2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Charles
I hold Cece’s hand as we enter the penthouse apartment. She seems to have forgiven me. My baby girl was fond of playing the “you don’t love me” card when she didn’t get her own way.
Em and I had both spoiled her. She was the only cement that held us together in the last year or two. We’d had a whirlwind love affair that ended in a Vegas wedding just before I deployed, but we had grown so far apart, even before Cece’s birth. I was almost constantly on duty overseas.
Emily was the perfect military wife: devoted to her career, taking care of Cece, and keeping up my home so I’d have a place to return to. My leaves were brief, so we didn’t have to pretend very hard for Cece and Em’s parents. It got even easier after Em’s parents, who were missionaries, contracted viral hemorrhagic fever and died within hours of each other.
I guess you could say we had a hard-luck life in spite of having plenty of money. My parents were killed in an airplane crash not long after my first deployment. Probably just as well.
They would have been horrified that I had left running the company to a hired CEO, but James did a good job for me. And the salary I paid him let him save his family’s farm.
Then I had my accident and been laid up for months. When I got home, Em decided it was her turn to travel. But we’d done our best to make sure that Cece always knew that she was loved. That part, at least, wasn’t hard at all.
As we enter, the vestibule is quiet, and so is the entry hall and living room. But there is a faint sound of voices from deeper in the apartment.
Cece tugs me farther through the house, through the living room, then the dining room, and into the kitchen where Manuela, our cook, and Sherry, our maid, sit at the kitchen table talking quietly while peeling vegetables. Both wear masks and gloves.
Manuela has always been scrupulous about sanitation. But since we had gotten word about Emily Jean and the strange new illness, she had been extra careful. Her salt and pepper dark hair is drawn back into a professional bun and covered with a hair net. As always, she looks professional and proper. She gives Cece an elbow hug as the little girl flings her arms around the cook’s plump waist.
“How are you, Mr. Emory?” she asks, her voice warm with sympathy.
“Well enough,” I reply. “What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken sinigang ,“ Sherry puts in. “Manuela is teaching me how to make it. So exciting!” The girl gives a little bounce, then looks downward at the vegetables.
Sherry was one of Emily Jean’s proteges. She had not gone with her mentor to the fatal conference because it had been midterms week at the college when Em left. She now looks embarrassed at what might have been misplaced enthusiasm.
“It’s all right, Sherry,” I assure her. “The world goes on. Manuela, thank you for planning something warm and comforting.”
“Can I have a cookie?” Cece asks. “It was cold outside and the movie guy talked a long time. I’m hungry.”
“Maybe a sandwich to go with your cookie?” Manuela suggests, glancing at me to ask permission.
“That sounds like a good idea,” I say, even though nausea roils my stomach at the thought of food. “And some juice or milk to go with it.”
“Would you like a plate, Mr. Emory?” Manuela asks, going to one of the large cabinets to take down utensils.
“No, thank you. I can easily wait until dinner.”
Cece gets out her booster seat, brings it over and puts it on one of the kitchen chairs. My wife and I had both encouraged her to be independent and to do things for herself.
“Sit with me, Daddy?” she asks.
I need to go into my office and check my email. My secretary knew what was going on in my life and had been more than supportive. But there are decisions that she cannot make.
More than that, I am not the only person in my company who is feeling the worry and stress. No one knows for sure what will happen in the next few days.
But my daughter is trying to be brave for me, and she is only four years old. The least I can do is sit down beside her while she eats her sandwich and cookie.
The kitchen is very quiet while Manuela and Sherry start the soup and clean up after their preparations. The aroma of the simmering soup soon fills the kitchen. Did Manuela remember that sinigang was one of Em’s favorite foods?
Probably not. The middle-aged cook has been with us ever since Cece was a baby. Cece loves sinigang, too, and it had been hard to get her to eat her meals lately. She is already thin, but my wife, and the pediatrician I’d asked to give second opinion, both assured me that my steadfast little soldier is perfectly healthy.
