Chapter 7
Seven
DEAN
The bananas are wrong.
Not rotten. Not bruised. Not insufficiently banana-shaped.
Just wrong. Wrong in a way that only a three-year-old with strong opinions about bananas—and what kind don’t belong in her pancakes—can express.
“No, Daddy, these aren’t the good bananas. They’re the bad bananas,” Bella announces from her booster seat, her lower lip quivering. “I can tell. They’re the mean ones that make my tummy hurt.”
“No, they’re not, Bell. They’re the same bananas I always get, I promise.” I flip another pancake, trying to stay the course on this “fun and healthy pancake breakfast” mission, even as a part of me insists I should give up and let the nanny feed the girls cereal when she gets here.
Or cookies.
Or ice cream.
Whatever makes this already frantic morning easier for everyone involved.
“No,” Bella howls, her eyes shimmering. “They’re not!”
“They’re Chiquita. You love Chiquita,” I insist. “Look, here’s the sticker to prove it.”
“No! Not the lady. The lady is the one I don’t like, Daddy! I like the ones with the circle sticker.”
The circle sticker…
Which company has a circle sticker? And does it matter? As far as I know, all brands of bananas at the local grocery are molecularly identical to the bananas being shoved across the table as Bella sobs, “Get away from me, mean lady bananas!”
“You need some help in here, Dean?” My mother’s voice cuts through the breakfast chaos from the hall.
“No, I’ve got it,” I promise, shifting the last pancake from the pan to the plate and shutting off the burner.
Looks like I won’t need six extra pancakes, after all—Ava will eat leftovers, but she’s not getting through six before they go bad.
I suppose I can wrap my morning omelet in a pancake for a day or two.
I hate all bananas, no matter what sticker they have on the peel, but I’m an adult.
I can force myself to eat foods I despise in the name of avoiding waste.
“Well, I could go for one last coffee before we hit the trail,” Mom says. “There, there, baby, it’s okay. Why don’t I get you some yogurt instead? Or some cereal?”
I turn to see her smoothing Bella’s brown curls from her forehead, before dabbing the tears from her cheeks. “Yes, pweese,” Bella says. “I want pony grahams. The honey kind.”
“Coming right up,” Mom says cheerfully, scooping up the evil-banana contaminated pancakes before breezing my way. “My flight leaves in four hours, honey. Is this new nanny going to be here on time?”
“The agency promised she’d be here promptly at six-thirty.”
“It’s six twenty-five.” Mom clucks her tongue as she fetches a bowl from the cabinet beside the stove, clearly disapproving of how close this new girl is cutting things. “It’s a good forty-five-minute drive.”
“I know, Mom,” I say, covering the pancakes with foil.
“Sometimes more if traffic is bad.”
“Traffic’s not bad.” I pop the plate into the fridge, adding before she can ask, “I checked. The coast is clear, and we’ll have you there in plenty of time. And it’s good the nanny’s not early. I still need to get Ava dressed.”
“Ava’s dressed,” Mom says, delivering Bella’s bowl of pony grahams with no milk because milk is also “bad” and “mean” when mixed with cereal.
Solo milk in a glass—fine.
Milk mixed with cereal—abomination.
I am also confused. And tired. Very tired.
I never should have gone out Saturday night, but damn…I’m glad I did, no matter how things ended. It was nice to get out from under the unrelenting stress for a few hours. And I know I’m never going to forget Clover, no matter where my romantic life goes—or doesn’t—from here.
“She’s in her unicorn sweater, watching Bluey while she brushes her hair like a big girl.” Mom shoots me a narrow look. “Which is more than I can say for her father. Have you run a brush through that tangle, son?”
“Sure did,” I mutter, reaching up to run a hand over my lightly gelled waves.
Yes. Definitely brushed. I couldn’t remember if I’d gotten around to it or not, what with all the banana excitement and artificially inflated airport stress.
The TSA is fully operational, and Monday morning is a chill day to fly.
Mom will breeze through security with the business travelers and be at her gate an hour ahead of schedule, the way she likes it. No doubt in my mind.
Still, she has a certain way she likes things done, and Bella came by her stubbornness honestly.
Mom continues to eye my head as she pours another cup of coffee. “If you say so, but you could use a haircut. Once you make sure this nanny isn’t a serial killer, you should make an appointment with your barber after practice tomorrow.”
“Shush.” I lower my voice as I add, “Don’t say things like that. You’ll make the girls nervous.”
“Well, maybe they should be nervous,” she mutters, her voice still too loud.
Though, to be fair, Bella’s too busy chomping pony grahams at top volume to hear a word from our side of the kitchen.
