Chapter 32
Thirty-two
Nash
A sharp rap on the front door zaps my daughter like she’s been tased.
“She’s here, she’s here, she’s here,” she squeals as she rushes to the front door and pulls it open.
Today is the first day having Emma work with us.
From the video calls we had before she and Corey moved back here, we agreed that she would help with childcare, including school pick-ups when Nancy starts school, and then will provide general domestic assistance such as grocery shopping, cleaning, and cooking.
I’m going back to work in a couple of weeks, and it was important to me that we have some time for her and Nancy to find their feet on their own, while I’m still available in case of any issues. Judging by the welcome Nancy is giving Emma, I don’t need to worry.
But there could be a marked difference between how Nancy reacts when she’s being fussed over, and how she might react when someone other than me tries to challenge poor behaviour, or that sassy mouth.
I get up from my stool and follow Nancy to the door, where Emma is cooing over the picture Nancy drew for her last night.
“Morning,” I say. “Come on in. Nance… let Emma get through the door, please.” Nancy reluctantly moves away from the threshold and allows Emma to come inside. Once the door is closed, she grabs Emma’s hand and tries to pull her through to the living room.
“Hang on, wee yin. I need te chat wi’ your Da a second. Go on and make us some tea, and I’ll be wi’ ye soon.”
Consider me slack-jawed when Nancy does exactly as she’s told, first time, with no snarky protests, and goes to her play café and starts the act of ‘making tea’. I turn to look at Emma, who stares at me with just the barest hint of satisfaction.
“Jesus, I was shittin’ m’self that she wouldnae listen to me.
It’s been ages since I worked wi’ kids, but…
” she holds her hand toward Nancy. “Like riding a bike.” She wipes her hands together in a ‘job done’ gesture before marching into the kitchen.
By the time I pull myself together and follow her, she’s already got the kettle on and is searching through the kitchen cupboards for cups. “Tea?” she offers, and I nod mutely.
She puts a tea bag in my cup from the canister on the side, then goes back to the front door to grab her small, brightly coloured canvas backpack. She brings it back to the kitchen and pulls out a grey and blue box.
“D’ye mind if I leave this here?”
“What is it?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me, and I take the box from her proffered hands. Fine Blend Scottish Teabags.
“Proper tea,” she says proudly.
“Um…” I raise one eyebrow at her, about to expound the clearly superior flavour of a good strong cup of Yorkshire Tea, but she straightens, spine stiff, and places her fists – not hands, fists – on her hips.
“Um, what, Nash?”
“Um, nothing,” I relent, slightly terrified, handing the box back. “Nothing at all.” How have I never clocked how scary this woman can be? And over tea, of all things?
“Aye. That’s what I thought.” She removes a bag from the box and places it in the other mug, then places the box beside the canister with a pleased nod.
She bustles around my kitchen like she’s been here for years, not minutes.
“Emmaaaaa,” comes my daughter’s finest whine from the living room. “Your tea is ready.”
“Indeed it is,” Emma says to me, smiling and passing me my cup, while she whisks hers off the counter. “Coming, toots.”
I’m left standing in awe, watching this whirlwind of a woman engage with my daughter in such a natural, easy way that I scoff at myself for ever having been concerned.
Emma has a gift with children, with Nancy at least, in that she holds a status that is almost magical.
Nancy has told me that Emma is ‘so cool, Daddy’ and has already asked more than once if she can pierce her nose and dye her hair blue.
I’ve refused until she’s eighteen to even consider it, which earned me a fierce glare.
But coolness aside, Nancy listens to Emma as she corrects pronunciations gently, challenges Nancy’s tendency for sassy comments, and keeps her on schedule for the whole day.
I spend most of it at the dining table, lining up my work schedule for the middle of next month, and listening as Emma takes Nancy through some activities.
I’m pleased to realise that when they’re playing in the garden, just outside the bi-fold doors of the dining room that are open to let in the summer breeze, they are not simply playing. Emma is, in fact, teaching Nancy about biology and geography without her even noticing.
Corey comes over at five o’clock for dinner with us.
Emma cooks spaghetti bolognese, and Nancy loves it, even while she ends up wearing most of it.
Luckily, Emma, the consummate professional, came armed with matching adult and child aprons.
