2. The Ghost of a Victorian Child
TWO
THE GHOST OF A VICTORIAN CHILD
? Espresso - Sabrina Carpenter
NOAH
At five a.m. like clockwork, Clio’s alarm blares through the paper-thin walls.
It’s not a normal alarm—it’s one of those agitating ones that could revive Tinkerbell.
Next comes what she affectionately calls her hype girl playlist, followed by the sound of pans clanking and the coffee maker gurgling and spluttering.
I smash a pillow over my face to drown out the noise and close my eyes, hoping to fall back to sleep. But now I see her, clear as day, wearing those overalls she wore when she moved in. Even my memories are determined to torment me into insanity.
We live above my tattoo parlor in my shithole hometown. I don’t know where Clio’s from, but if I had to guess, I’d say my own personal hell. She blew in on a breeze last year like Mary fucking Poppins, taking up residence in my apartment building and under my goddamn skin.
It used to be one big open-plan apartment up here, but it was way too much space for a single guy with no kids, so I hired my buddy, Miles, to split it into two units. I hadn’t accounted for how thin the walls would be.
When the incessant noise continues for longer than usual, I throw open my apartment door and charge across the hall to bang on hers.
As the wood panel swings open, Clio’s green eyes are sparkling, and she’s wearing that same bright smile that never seems to falter, no matter how many times we’ve done this back and forth.
“Oh. Hi, Noah. I just finished making breakfast. Want some?”
I cross my arms in front of me. “No.”
“Ok.” There’s a long pause before she speaks again. “What can I do for you?”
“You can keep it down. You know, like the last eight hundred times I’ve asked.”
“Right. Sorry. I’m still not used to living in an apartment.” She scrunches up her nose in that adorable way of hers.
No. Not adorable—this hellion is anything but. She’s annoying, loud, and fuck… did she paint those jeans on?
I shake myself out of it. “This is your last warning.”
She snorts and echoes the words back in a mocking tone. “This is your last warning.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?”
She clears her throat and straightens her spine, her lips twitching as she fails to hold back her smile. “I’m very sorry, sir. I will endeavor to do better in the future.”
“You said that last time.” I rub at my temples to dull the oncoming headache. “Look, your lease is up next month. If this keeps happening, I’ll have to find a new tenant."
She rushes forward and grips my forearm, her eyes wide. “No. Please.”
I shrug her off, and the absence of her leaves behind a weird prickling sensation. I must be allergic to her lotion or something. “One month. If I have to come over here again…”
“You won’t. Cross my heart.” As the last three words leave her lips, she makes an X across her chest with her finger, drawing my attention to her generous figure. A figure I have no business noticing.
I don’t have a type—man, woman, tall, short, blonde, brunette—none of it matters. There's just something about a soft body that really does it for me. This soft woman definitely does not do it for me, though, and it has nothing to do with her body.
Lexi appears behind her with a waffle shoved between her teeth, swinging a backpack onto her shoulder. As she gets to the door, she takes a bite and mumbles, “Gotta go. Love you.”
Clio pulls her in for a one-armed hug and air kisses her cheek. “Aunt Callie will meet you at the library after school.”
“Ok. Bye, Mom.”
I step to the side as she rushes past me.
“Hi, Noah. Bye, Noah.”
“See ya, kid.”
Lexi is basically a blonder version of her mom but a lot less annoying. She reminds me of my sister when she was that age—easy-going and friendly. She’s like a wind-up toy but with endless energy.
“Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast? I made waffles.” Clio drags out the word waffles in a sing-song voice that grates on my nerves.
They smell incredible, but I’m not here for that.
“One month,” I rasp, striding back to my apartment and slamming the door shut behind me. With any luck, she’ll be loading her shit into a moving van in thirty days or less, and I’ll be the one holding the bucket of popcorn.
Auggie materializes out of his bedroom like the ghost of a Victorian child, rubbing at his eyes.
“Holy shit. Say something next time, Auggie.”
After three weeks, I’m still not used to him living with me. I was only in his life for two years before Jonah cut off contact, and it hasn’t been easy encouraging Auggie to open up to me, but we’re getting there. My sister has been a huge help.
“Want some breakfast?” I ask.
Auggie frowns at me, but he doesn’t respond.
Great. He’s not wearing his cochlear implants today.
