Chapter Nine
Oliver
“Istill can’t believe your father’s first name is Oliver. That’s the O, so what’s the L?” Lemon beams from across my dining room table.
At the head.
Lauren would want that. She wouldn’t want me to be weird about her place or request a guest move.
“When Cami was a toddler,” Poppy grins, “she swore it was Olive Lover, so that was pretty much all Bry and me called him for months, wasn’t it, Dad?” My twelve-year-old stabs her roasted carrots, ignoring the peas altogether.
“Olive Lover?” Lemon teases.
“Yes, Lemonhead?” I imitate, making Poppy spit her soda all over Kimmie and Cami.
“Sorry, Two-Bits.” I don’t know what came over me.
I shuffle from my seat, but Lemon’s up before I can stand, wiping their giggling faces while Poppy replaces their food.
Kimmie says nothing, as usual…but then…
She smiles.
The single act has Poppy and me locking eyes from across the room. Words aren’t needed to understand what we’re both thinking. Cami stares curiously at her new nanny, who has no idea the walls she’s scaled.
“There you go,” Lemon pinches the twins’ cheeks. “You’re a little sticky, but it could be worse. Your name could be Oliver.” She dabs a thumb in my direction, enacting more sorcery as my quietest little lilac laughs.
For the first time in what feels like forever.
Cami admitted to hearing her sister speak on rare occasion. Full sentences spoken only to her twin.
A mental block, the therapists said, selective mutism. Titles have been thrown around, but they stem down to the same roots. And the knowledge that it’s a form of anxiety plaguing my youngest child that I can’t quell, is something I live with in my gut every day.
I was convinced I might never hear her speak, and now…right in front of me, before my very eyes and ears, she’s laughing.
“Kimmie!” Cami jumps up and down and hugging her sister.
Both girls giggle uncontrollably, like every laugh Kimmie never let out was stored behind a dam that’s finally broken.
Tears flow down Cami’s cheeks as she bounces between Lemon and her twin in awe.
“You made her smile. She…she’s laughing!
” Cami throws her arms around Lemon’s neck. “Thank you, Nanny!”
Lemon’s eyes widen, shooting me thousands of questions with one glance, but wrapping her arms around a child she’s only met moments ago, despite the ongoing war between the two of us.
“Is that hard to do? Make her laugh?” Lemon conjures more laughter with that, even from Kimmie, who I scoop up and kiss on the cheek.
“Yes,” I say, looking into my youngest daughter’s eyes as she smiles at me.
Smiles.
“That is very hard to do, Sour Patch.”
“Sour Patch?” Bryar sneers. There’s an edge to her voice that bridges argumentative, before anything’s even been spoken. She slams the solid oak door behind her, and the ground vibrates to match her energy.
But that’s how it is with her these days.
I’m always on the wrong side of anything she wants, needs, or could possibly provoke.
Parenting, they call it.
“You’re late.”
I release Kimmie and motion for everyone to sit, including Bryar, whose plate is now cold and stale.
She rolls her eyes.
And she does not sit, shooting death glares at Lemon, in her mother’s chair.
“What is that?”
Lemon’s brow lifts to the sky, but I cut in before she can retort. Although, at this point, I think Emil might be right.
Bryar’s lip curls up at the sight of Lemon in the very style knee-high boots I forbade her from purchasing for herself last week. The daggers she wields are intentionally sharp as she snaps her eyes back to mine.
“That is your new nanny, Bryar Elaine, which you’d have known, had you been home after school.”
She scrunches her nose, holding my gaze in challenge.
“But I suppose you thought Mrs. Kempling was still here. Counting on missing your curfew without me knowing?”
My oldest daughter has taken a vow of silence at this point in the conversation, clenching her fists by her sides with nostrils flared.
But she’ll only push it so far. I know about her joyride.
“Sit.”
She does.
“After dinner, you will give me your phone, your tablet, and your laptop. This summer, you will help with your siblings and have zero social leniency. For the next week, you will ride the bus to and from school or Ms. Perkins will drive you. Do you understand?”
Bryar’s face contorts. “That’s not fair! It’s the last week of school. It’s prom for the high school, and—”
“And you are in middle school, are you not? Do you think I don’t know about your high school boyfriend?
” My fist makes a solid connection with the table all of its own volition, the sound reverberating through the high-ceilings I never chose.
Ceilings that remind me of the distance between me and her mother, who is counting on me to protect her.
“You are a child, Bryar! Look at yourself.”
Bryar makes a sharp inhale, and from across the table, so does Lemon.
I knit my brow, searching her face for the answers. Am I wrong?
But she just presses her lips together and stands, taking the twins by the hands.
“I think it’s getting late for the littles.
Wanna help me do bath and bed, Pop? You can show me where the good bubbles are.
” She winks, throwing an inviting smile at my trustworthy middle child, often forgotten on messy nights like this.
“Okay!” Relief floods Poppy’s eyes as she throws her napkin to the table. She skips ahead of Lemon, taking the stairs two at a time. “Dad’s bathroom has the big jacuzzi. We can use the jets.”
I groan internally, but I’m too engaged in a staring contest with the thirteen-year-old clone of a ghost to stop them.
Still, Lemon finds a way to lighten the mood. “I would love to see your dad’s bubbles,” she says, just loud enough for me to hear.
I run my tongue over my teeth, too stunned to speak at the temptress who snakes throughout my home so casually.
Beautifully.
“You called her Sour Patch,” Bryar snaps. “Little young for you if you ask me.”
“Little late for your curfew if we’re trading opinions. She’s here to take care of you.”
“I don’t need anyone taking care of me. I’m not a child, like Poppy or the twins.
Poppy’s hardly a child anymore. And she needs a training bra like yesterday, but I guess you haven’t noticed.
You’re the only one who doesn’t see her.
Even the slutty nanny sees it. That’s why she’s having her help with grown-up things.
Because we are all growing up, whether you’re here to see it or not!
We should be able to do things like ride with friends for—”
“That’s enough!” I shout, louder than I realize. Bryar backs away, eyes wide and lips trembling. “You will watch your mouth, Bryar Elaine, or I will—”
“You’ll what? Scream back? You always get the last word, huh?
Because you’re Dad, and that makes you automatically right, doesn’t it?
No matter what anyone else’s side of the story is, it’s just about what you say, and that’s all that goes.
You might be in charge at work, but you can’t manage our whole lives. ”
“Who were you out riding with?” I run my hand through the air in amazement that she’s found a way to turn this around on me. It’s then I take in her outfit for what it truly is.
Looks like Lemon’s wardrobe.
Ripped tights, short skirt, crop top and…no.
“Is that a—how the hell did you get a tattoo? Who gave a thirteen-year-old child a tattoo?!”
“It’s henna. Oh, my God, Dad. You don’t trust me one single bit, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
Bryar steps back.
“I mean, I do, baby. I trust you, but—”
“I am not a baby!”
She swipes her arm across the table, shoving several dishes to the floor, and slams down a card before barreling to her room in tears.
I snatch the envelope with quivering hands.
It’s a get-well card.
Across the front is a heart symbol matching the henna on Bryar’s midriff, and beneath it, a slew of signatures and a glittering message.
Coach Jasmine,
It took a few days of driving around and stalking the team to get everyone on here, but we wanted you to know that you mean the world to every single one of us.
Keep us by you during chemo. We’re with you 100%.
Kick cancer’s butt, or we’re gonna do it for you.
Love Always,
Captain Bryar & The Eighth Grade Cheer Team.
Oh.