Chapter 9 Maddie
MADDIE
We head home not too long after the merry-go-round ride, and as soon as we get there Jake disappears into his office.
I’m actually relieved for a little distance after the way I was feeling back at the park. But I try to remind myself that I’ve had a wild year. After so much struggle, it’s perfectly natural to get weird feelings when someone is being kind.
Of course, I didn’t get all lightheaded when Michael was kind to me. But that line of thinking won’t help. And besides, I have a little boy to entertain.
Dylan and I get cleaned up, and then we play hide-and-seek for a while, which proves to be a challenge.
It’s not exactly easy to hide in this place.
Sure, it’s enormous, but there’s almost no furniture.
I feel like I’m chasing Dylan around a museum or something, and there is an awful lot of pretending that I don’t see him when he’s crouched behind a floor lamp or an ottoman.
I know I’m supposed to be helping him with reading and writing. That’s the real reason Jake hired me. But I think the little guy needs to stretch his legs a little more before I sit him down to do something that requires so much concentration.
And honestly, it won’t hurt for Dylan to be reminded that I like him before he puts himself out there and tries to do something he’s been told he isn’t good at.
The truth is that he’s a super imaginative kid, and when he gets his mind set on writing, he’s actually really good at it. At some point, someone must have told him otherwise and shaken his confidence. And now he needs a lot of reassurance.
Dylan hides behind the living room drapes for the third or fourth time. I can see his little feet poking out underneath. But I pretend to search high and low for him to keep the fun going.
“Is that you, Dylan?” I ask, bending to peer under the dining room table.
I can see him peek out from behind the curtain out of the corner of my eye.
“Got you,” I exclaim, whipping one of the cushions off the couch and then frowning sadly when I discover that he’s not underneath.
Now there’s full-on giggling coming from behind the drapes.
“Who’s there?” I demand, spinning around. “Who giggled?”
That makes him laugh harder, and I march toward the window.
“Are you outside, Dylan?” I call out. “You know that’s against the rules.”
More giggling.
“Hm,” I say, in mock thoughtfulness. “You really shouldn’t be outside. You left your shoes under the curtains.”
I reach down and grab one little foot and he howls with laughter and pops his head out.
“It’s me,” he squeals. “You found me, Maddie.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” I sigh, accepting his enthusiastic hug. “I was starting to think I would never find you.”
Could anything feel better than this happy kid’s arms wrapped around my middle? I doubt it.
“I’m hungry,” he tells me, and I figure the game is over for now.
We made grilled cheese yesterday and I’m not really sure what else they have in the house.
“Let me just check with your dad,” I tell him, thinking that Jake might want to join us for a bite.
I move down the hall, past the powder room to his dad’s office, which is in the back of the house. It has a gorgeous view of the wooded hillside.
Right now the door is open just a crack, and I can see that he’s pacing and talking, obviously up to his neck in a phone call. I tiptoe back down the hallway, figuring he won’t mind me making a quick lunch for his son.
“Is he coming out?” Dylan asks, his eyes filled with hope.
“It sounds like he’s still really busy,” I tell him, my heart aching for the kid. “But I’ll make you some lunch. Super Maddie to the rescue.”
I stick my arms out in front of me, pretending to be flying through the air with a big cape unfurling behind me, and I wink at him.
I probably look more like Frankenstein’s monster than an off-brand superhero, but Dylan always gives me the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m Super Dylan,” he yells, flinging himself toward the kitchen with his own arms outstretched. “To the rescue.”
He doesn’t want more grilled cheese, but there’s a bowl of fruit on the counter, and I find a box of crackers in one of the cabinets along with a jar of peanut butter.
“Are you allergic to peanut butter?” I ask him.
He shakes his head solemnly.
“What about your dad?” I ask him. “Is he allergic?”
“Nope,” he says.
That checks out. They probably wouldn’t have it here if they were allergic, but this is a rental and it’s possible that someone could have left it behind.
“Well, I have good news,” I announce. “We’re going to have snacks for lunch.”
“Snacks for lunch?” Dylan echoes dubiously.
“Yes,” I say. “All the best writers have snacks for lunch sometimes, especially if they’re on a deadline. Did you know you can write a book while you’re eating snacks?”
“You can?” he asks.
