Chapter 5
Sutton
Water beads onto my chest as I scrub a second towel over my hair, the first snug around my hips.
I swipe at the droplets with the soft cotton before tossing the extra towel over the recliner in my living room at the top of the stairs.
I’ll pick it up in a few minutes when I head back down to get dressed.
“Merit.” I call my dog with a sharp whistle and walk to the back door. My faithful German shepherd trots out into the fenced yard to take care of her morning business. I fill a clean bowl with fresh water and leave her food bowl for Nellie to fill with kibble.
“Nellie-Jo, you hungry?” I call down the hall. I’ve always considered myself a morning person, but she has me beat most days. The few times a year she isn’t up before me are usually because she’s sick.
My little morning bird pokes her head out of her playroom with a sleepy grin.
“Can I have bacon?”
I close my eyes and tip my head back, rubbing the stubble on my chin. “I don’t know, Buttercup. We’re short on time.”
“Please, Daddy! I’m tired of cereal.”
“You love cereal,” I object, but I can already feel my resistance crumble.
“No, I don’t. It’s gross and dry.”
“That’s because you don’t eat it with any milk.”
“Milk makes it soggy.”
I glance at my watch. I have thirty minutes to wrap this up, get dressed, and have Nellie ready for school before Ms. Thompson shows up.
If she shows up.
I’m not yet convinced she isn’t as flaky as the paint on my mom’s antique Ford truck.
The relic is the only thing she kept from her marriage to my father, and she keeps it parked out on the front lawn, fading and worn from the drastic Minnesota elements, as if a warning to the bastard if he ever dared to come back around.
He loved that truck, and when he abandoned his marriage for his much younger assistant, she left it out to rust.
“Go pick out your clothes, and I’ll start some bacon.”
“Yippee!” She throws her arms straight over her head and cheers as if it isn’t six thirty in the morning on a Monday.
“Do you want eggs?”
“Runny nose eggs and toast.”
I choke on my laugh. “I’ve told you it’s just runny eggs. Or sunny side up.”
She shrugs. “It reminds me of a runny nose.”
The visual evokes such strong repulsion that I will not be enjoying eggs this morning.
“Go. I want you dressed and ready before Ms. Thompson gets here. I’ll do your hair after breakfast.”
“I can do my own hair.”
“You have dance after school,” I remind her. She can manage simple styles with clips, but hasn’t quite mastered the coordination required to produce a tight pony that’ll hold all day.
She leaves the playroom and heads downstairs without another word.
I set off for the kitchen as the rest of my morning takes shape.
Let in Merit.
Start the bacon in the oven.
Get dressed.
Fix Nellie’s hair.
Fry an egg and toast some bread.
By then, she can sit down to eat, and I can tie up loose ends while I wait for the doorbell to ring.
I feel confident in my plan of attack for all of twelve heartbeats before that plan starts going to shit.
Merit ignores my call for three minutes while she barks at a squirrel mocking her from the lone tree in the backyard.
In her old age, she’s started to become selective about which commands she wants to follow that day.
She finally gives up, and her proud trot tells me she doesn’t give a shit about my morning schedule.
She quenches her thirst before staring at me from beside her empty bowl with sad, soulful brown eyes.
“You’re going to have to wait until Nellie can feed you,” I mumble to the dog, fighting with the cold bacon. The strips stick together and tear, stretching into what resembles long pieces of threadbare cloth.
“Whatever butcher sliced this shit is a dumbass.”
The bacon alone eats up another five minutes. The green numbers above the stove reveal a mere fifteen minutes until seven o’clock.
“Fuck.”
The pan bangs loudly, rattling against the metal racks in the oven where I toss it haphazardly.
“Nellie,” I bellow, large strides eating up the distance to the bedroom suites. “You ready?”
Her door creaks open a sliver, the yellow light inside pouring into the dark hall. The sound of her deep breath serves as a warning, and I brace.
“Okay. Don’t be mad, Daddy,” her voice is authoritative, as if she’s presenting a new concept at a board meeting. “It’s just a little mess.”
My own breath mirrors hers. “What happened?”
With my palm flat on the door, I gently press it open.
