Chapter Three
Alisha
I close my front door and lean against the wood, vowing to leave the emotional turmoil of my day here on the threshold. The first day working for Charles was a nightmare - I hope tomorrow will be better. I'm not about to hold my breath, though, because Charles is not easy to get along with.
I can't stop thinking about that dominating gray stare of his, or how his dark hair seemed to catch every bit of light and reflect it back, or the absolutely emotionless set to his features he seemed to always have. Forget resting diva face , he has resting robot face . For an impossibly good-looking guy, he managed to bring himself down to a lukewarm attractiveness through actions and attitude alone.
I take a deep breath. These thoughts don't belong in my home and I’m not letting them stay. With another deep breath, I reach down, turn the knob, and open the door, as if physically shooing out the negative thoughts. I don’t want them here. They can leave now.
Instead, I try to divert my thoughts to my plans for the night. My heart leaps and I make my way through the kitchen with light steps. I continue down the hallway and toward her room. The door is open a crack and the pretty jellyfish night light illuminates the room. She's curled up under her jellyfish bedspread as the pale blue and green lights bathe her face in a delicate glow.
Pushing the door open slowly so it doesn't make a sound, I creep in and squat beside her bed. Her blonde curls frame her rounded face, and her lashes seem impossibly long as they fan across her cheeks. As a smile crosses my face, love fills my whole being as I realize no matter what I have to put up with in a day, she makes all the worst - and best - moments worth it. Careful not to wake her, I lean in and press a kiss to her warm cheek.
I wish she’d been awake when I got home so I could tell her goodnight and how much I love her and listen to every detail about her day.
Instead, I slip out of her room, as stealthy as a ghost. Even though it's still early, I have no doubt that my mom is also in bed sleeping in the guest room like we’d agreed.
With a heavy heart and hating how much of my daughter's life I miss by having to work, I make my way out into the living room.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I neglected dinner in my rush home, hoping I’d get a few moments with my daughter. I wander into the living room, then into the kitchen, trying to decide if I should have some dinner. But the house is so silent and I feel completely alone.
Food doesn't sound good. The only thing that sounds good is going to bed, curling up in a ball under my blankets, and letting the hot, silent tears flow.
So with a world-weary sigh, I make my way to my room and change into my pjs.
The weight of loss crushes my chest as I smile at the pink sheep pjs my daughter bought me for Mother’s Day. They say “sheep walker” in random places and the sheep are all dressed in their own pjs. The amount of convincing it took for me to get myself to take on this new job doesn't seem worth it when I come home to a quiet house.
I miss my daughter.
That probably sounds stupid because I literally just saw her and gave her a kiss, but it's just not the same as actually spending time with her. I already feel robbed of time because she goes to preschool two days a week. Working in the super early hours of the morning until it’s time to come home and get her up seemed so perfect. But now, with the added pressure, bills and inflation, getting a second job had become necessary... and the pay that Charles had been offering was just too tempting to pass up.
I climb in bed and curl up under my heavy comforter and sheet. In the fetal position, I stare at the wall, thinking about my life. I wonder if things would have been easier if I had told her father that she exists... or if he’d have called me a liar and refused to accept her.
Obviously in today's day and age, a DNA test would change his mind really quick. But none of that matters because he'd gotten married soon after I found out I was pregnant, and there was no way I was going to tear his life - and his new wife’s life, for that matter - apart to make my own life easier. Maybe someday I'll tell him the truth, but for now, I honestly don't mind being the center of her world, because she's the center of mine. I can't bear the thought of telling him the truth only to have him not love her like I do.
Realizing that the troubling thoughts are trying to take over again, I take a deep breath as my bed shifts under foreign weight.
“I missed you, Mommy.” She curls up against me, her tiny arm across my throat as she stretches out. I can’t speak around the painful lump in my throat, and her breathing deepens nearly instantly.
I missed her so much today, and I'm grateful for her, and love her so much. And now, with her warm body curled up in bed with me, I feel happy, loved, and appreciated. Knowing she’d woken up and come to me and didn’t even care if I woke up and acknowledged her, just to tell me she missed me... it’s heartbreakingly sweet and beautiful. A tear slips from the corner of my eye across the bridge of my nose to dot my pillow.
These precious moments with her - they’re the moments I live for. The moments that make putting up with jerks like Charles worthwhile. And as her warmth seeps into my bones, my body relaxes, and I begin to drift off to sleep.
All morning long I've been dragging my feet, making our rituals last longer than they're supposed to, just so I can spend every extra second with her.
But now with her fed and dressed and her hair done, there’s no more excuses for me to stay.
“I could have done all that.” But even as she says the words, my momma's knowing glance tells me she understands why I'm still home. She places a hand on my shoulder as my daughter runs into the living room. “These moments go quick; it's good that you know to savor them.”
“I feel like she was just born and I blinked.”
My mom nods her head in agreement. “Wait till she's eighteen, or twenty-three, or thirty. Time only goes faster the older we get.”
“If you're trying to make me feel better, you are failing miserably.” I flash a smile at my mom, but only to keep myself from crying.
“Was I supposed to be making you feel better? I’m sorry.” She lifts both shoulders.
“I just want to thank you again for doing this on such short notice. I'm looking into longer term care as I figure out what my hours are, but I'm really glad you're here.”
My mom waves away my thoughts. “Oh, stop it. You know I'm glad to be here.”
“How is dad managing without someone to cook for him?” I can't help but poke fun at their ultra-traditional marriage. I'd have gone crazy having to mother my husband, but my mom has managed for a long time.