Cece made it through one fourth of a tuna sandwich, half a cookie and a half glass of milk. “I’m full,” she says, pushing her plate away.
“Time for a nap,” I say.
“I don’t wanna take a nap,” she protests. “Mommy doesn’t make me take naps. You can call her and ask her. She’ll tell you to let me watch TV instead.”
I’m not used to being dad on duty. It was only eighteen months ago, after a transport truck had exploded under me, that I’d been put on convalescent leave and then on desk duty, before formally mustering out to enlist in the reserves. I had an office in the apartment and was frequently home, but Emily did most of the active parenting.
Then, in February, she’d been offered an opportunity to speak at a conference on contagious diseases. She left on March first and was only supposed to be gone for two weeks.
When Em first went, I had called her often for backup and support. After we had gone through this routine a couple of times, she firmly put her foot down.
“At age four, Cece needs to lie down quietly after lunch. She might not sleep, but she should relax and be still. It is good for her, and it will give her caregiver a chance to do other things. You can tell her this, Chief , and you do not need my backup to get a preschooler to take a nap.”
Should I give in? Should I be firm? I can play the recording we had made for Cece to listen to when she played the “Mommy let’s me” card. But is that fair to Cece? Her mommy isn’t coming back. We can’t go to the daycare and pick her up, or from her work, or the airport.
I’m on my own. I could be firm today or live with the consequences later .
I turn my face toward the window so I could not see the concerned looks from the household staff. There was a gaping space in my life where my wife, my best friend and most reliable business partner used to be. And here is a little girl who needs her daddy. I have to make a choice. Man up, Charlie. This isn’t going to get any easier.
“It is time for your nap,” I say, turning back to face my daughter. “But I’ll make you a deal. If you will lie down quietly and not fuss, I will read a book to you.”
“Two books, Daddy!” The little minx already knew the power she had over me. Her soft brown hair, still slightly damp from the moisture in the air outside, curls wildly all over her head. Her big blue eyes, so like her mother’s, look up at me hopefully.
“All right,” I say. “But I get to pick them. We are not going to read Alice in Wonderland. If you want a long book, we will read two chapters.”
Cece giggles at that. “Ok, Daddy.”
I’m so proud of her. She is being so good. I’m pretty sure that Miss Bailey had been right, that her feet were wet, so I send Sherry to help her change into jammies and to make sure she brushes her teeth.
While they are doing that, I turn down the bed and look for a selection of books. I could thank Em for this skill. She’d pointed out over and over that if you limit the choices, but do give a choice, there will be less trouble.
Knowing I have limited time, I pull out two Dr. Seuss books, a favorite tell-a-tale book about a little cat, and a puppet book that lets you put your fingers through the pages to animate the story.
By the time Sherry has Cece out of her funeral clothes and into jammies, I am ready for her.
Cece cheerfully climbs into her bed, and I settle into the chair beside her .
“You gotta hold the book so I can see it,” Cece directs.
Obediently, I turn the illustrated page so she can see what is on it. She listens attentively to the end, then pays attention to the clown antics I give the finger puppet in the other book.
When it is finished, she asks, “Can I have a drink of water, please Daddy?”
Inwardly, I groan. I knew what was coming next, but how could I refuse her? I bring a cup of water.
She downs it, then whispers loudly, “I gotta go potty!”
“Can you manage by yourself?” I ask.
“I’m a big girl,” she says proudly. “I can do it.”
When she comes back, she says, “I’m all waked up now. Can I get up?”
“Maybe not quite yet,” I hedge. “How about if I sing to you?”
“Okay,” she agrees. “The frog song? ALL the verses of it?”
“Sure,” I say and begin to sing “Froggie went a-courtin’,” from the proposal to Miss Mousie, straight on through to the ride on the lake, and even the ending verse about bread and cheese on the shelf.
I manage not to tear up, but it is a near thing. Em and I used to harmonize on the chorus. We might not have agreed about everything, but we both loved to sing, especially for Cece.