“Are you sure this girl has been properly vetted? Do they check the temps as well as they check the full-time employees?”
“Yes.” I pour myself another cup, too. “Tasha assured me she’s been vetted, is certified in CPR, and has loads of experience.”
Mom grunts. “And what’s her name again? Meredith?”
“Yes. Meredith Cummings,” I say, a part of me certain the universe is tossing reminders of Clover in my path on purpose.
First, it was the girl playing bass at the farmer’s market yesterday.
Then, the stale popcorn my mother pulled out of the cabinet for a snack after dinner last night. Now, the new nanny’s last name.
But it’s a common last name, a fact my mother proves as she says, “I never met a Cummings I’d trust to flush the toilet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mom shrugs as if what she meant should be obvious. “It means they’re a forgetful people. Forgetful in a way that can have consequences. Gross consequences.”
I hum around my sip of coffee. “I think we’ll be fine.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she says, before adding in a softer voice, “I can stay a little longer if you want, just until you make sure this girl is going to work out.”
“No, Mom,” I say firmly. “You have clients who need you, and you’ve already taken enough time away from work. You’re getting on that plane, and I’ll make sure you don’t miss it. I promise.”
“I don’t want Grammy to go on the plane,” Bella says, a teary note in her voice once more. “Planes are bad and mean, too. Just like bananas.”
And there it is.
The bananas were maybe never about the bananas. The bananas might be about Grammy, who’s been a loving, nurturing presence since Frederica died, is about to walk out the door with a rolling suitcase.
Just like her mama walked out the door with a suitcase and never came back…
And Bella—who’s three, brilliant, and has clearly, on some level, connected two unrelated events into a terrifying case of cause and effect—has channeled the weight of that into her banana pancakes.
“I don’t like planes,” Bella adds, tears beginning to flow. “Or people going away. I want everybody to stay here with us.”
My mom catches my gaze, pain flashing in her eyes. She starts for Bella, but I put a hand on her arm. She’s been taking point with the girls’ tears for the past two months. It’s time I stepped up to the plate.
Past time.
In just a few hours, I’m going to be the only one around to step up.
If I don’t do it, no one will.
“Don’t cry, Bell,” I say, pulling her out of the booster and into my arms. “Grammy’s going to be fine.”
“No, she won’t.” She buries her face in my neck, her body shaking.
“Yes, she will. I promise.” I hold her close, swaying back and forth, the way I did when she was a colicky baby who cried for three solid hours every night. “She’ll get home to Minnesota just fine, and we’ll see her in a few months.”
“We will?” Bella asks.
“We will,” I assure her. “Remember? We’re going to Grammy’s for a summer trip. So, we can have a big party with all your cousins in Minnesota.”
“But summer is way far, far away,” she says.
“Not so far. And time goes by fast this time of year. You’ll be so busy with school and Mardi Gras and Easter and practicing for the dance recital, summer will be here before you know it.”
“Can I wear my tap shoes from the recital to Grammy’s?” Bella asks, perking up. “Can I wear them all the way to Minnesota?”
“For sure,” I say, figuring I’ll worry about whether tap shoes will clear security later.
“And my costume?”
“I don’t see why not,” I say, glancing at the clock over her head. Six-forty. Shit. Where’s the nanny? “Mom, can you peek out front? See if Meredith is sitting in the driveway? Maybe she’s waiting for us to let her know it’s okay to come in.”
“On it.” She sets her now-empty coffee mug on the table and hustles toward the living room.
“Are you ready to meet the new nanny?” I ask Bella. “All done with breakfast? Or are you still hungry?”
“I’m full, Daddy.” She sniffs as she pats my chest with one hand. “Is the new nanny going to be nice?”
“So nice,” I promise, silently praying Tasha wasn’t overselling things when she swore the nanny swap would work out in our favor since Meredith is, and I quote, “the sweetest girl in the whole world. Like a Disney princess come to life, I swear.”
Please, please, let Tasha deliver on that promise…
We could really use a Disney princess style win this morning.
“Good,” Bella says, her forehead furrowing. “And we’ll get the circle bananas next time so the pancakes aren’t yucky.”
“Only the circliest of circle bananas,” I vow. “I’ll triple-check them myself to be sure.”
She drops her head back to my shoulder with a sigh. “Good work, Daddy.”
“Thanks.” I smile as I press a kiss to the top of her curly head.
Crisis averted, I’m feeling cautiously optimistic that the rough patch of the morning is over, when Mom calls from the other room, “Ava? Where are you, Ava? Ava Kate? Answer me, Ava, we’re not playing hide-and-seek right now.”
My heart lurches into my throat, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Did you check the bathroom?”