“Where are your ears?” I ask, making a vague gesture. I only know a few signs—eat, all done, more, please, and thank you. It was enough to get me by when Auggie was two, but he’s grown a lot since then, and his ASL has far surpassed mine. I’m looking into lessons, but my schedule is chaotic.
Once Auggie starts preschool, I’ll have more time to learn.
“Be right back.” He dashes off to his bedroom and returns with what he affectionately calls his ears.
It’s basically the external processor that attaches to the implants magnetically, allowing him to perceive sounds and voices.
They connect to my phone via Bluetooth, so I can adjust the settings.
He received them through a non-profit organization when he was eighteen months old, and now they’re decorated with a set of blue stickers Emma gave him.
He yawns, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m hungry.”
“Cereal or waffles?” The latter won’t be homemade like Clio’s, but I never claimed to be a chef.
“Chicken nuggets,” he replies with a look of determination.
“You can’t have nugs for breakfast, my dude,” I instruct in a gentle tone, knowing he’s not going to like that answer. “Pick something else.”
“Nuh uh. One time, I saw a video, and they had chicken and waffles for breakfast.”
I cross my arms and lean back against the kitchen counter. “That’s different, Auggie.”
He goes silent, and I assume he’s considering the options. Apparently, I underestimated him.
“Can I have nuggets and waffles, then?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, searching for patience. “I—you know what, I can’t even argue with that. Go play, and I’ll call you when they’re ready.”
He fist pumps the air and scurries off to the living room, where his tablet stays plugged in to charge overnight. Maybe I should limit his screen time, so I don’t get caught up in another chicken nugget debate.
Fucking hell.
I never wanted kids, so this parenting thing isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. It’s not a moral issue or anything against children, but to have them, you need to have a partner, and I have no intention of shacking up with anyone now or in the future.
I don’t know the first thing about talking to kids, but Auggie’s like a tiny adult. He’s brilliant. I don’t feel the need to oversimplify things for him.
I toss a handful of nuggets into the air fryer and put two waffles in the toaster.
Less than ten minutes later, breakfast is served.
I help Auggie onto one of the stools at my kitchen island and take up the space across from him.
He dips his chicken nuggets into a heaping pile of ketchup, ignoring the waffles on the other side of the plate.
I know he played me; I’m not a complete idiot.
“When you’re done eating, we have to get ready for school. You’re meeting your teacher today.”
“Do I have to?” Auggie mumbles with his mouth full of chicken.
“It’s only a half day, then Aunt Emma will take you for ice cream. How does that sound?”
He perks up. Whether it’s the promise of treats or a visit with his aunt, I can’t be sure. Auggie loves Emma. I tried to get her to take him instead, but her photography career has really taken off, and she travels too much. She helps out when she can, and I’m thankful for the support.
I hold Auggie’s backpack in one hand as he clings to the other, and we make our way up the front steps to Willow Valley Elementary.
They run the preschool program in the same building as the school-age kids to get them acclimated early.
I stop by the front desk to meet with the preschool director, Carla Howard.
She’s in her sixties with greying hair and a pinched smile.
“Hello, August. It’s very nice to meet you. My name is Mrs. Howard.”
Auggie squeezes my hand and hides behind my leg.
“He’s a little nervous around new people.” I crouch to his level. “You got your ears on?”
He nods.
I ruffle his curls. “You’re gonna do great. You’ll make a bunch of new friends and have the best time, ok, bud?”
He gives me a skeptical look.
Taking a page out of Clio’s book, I make an X across my chest. “Cross my heart.”
“Would you like me to take you to meet your new teacher?” Carla asks Auggie.
He gives her a slightly more confident nod, and she beams at him. “Follow me.”
We walk past a bank of cubbies filled with coats and backpacks as a cheerful voice drifts into the hallway.
When the classroom comes into view, the first thing I see is a shock of red hair.
Clio’s eyes widen when she sees me standing in the doorway before they trail down to the child still clinging to my hand.
A bright smile lights up her face as she holds up her hand and waves at Auggie.
She folds the book in her lap and stands from the beanbag chair she’d been perched in. “Everybody, catch a bubble.” She inhales, then puffs out her cheeks, pressing a finger to her pursed lips. The class of about ten children gathered in a circle around the rug instantly mimics her movement.
“Good job,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”
I knew Clio was a teacher, but I never cared enough to ask what grade. Somehow, it makes perfect sense.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Carla says, taking her leave.
“Thanks, Carla.” Clio reaches the open door in three strides and crouches down to eye level with Auggie, ignoring my presence.