They have seals printed all over them, and Emma got Nancy to wear it by roping her into helping with the cooking, and then, when she left her own apron on to eat, Nancy followed suit.
I would never have thought of something so simple. The best thing? The aprons are wax-coated and can be wiped clean.
I think bringing Emma into our lives may well be the best decision I’ve ever made. She’s a force of nature, with a sparkling wit and a kind heart. Just one more thing I can thank Corey for.
***
The next day, when it’s just me and my daughter, I’m bathing her before bedtime. She looks up at me with her big doe eyes, a beautiful shade of light blue I wouldn’t usually expect from a child with such dark brown hair.
“What’s up, sugar plum?” I ask. “Close your eyes.” I pour the jug of bathwater over her sudsy hair as she leans back, eyes scrunched shut so tight, her whole face looks different. I chuckle to myself and shake my head.
“Daddy,” she sputters before realising it’s best to just wait a second to speak. When the suds from her strawberry shampoo are gone, she wipes her face with her Bluey face cloth, before pinning me with her ‘I mean business’ stare. “Do you love Bunny?”
I’m taken aback, once again, by her. We don’t hide our affection around her, but she’s never outright addressed it in any way other than telling us that we’re unhygienic, kissing in the kitchen.
“I do love Bunny. Very much. Is that OK?”
“Do you still love me?” My heart cracks.
“Of course I do. Come on, out you get, and let’s get cosy and chat, hmm?”
She nods her head and gets out of the bath without argument, a miracle in and of itself for my little water baby.
I get her dry, put on some talcum powder to make sure she’s comfy, and then pull on her pyjamas.
These ones are pink, with red lettering on the T-shirt that says ‘girls just wanna have fun (-damental rights)’.
A gift from Wren that my daughter is obsessed with.
She brushes her teeth, and then I brush her teeth properly, and then I tuck her into her bed.
“OK, now, Sweetheart, why did you ask me that?”
“Well, you love me, but then you said you love Bunny, too, and what if you run out of love? I’m only little, and Bunny is big. I need it more.” Her eyes are watery, and the fact that she’s questioning my love for her is breaking my heart in two.
“Sweetheart, I love you the most most, out of anyone. You are the very tip top of my important list, OK?” I need her to understand this one salient point before I can tackle anything else. She holds my gaze as though assessing the truth in my eyes. Before nodding slightly.
“OK, Daddy.” Her chin wobbles, and I know she doesn’t truly believe me. This is one of those times where she is saying what she thinks I want her to say, rather than what she necessarily truly believes or understands.
“Listen to me, baby girl.” I shift position and hold my arms out to her.
She rushes to disentangle herself from her blanket cocoon and leaps into my arms, clearly in need of comfort.
I lean against the wall, sideways on her bed, and hold her small body to mine.
“There are lots of different kinds of love. There’s the way you love family, the way you love friends, the way you love certain books, or Bluey” – she giggles at that – “the way you love chocolate Hobnobs.” I tickle her belly at the mention of her favourite biscuits, and she squeaks with delight.
Her body relaxes, and I continue. “And all these different types of love look slightly different, but they’re all important.
The way I love Bunny is called romantic love, and it’s what boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, and wives feel for each other.
” I’m simplifying, I know, but I can’t think of another way to tackle this. To make her understand.
“Like Bandit and Chilli?” she asks, referring to, who else, Bluey’s parents.
“Exactly,” I confirm. “But the way I love you, the love a mummy or daddy has for their child is very, very special. It’s different from all the other types of love. And for me, the way I love you, it’s the most special, and it lasts forever. Does that make sense?”
“Even if…” she hesitates.
“Even if what, sweetheart?”
“Even if I’m ’dopted?”
I will never cease to be amazed by how aware ‘looked-after’ children are of their situation.
The children living in foster care that I’ve met in my career have been almost painfully knowledgeable about the system in which they’ve been placed.
It’s heartbreaking because their experiences vary as much as their backgrounds, and not every placement is successful.
Despite the ups and downs we experienced as she was settling in, overall, Nancy and I have been immensely fortunate with how well ours has gone, a testament to the hard work of people like Abigail and incredible foster carers like Drew and Caitlin, who Nancy still sees regularly.