Chapter 36
Asher
“If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late.”
No answer.
“Bea?”
Just as I’m about to haul my butt to the back of the house and drag her to the car, she literally skips into the kitchen. And despite the frustration that has been mounting in me the last few minutes, the sight puts a smile on my face.
A second later, my joy is snatched away as I consider at what age Bea will stop skipping.
She’s already given up sucking her thumb and calling me “Dada.” She’s potty trained and sleeps in a big-girl bed, and next week, she’s off to kindergarten.
Kindergarten! Life is flying by way too quickly. I may need to hit up my therapist soon.
Bea skids across the floor in the purple cowboy boots she got for her birthday and a matching tutu.
Bending to her level, I boop her on the nose. “A tutu is an excellent choice for meeting your teacher, Dolly.”
Her cherub face breaks into the brightest of smiles, and I vow silently to never dictate what she wears. At least until her first date.
Twirling, and nearly falling over from momentum, she announces, “Daddy, did you know Claire knows how to do Uncle Ezra’s man bun?
” She points to the semi secure knot on the top of her head, her fingernails freshly painted blue, the same color as the nails of the woman who’s just entered the kitchen behind her.
“I’m aware,” I reply, having become quite acquainted with Claire’s hair over the last few months.
“Daddy, can I get my ears pierced too?”
“I swear I had nothing to do with that.” Claire holds her hands up in defense.
I shake my head. “We’ll talk about that another time. Are you ready?” I ask my daughter, standing and ignoring the way my knees crack.
“Yup,” she shouts.
“You two have fun,” Claire says. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
Bea whips around, hands on her hips. “You’re not coming?”
Claire opens her mouth, but no words come out.
“Claire has to pack,” I tell Bea. “We talked about this. Remember? She’s going back home, where Mimi and Papa live.”
Technically, she’s already packed up, minus her toiletries in the bathroom, but Natalie convinced her to stay a couple of extra nights when she discovered that Claire didn’t have to rush back for anything pressing.
“But she has to come.” My little girl dashes over and wraps her arms around Claire’s waist.
Claire returns the embrace, but her eyes nearly bug out as she stares at me, no doubt as perplexed as I am about what to do next.
“Um, Dolly,” I say while gently trying to tug her away.
My effort only causes her to tighten her hold. “No,” she cries.
Claire joins the effort, carefully helping me untangle her hands.
A tear slips from Bea’s eye, and I’ve suddenly lost all control. Is there a fucking parenting podcast for a situation like this? Too damn late to listen now.
“Why can’t you come?” Bea inspects Claire, wearing the most pitiful look. “Can’t you pack later?”
Sheesh. Whoever her teacher is, this girl is gonna give them a run for their money.
“I’m sure Claire has other—”
“You don’t want to meet my teacher?” Bea drags the back of her hand over her cheek, wiping away the lonesome tear.
“Of course I do,” Claire answers. “It’s not that. It’s just…” She sighs, looking to me for help.
Fuck it.
“She’ll come,” I say, putting both girls out of their misery.
“Really? Yay.” Bea jumps up and down then throws herself into my arms.
I give Claire a sheepish shrug. The smirk she returns says your daughter has you wrapped around her little finger. What can I say? Despite her poor sportsmanship when playing Uno, she’s a deeply feeling kid with a big heart.
“Let me change really quick, and I’ll meet you in the car. Give me ten minutes,” Claire says, turning and striding toward her bedroom.
Nine minutes later, she’s climbing into the passenger seat.
“Color me impressed,” I declare, shifting into reverse. “She’s actually early.”
“Ha ha,” she deadpans.
“I like your dress,” Bea says from the back seat. “It matches my tutu.”
Claire’s bangs are pulled back with a clip, but her hair is down and naturally wavy, and she’s wearing a light yellow sundress with purple flowers in varying shades printed all over it.
“It does. Both of my”—I clear my throat, a sharp pain lancing my chest— “Both of you girls look beautiful.”
Claire and Bea talk the entire twenty-minute drive to the school, though it’s mostly Bea bouncing from topic to topic about what she thinks “big kid school” will be like.
