How long were you there?”
“Three months. Right after graduation. But then Lou got sick and I came home. Nannying here paid well and for the most part I was able to mold a lot of my hours around Lou, to help take care of her. It worked for us.”
“Did you mostly take long-term gigs at that point?”
“Yeah. My first family in the States was for four years. The second was for three and the last was for two. They’re the ones who recommended me to Reese. I started doing short-term stuff when Lou really needed my time and energy, toward the end.”
“And now you’ve just been floating from gig to gig like Mary Poppins.”
“Ah, Mary Poppins, the OG commitment-phobe.”
I clear my throat. “So…” I start. “As long as we’re asking each other wildly personal questions…”
He hums to show he’s listening, but he’s still writing in his notebook.
“What was it like growing up with a famous dad?”
He abruptly stops writing but doesn’t look up at me. For a long moment, I think maybe I got it wrong, or maybe I got it right, but he’s not going to answer. But then he says, “It was…not fun.”
“When she described you as Ainsley’s uncle, I wasn’t sure in which way she meant, but…You and Reese are brother and sister?”
He nods, eyes still cast down. “Half. Through our dad.”
He tips his head toward yet another picture of Carp Hollis on the wall. I realize all at once that not only did Miles lose his mother and cousin ten years ago, he also lost his father a year and a half ago.
I study the photo and realize that it looks even more like Miles than the black-and-white ones in the entryway.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching across the table to give his hand a quick squeeze. “I feel silly for not having noticed the resemblance before.”
I pull my hand back and he flattens his own against the table. “Thanks. It’s okay. We weren’t close. Not until the last few months of his life, anyway.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t put it together sooner.”
He waves a hand. “Why would you? We don’t even have the same last name.”
“Honey was your mom’s name?”
He nods, writes one last thing down, and then slides his notebook away.
“So,” I say, tracing a flower in the place mat under my elbows. “You’ve only known Ainsley for two years. Does that mean you and Reese—”
“Hel-lo!” The front door slams and Reese is home.
Miles stands up and steps away from the chips and dip, like he doesn’t want to get caught mooching off Reese.
Reese comes into the kitchen and shoots me a grin when she sees me sitting at the table. Her grin abruptly freezes when she spots Miles standing in the middle of the kitchen with his hands in his pockets.
“Oh. Hi.”
It’s distinctly awkward.
“You’re home early,” I say.
“Yes! I…” She glances at Miles. “Ainsley seemed really bummed when I told her I’d miss dinner. So…”
“I was just seeing Lenny and Ainsley for a little bit,” Miles says. He clears his throat. “Is it okay with you if I…hang out with them a lot?”
OMG. He said he was going to ask her if it was okay, but this is what he meant? Just casual as hell and in front of me ?
“Oh.” She looks stymied. “I’ll talk to Ainsley and Lenny about it, I guess.”
Subtext: without you here looming like Batman.
He seems to glean at least that much and nods. “All right. Okay. Well, see you all later.”
Miles leaves and Reese goes to check on Ainsley. I remember at the last second that I was supposed to get Ainsley’s lunch for tomorrow all set before I leave. I’m just cutting the crust off a turkey sandwich when Reese comes back into the kitchen. She’s changed out of her business suit and is wearing expensive yoga gear again. She snags the crusts I’ve just cut and eats them while leaning against the counter.
“So…this Miles thing.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I told him to clear it with you but I didn’t think he’d do it…that way.”
“ I’m sorry…He must have totally ambushed you. And I’m sure you just want to do your job without him hanging around. Maybe I should have put my foot down that first day you came here, when he insisted on staying with you two…but I just couldn’t argue with him about it anymore.”
To my surprise, I feel a tiny prickle of annoyance at Reese. “It doesn’t bother me.”
Reese blinks. Her eyes narrow in confusion. “Oh. I mean…if it’s okay with you…”
She lets it hang there and I know what she’s really saying: Why the hell would this be okay with you?
“He wants to spend time with Ainsley,” I attempt to explain. “And he knows that when you get home from work your time with her is really precious. He doesn’t want to get in the way.”
More blinking. “Well…okay. If it starts to bother you, just tell me.”
I wave goodbye to Reese, shout down the hallway to Ainsley, and then head out, nearly tripping over something waiting for me in the hallway. It’s a Tupperware with a sticky note stuck to the top. Eat this, it says.
What a poet.