“Sure can,” I tell him, spinning the lid off the peanut butter. “It’s a real advantage. I’d like to see someone try to write a book while they’re eating a bowl of stew.”
That makes him laugh and I feel really happy too.
“Here,” I tell him, handing him the box of crackers. “Put some of these on plates for us. Make sure they’re spread out, not stacked on top of each other.”
He nods his head and I get two plates out of the cupboard and set them on the counter for him.
“What about Dad?” he asks me.
“Good point,” I say. “He’s hard at work, but he can still probably eat snacks.”
I fetch a third plate, and Dylan starts laying out crackers on them.
There’s mustard and sliced cheese in the fridge and I grab those and set them on the counter along with a couple of butter knives.
I wash two apples and cut them up, and when I turn around, I see that Dylan has about twenty crackers on each plate.
“Oh wow,” I tell him. “You were quick.”
He puffs up with pride.
“I’m not sure if I’m hungry enough for that many crackers though,” I tell him diplomatically. “Let’s put a few back.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding.
By the time we’re done fixing the lunch, it actually looks amazing. Each plate has a few peanut butter crackers—some with a bit of apple, some without, and a few cheese and mustard crackers, along with a nice handful of sliced apples.
It took us a while, but Dylan really enjoyed himself, and it felt as much like an art project as a meal. We still haven’t looked at screens yet today, which I figure is a plus.
I don’t have a lot of babysitting experience, but I tell myself that we’re nailing it so far.
I was feeling a little afraid that yesterday was fun only because I was a new person in Dylan’s world. But we really do get along like two peas in a pod.
“Now we just need three glasses of nice cold water,” I tell Dylan.
The fridge is the fancy type with a cold-water dispenser. Dylan stands on a chair to fill each glass with me beside him, making sure he doesn’t drop the glasses or fall off the chair.
When everything is ready, he proudly carries his dad’s plate down the hallway toward the office. I follow with a glass of water.
We talked about staying super quiet if his dad is on the phone, and sure enough, Jake is still pacing and talking when we get to the door.
He turns with his usual impatient look when he hears me push the door open—jaw tight, eyes an icy flash of blue. It’s equal parts intimidating and gorgeous, and for a moment, I’m not even sure how to react.
He watches Dylan slip in and put a plate of snacks on his massive mahogany desk and his expression softens. I place the water on a coaster next to the plate, careful not to risk leaving a ring, and head for the door.
But Dylan is rushing up to his dad, pointing at the plate on his desk and miming eating with a big smile on his face.
Jake nods to him, but I can tell it’s time for us to go.
I grab Dylan’s hand and point back toward the living space and he allows himself to be led away.
I’m torn between being grateful that Jake wasn’t angry with us and being a little angry myself that he couldn’t be more demonstrative with his son.
When I was a kid, there was never one time that I burst into my dad’s studio that he didn’t stop everything to swoop me up in his arms. Even when Mom scolded him for caking my clothing with clay, he was always glad to see me.
He would show me what he was doing, and I would watch him turn lumps of clay into funny little animals while The Beatles played on the old boom box that sat on a shelf by the window between the potted ferns and spider plants.
I even had my own little table in the corner where he would set a lump of clay and some wooden dowels so I could make my own figures.
He probably dreamed I would follow him into the family business.
But I never had any talent for it. I just liked being near him and feeling the cold clay smush between my fingers.
“What are we going to do now?” Dylan asks.
His voice has that plaintive tone that tells me I’d better get the answer right if I want to push away the storm clouds and bring the sunshine back to him.
“We can do whatever we want,” I tell him with a smile. “But I can’t stop thinking about Froggy. And we do have snacks for lunch...”
“We’re writers,” Dylan says excitedly. “We can write while we eat.”
We spend some time writing more of Froggy’s story while eating our snacks, and we even draw lots of pictures. After a while, Dylan finally gets antsy again, so I suggest that we go out for a quick nature walk.
“What’s that?” he asks me.
“We just go outside and look around,” I tell him vaguely, not really sure myself what we’re doing other than stretching our legs.
My dad was always fond of nature walks. I guess he was probably looking for inspiration.
“We’ll see what we can find out in nature, and maybe it will give us an idea for Froggy. ”
I bundle him up within an inch of his life and we head out the front door. This morning’s rain has made the bark on the trees and the fallen leaves darker and more beautiful against the soft gray of the sky above.