She’s elated and has been for days, but the second we set foot into the building and are directed toward her classroom, she clams up and clutches Claire’s hand like a lifeline.
Fuck. That pain is back, but this time instead of being quick and sharp, it remains an ache behind my ribs.
A woman with a brassy blond bob and pronounced crow’s feet greets us with delightful energy, then bends to my daughter’s level and introduces herself.
“Welcome to kindergarten. I’m Mrs. Doyle and I’ll be your teacher this year. What’s your name?”
Bea seals herself to Claire like glue to construction paper, hiding her face in the pleats of Claire’s dress.
When she refuses to speak, I answer for her. “This is Bea. And she’s usually not this bashful.”
Mrs. Doyle rises, wearing a considerate smile. “It’s okay to take your time, Bea. Do you like coloring?”
She nods, her head still resting against Claire.
“Me too,” her teacher remarks. “Why don’t you find a table to sit at and color with Mom and Dad while we wait for the rest of the class to join us?”
“Oh, I’m not—” Claire begins, but another family steps into the room, stealing Mrs. Doyle’s attention.
The blush flaring on Claire’s cheeks could be seen from space, but she doesn’t dare glance in my direction.
We’re forced to sit on kid-size chairs at the table, where another child and his parents are sitting across from us.
Though I’m realizing now I shouldn’t assume they’re his parents.
It didn’t even occur to me that Claire would be mistaken for Bea’s mother, but it makes sense.
As I look around the room, the majority of children have a female figure accompanying them.
“What do we have here?” Claire asks, breaking up the thoughts swirling inside my brain.
She slides a large piece of white paper closer and examines it. In the middle is the outline of a tree, and “My Family Tree” is printed across the top.
An instruction card taped to the table reads: Draw a picture of yourself on the tree trunk. Write your name. Inside the tree, draw a picture of the people who live with you. (Pets too.) Write their names. Outside of the tree, draw a picture of other people in your family. Write their names.
After I’ve read the instructions aloud to Bea, twice, she picks up a marker and hands it to Claire. “You draw.”
Claire laughs. “This is your first school project, silly. Not mine.”
“But you’re the artist.”
“So are you,” Claire retorts.
Bea scrunches her nose and shakes her head.
“Trust me, kid. I know an artist when I see one. You’re an artist.”
Lips pursed, Bea assesses her, then the piece of paper, hesitant.
“I’ll tell you what,” Claire suggests. “You start drawing your family and I’ll draw some flowers off to the side. How does that sound?”
Bea nods her approval, uncapping a marker and connecting circles and lines.
While Bea and Claire color together, I find myself chatting with a parent who recognizes me from camp.
Soon enough, Mrs. Doyle makes her rounds and stops to have a chat with Bea. I turn my attention back to the table.
“Looks like you get your artistic talent from your mommy,” the older woman says, clocking the flowers and bunnies and ducks drawn in the corner.
Claire tenses, her lips parting, but before she can correct the teacher, Bea handles it.
“She’s not my mommy. My mom is in heaven.”
The teacher’s eyes widen with mortification, but she doesn’t treat my daughter with pity like most adults do, which I appreciate. She collects herself quickly and says, “Thank you for sharing. Can you tell me about the people inside your tree?”
My little girl points to the caricatures. “This is Daddy. A-S-H-E-R. I know how to spell his name from the letters on the refidgenator.”
I choke back a laugh at her adorable pronunciation.
“This is me. B-E-A. And this is Claire. C-L-A-I-R-E. She lives with us.”
First of all, kids really are quite literal.
Second, I had no idea she knew how to spell Claire’s name.
I would be impressed if I weren’t caught so off guard.
She not only drew Claire, but she included her inside the family tree.
Oh boy. My explanation about her spending the summer with us must not have hit the mark.
“Look, look, look,” Bea says excitedly, flapping her hands. “A… B… C. Like the alphabet. Oh, and…” She points to the stick figure she drew on top of a rainbow in the sky. “D for Mommy’s name. Daisy. A-B-C-D.”
All the air is sucked from my lungs. I want nothing more than to get the hell out of here and crash out, but Mrs. Doyle hasn’t even made it through the syllabus she’s written on the dry erase board.