I scrub both of my palms over my face. “Holy shit, Eleanor.”
“I know it looks like a huge mess. I couldn’t get the cap off, and I pulled really, really hard, and it just…
” With her eyes as round as saucers, she throws her arms out in a circle to mimic an explosion.
The motion is a blur of gold sparkles falling silently to the carpet. “It really wasn’t even my fault.”
I survey the catastrophe at our feet. What appears to be an entire pound of the gold glitter Silas bought her for her last birthday.
And not the chunky kind. This shit is microscopic.
She took it out once for an art project, and I found glitter on my clothes for three months.
Our washing machine is still fucked. The mess is scattered as if she tried to scoop it up with her hands.
“What are you even doing with the glitter before school? We don’t have time to make art.”
“Miss Parker always wears sparkles on her eyes at dance class. I wanted to put on some sparkles too.”
“Honey, Miss Parker is wearing eye shadow. This isn’t safe for your eyes. Besides, you aren’t allowed to wear makeup until you’re twenty.”
She opens her mouth, presumably to continue arguing her innocence, but a glance at my watch reveals the situation is now dire. As in T-minus ten minutes until impact.
I spare one glance at the ceiling to plead with the Almighty.
“Go wash your hands. I’ll clean this up, but I need you to feed Merit and get plates down from the cabinet. I need your help so that I’m not late for work.”
Nellie tucks her chin to her chest and marches pitifully past. Once in the hall, she turns her chin into her shoulder with her messy hair caught between the two. “What if Ms. Thompson makes me breakfast?”
“No.”
I retrieve the vacuum from her closet and plug it in without elaborating.
“But—”
“Eleanor.” My voice is stern. “Go feed Merit.”
“Sorry, Daddy.”
I sigh. “It’s okay. Ask for permission next time.” I switch on the vacuum, effectively moving us beyond the mishap.
The vacuum is as old as Nellie. I’m pretty sure my mom gifted it to me as a welcome-to-parenthood present, and there’s a high probability she nabbed it from a thrift store.
Nothing wrong with that, but the thing shows its age when, halfway through the task, it gives me three half-hearted passes before it shudders and revs up like an old car engine.
“What the hell is wrong now?”
Shaking my head, I give it a jiggle. Needs more suction. I turn it up to max.
A loud pop fills the room, and a cloud of micro-glitter and dust billows out the back of the canister. I clench my eyes shut and vibrate my lips, spitting out the dander and dust mites and glitter landing in my mouth.
“Shit!”
I slam the switch to the off position, and the motor sputters out.
“Daddy!” Eleanor’s worried voice sounds from the kitchen.
“It’s okay, Nellie-Jo. The vacuum—”
“Daddy, there’s smoke coming from the stove!”
Dammit, the bacon!
The vacuum crashes to her bedroom floor, forgotten as I sprint up the stairs to the kitchen. I swipe the extra towel I laid on the recliner earlier and round the corner. Nellie hops down from her chair as I pass and backs up toward the door just as the fire alarm starts screaming.
“Everything’s fine,” I reassure her, waving the towel toward the alarm with one hand and fishing an oven mitt from the drawer with the other.
At least, nothing is on fire. Squinting through the gray haze, I yank the pan out and drop it onto the stove top. The grease bubbles and spits around the sizzling, burnt, and crispy pieces of meat.
Or what used to be meat.
Now it’s inedible, and we’re back to having dry cereal for breakfast.
I flip the oven off for good measure and wave the towel again haphazardly at the shrieking alarm as I regain my sense of control.
“Daddy—”
“I’ve got it under control, Nellie-Jo.” I reach above my head to hit the button to stop the shrieking.
“Daddy, Ms. Thompson is here!”
A grunt chokes off in my throat. “No—” I gasp, spinning to face the front door. Both hands clutch the towel wrapped around my waist as if it might save me.
Nothing can save me. Not a towel, that’s for damn sure.
I have mere seconds to prepare to greet my newest employee on her first official day. Not that there’s much to prepare when I’m standing damn near naked in my kitchen, covered in glitter, and wearing nothing but a towel like some fancy fashion designer’s muse gone terribly wrong.