I’m hopeful that I would now see a sleeping child. But, no. Two bright blue eyes look up at me. “You sing good,” she says. “I listened to every bit of it. Can I get up now?”
I think about the emails, bills, and messages waiting for me on my computer. It is now four o’clock in the afternoon. Manuela would have gone home an hour ago. Sherry will be setting the table for dinner soon.
“Would you like to sit at your little desk in my office and color for a while?” I asks.
“Sure!” my big girl says. “I can do that. ”
We go into the office, and each sit down at our desks. I ignore the other adult-sized desk in the room. In my memories, Em would be sitting there, either planning out the week ahead or doing her graduate school homework. But try as I might to envision her there, the chair and desk remain just as empty as they had been after she had left nearly a month ago.
Cece importantly sits down at her child-sized desk. We didn’t hand her care over to a nanny when she was at home unless we both had a heavy workload. Em had thought it was important for her to have contact with both of us as often as possible, especially after I came home. Remembering my own childhood of nannies, then tutors and sometimes boarding school, I could not disagree.
I’m not dissatisfied with my upbringing. My parents had set an example of competency, responsibility, and compassion. But neither of them were emotionally warm, and I was left with very little experience to fall back on as a father.
Cece is a continual revelation. At four years old, she has discovered so many methods of getting her own way. And I have a limited arsenal for getting her to follow a schedule, eat her vegetables, and to behave properly in company. My dearest, manipulative little girl would make a great diplomat.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask, envisioning her addressing the UN under a row of flags.
Cece looks up from the coloring book she had selected. The picture is of a rocket ship taking off. A girl with the classic bubble space helmet sits in the cockpit.
“An astronaut,” she says. “I will fly high up in the sky and go to the moon.”
I feel amusement bubble up inside me, and a little pride, too. “Where did you learn about astronauts?”
“At school. Miss Kate showed us a video of men really, really walking on the moon. And then she read a story about mice on the moon. They ate green cheese.”
Kate. James’ brat of a little sister. She’d blown up at me for making what she thought was a slighting remark about one of the kids at her high school. She’d read me the riot act for not closing gates, and she thought it was funny when I’d been upset that she spilled chocolate milk on my school uniform shirt.
Cece loves her, but it is about all I can do to be in the same room with her.
“Oh?” I say, letting the end of the syllable curl up, inviting more. Who knew what the young woman was teaching the kids.
Cece nods.
“Yep. The moon is made out of green cheese,” she states authoritatively. “After the picture book, we sang a song about a man who lives in the moon.”
She stands up, takes a deep breath and sings in an off-key treble, “There is a man lives inna moon, inna moon, inna moon, an’ his name is Aiken Drum.”
On a day when I thought I would never smile again, my girl brought me joy. Even though it makes me question Kate’s tutelage even more, because…green cheese? Really? I turn away to hide my smile. I won’t have to start planning her college career just quite yet.
“Daddy has some work to do,” I say. “Can you be extra, extra quiet like the mice on the moon?”
“The mice were kind of noisy,” Cece tells me. “But I can be extra, extra quiet.”
She settles down to coloring her rocket ship. I put my headphones on so I can listen to my voice mail and take notes.
Sherry puts her head in the door. “I gotta go, Mr. Emory. Mom and Dad want me home by dinner. Dad’s picking me up ’cause he doesn’t want me to take the bus or get an Uber.”
I pause the message on my answering service. “All right, Sherry. See you tomorrow?”
She frowns. “I hope so. Things are getting awfully weird.”
“Be safe,” I say. “Tell your dad hello, and don’t forget your mask.”
I go back to listening to the message on the phone. That is when I realized that I could not bring myself to talk about people dying from this strange new disease with Cece in the room. The topics are too sensitive to email, and I will not send my little girl out into the big apartment to watch television by herself.
I am going to need some help. Maybe Manuela could come in early tomorrow? I’ll send her a text message.