“I'm sure he's getting really tired of sandwiches.” There's a wicked sparkle in her eye, and I realize that she's having way too much fun thinking about how miserable dad must be without her. I giggle. Sandwiches are about the only thing he’s capable of making for himself, so I’m not surprised.
“Who knows, maybe he'll pick up some new skills while you’re gone.”
She stares me dead in the eyes without so much as cracking a smile. “Like what? How to boil pasta?” She snorts. “Don’t count on it.”
“Okay, I'd better go.” It's not that I mind standing here listening to her rip on my dad. It's that I worry that she'll get bitter if she continues ripping on my dad. Last thing I need right now is for them to divorce because she realizes just how unhappy she is… unless divorce would make her happy and then maybe they have my blessing. I'm just not sure I have the emotional headspace to think about that right now too.
I follow my daughter into the living room and give her a quick hug. “I love you; I miss you and I will see you later today, okay?”
She nods, not even looking up from her coloring pages. “Love you, Mommy!” With that, she puts down her crayons, stands up and throws her arms around my shoulders, and squeezes me tight.
Every bit of my willpower goes into walking out that door. I keep reminding myself that I need the job, we need the money.
So why does this feel so wrong?
I don't even remember the drive to Charles' house, but when I get there, I sit outside and stare at the front door, my heart sinking to my shoes. I'm not looking forward to the battle of wills I know is going to happen today.
With a sigh, I get out and walk up to the front door, punching in the code, but the door opens before I can put in the final number. Charles stands on the other side, glaring down at me with a look of distaste.
“Hello, Charles. Is your mother here today?” I try to peek past him into the house, but he shakes his head no while blocking my view.
“Well, that's a shame.” With that, I push past him into the house and make my way toward the kitchen. I already have several recipes for the day in mind, but I feel his gaze and know he’s followed me in. I wait a moment, hoping he’ll leave, but he doesn't.
So I turn to face him, crossing my arms and letting out a sigh. “I can feel you glaring holes into me. What do you need?”
He's leaning against the wall letting into the kitchen, watching me. “I need you to make sure there's plenty of meat in your meals today.”
I let out a sigh, trying to decide if I even want to bother with the fight today. Why do I care more than he does about how healthy he is or how long he'll live? The answer is pretty simple. I don't think I can live with myself if somebody that I'm cooking for dies, even if they die because of their own unhealthy choices. But actively harming someone's health goes against the core reason I chose this profession.
“You're eating too much meat.” I'm not proud that I say the words almost as a question in such a soft voice that there's no authority behind them. But even my gently-spoken words seem to infuriate him more.
“Have you run any blood work on me, or any tests, or spoken with my doctor?” He arches an eyebrow, and I know exactly where he's going with this line of questioning, but it doesn't matter. Right now I'm wasting valuable prep time that I could be spending getting his meals together because he wants to argue about whether or not he's right about how much protein he consumes, even though I already told him the amount of protein he can consume per meal without just peeing the rest out.
“You know I haven't done any of those things, but I promise you no decent self-respecting real doctor would tell you that more than thirty grams of protein per meal is acceptable or safe.” I'm sure I could get into how hard he's making his liver and kidneys work to pass that extra protein or I could let him keep being wrong. The question is, if something bad happens to him while I'm cooking for him, can I live with myself?
“For ethical reasons alone, I'm starting to think it'd be better for me to walk away from this job.” Of course, I hate the thought of that because it's good money, but I'm not the kind of person who will sacrifice my morals for moolah.
“See. You just don't get it.” He straightens up and stalks toward me, and I resist the urge to take a step back. There's something so commanding and physically overbearing about him that I don’t like his sudden approach, but I don’t - in my heart of hearts - think he’d hurt me.
He stops right in front of me and leans in so close I can feel his warm breath on my face. Maybe because he's so close, he lowers his voice to a growl that makes my heart beat wildly like a wounded animal seeking escape.
“I'd rather die than give up the foods I love.”
Doesn't he realize by eating the foods he loves in excess, he's going to kill himself? “Well, good, because that's exactly what's going to happen if you keep overconsuming meats.” His eyes narrow when I lean in closer for effect, then realize I’ve made a mistake. Our lips are only inches apart and judging by the surprise in his eyes, he probably thought I was about to kiss him. A thought that sends unexpected - and unwelcome - warmth through my center. “How long has it been since your doctor checked your cholesterol?”
He lifts a single shoulder, and I can tell I've rattled him, but I'm not sure if it's because of the thought that I might kiss him or the question about his health. Now I'm glad I leaned in; maybe this moment will engrain the memory in his mind, and he’ll start thinking twice about his bad choices.
“It doesn't matter; I’d still rather die than give up meat.”
“You’d do that to your mother, kill yourself because of food?” The fact that he's doubling down on this point makes me angry. What kind of monster would put their mother through the heartbreak of having to bury their son?
“Don't bring my mother into this. I know you two are friends, but that's not acceptable.”
I poke an index finger against his chest. “I love your mother. She is a wonderful woman, but that's not the point. Your choices are selfish and short sighted.”
His eyes narrow. “You seem to forget that I hired you to cook, not ask questions, not critique my life, not look out for my mother.”
Every statement tears through my torso like a bullet, and I drag in a ragged breath.
He's right. He didn't hire me to ask questions, critique his life, or look out for his mother, or even to protect his health.
“I'm going to have to draw up another form.” I pause for just a moment and watch his eyebrows lift. Only when I can tell he’s hanging on my every word do I continue speaking. “One that protects me from liability in case you drop dead of a heart attack while I'm working for you.”