“Your family is wonderful, Bea,” the teacher says. “How about you put your tree in that pile over there for safe keeping?” She points to her desk. “And if you want, you can add to it when you come back next week for the first day of school.”
Bea smiles, then skips across the room to where other children are setting their artwork on the table.
We make it through the rest of the open house, though I don’t retain an ounce of information.
On the ride home, Bea talks a mile a minute about Mrs. Doyle and the kids she met, and while Claire offers her one-worded responses when necessary, she otherwise doesn’t engage.
“Dolly, go get ready for bed. I’ll be in to tuck you in soon,” I instruct when we walk through the front door. “And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
Thankfully she complies, and Claire and I are left alone in the dimly lit kitchen.
“We should talk about what happened tonight,” I begin.
The whole encounter blindsided me. And it shook me to my core for reasons I haven’t disentangled yet.
“No, Ash. No more talking. Please.” She holds up a hand, her chest heaving with labored breaths, like she’s trying to keep her cool. “I—I’m leaving in the morning.”
My heart plummets to the floor. “What? But—”
“I’ll tell Bea goodbye before I go, of course. I promise I won’t sneak out on her, but I think it’s best if we don’t let this drag out.”
“This… meaning…?”
She sighs. “Us. The summer. It’s been fun.
Really. Working here has been a surprising delight and I’m grateful for the opportunity.
I’m sure we’ll cross paths in the not-so-distant future.
My brother and Joey will have to settle on a date to get married eventually.
” She laughs pitifully, looking away. “And I hope you’ll let me know when you’re in the city. I’d love to see Bea.”
Bea.
Not me. She didn’t say she’d like to see me.
Why is her tone so formal all of a sudden? She’s speaking to me like a colleague rather than a… a what? A hookup buddy? Is that all I’ve been to her?
She rests a hand on my shoulder and pushes up on her toes. Her lips skim across my cheek in a chaste kiss before she walks down the hall.
I sit hunched over the counter for a long time before I remember that Bea is waiting on me.
But when I open her door, she’s not in her room. Assuming she crawled into my bed, I check there next, but my room is empty. My heart gallops and concern threads its way through me. I’m just about to call out for her when I hear whispers coming from Claire’s bedroom.
The door is cracked and the side lamp is on, shining enough light to illuminate my daughter and Claire beneath the sheets. Claire’s arm is wrapped around Bea while Bea rests her head on Claire’s chest. Two picture books and Bunny lie atop the comforter.
Swiftly, I step off to the side so they won’t catch me eavesdropping.
“Are you excited about kindergarten?” Claire asks.
“Mm-hmm. My teacher seems nice. And I know Winnie and Jackson from pre-k.”
“That’s good. Friends help make things easier.”
Just when I think the conversation is over, Claire says, “I have to go home tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Sweetie, you know I was working for Daddy’s camp just for the summer.”
“Do you have a new job?”
“Um. I will,” she replies.
“Will I see you again?”
My daughter’s innocent question tears my heart in two. By the sound of Claire’s sniffle, I imagine she’s having big feelings too.
“Oh, Dolly. Of course. Your Uncle Ezra is like a big brother to me, so when you visit him and Lee Lee, I’ll make sure to come see you. And maybe if you ask nicely, Daddy will let you FaceTime me. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” she agrees. “If Uncle Ezra is your big brother, does that make me and you family too?”
Another sniffle fills the silence, but Claire manages to choke out a response. “I guess so. Yeah. Yes. That makes us family.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you so much, kiddo.”
They’re silent again, until my daughter says, “I love you.”
“I love you too, Dolly.”
The room goes dark, and for several long minutes, I consider carrying Bea into her room, but I decide against it, instead giving them one last night together.
I’m nearly numb as I go about my nightly routine. I wash my face and brush my teeth, my body sagging, exhausted from hauling around such a heavy pit in my stomach.
With my hands tucked behind my head, I stare at the ceiling for a long time, chastising myself for being jealous of a five-year-old.
Because I wanted one more night with Claire.
When I wake in the morning, a piercing pain stabs at my temples. It takes me a moment to remember what I witnessed last night, but when I do, I shoot straight up in bed, headache be damned.
I have to convince Claire to stay.