Chapter 6
EVERETT
People like to warn you about the lack of sleep you get as a parent, but nothing prepares you for the seven a.m. alarm chanting for pancakes as you hit the best REM cycle of your life.
Nope. The next time you get sleep as a parent is when you’re dead.
I shield my eyes with a forearm, blocking the aggressive rays that like to beat through my east-facing window.
I miss the retractable roman shades of my Nashville house.
Instead of a convenient remote, I’m left pawing the surface of a rickety nightstand, almost knocking a lamp to the floor before my fingertips close on the temple of my glasses.
The once fuzzy edges of an ornate chest of drawers come into focus.
This house was furnished when my parents bought it—there are rules for living on this street.
Agreeing to maintain the historical integrity of the outside of your home is one of them.
The outdated clutter on the inside is not.
They could have replaced everything and had the means to do so but appreciated its “antique charm.” I glower at the dresser that’s serving as a second reminder of how much my life has changed.
The mattress squeaks when I fling off the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
An irritating stiffness made a home in my neck from sleeping on this ancient thing.
I make a mental note to order a new one while my parents are gone.
They’ll never know the difference. But I have thirty minutes before Quinn starts school, which is not enough time to worry about it right now.
There are zero unread messages on my phone. I don’t know why I even check it when the one guy I’m waiting to hear from isn’t living with his own personal rooster. Todd’s on East Coast time, and he’s never productive before noon.
My feet fight the leg holes of a pair of jeans before I cross the hall to my sister’s old room.
It’s the only space in this house that doesn’t look like a mausoleum of my childhood.
Mom insisted on fixing it up for Quinn before she left.
Said she wanted it to feel more like home for her.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her a pink bedspread and dresser wouldn’t matter much.
The only part of home Quinn ever really cared about was having her mom in it.
With the door ajar, my daughter clomps right past me in last night’s compromise—the rain boots and Spiderman underwear she insisted on sleeping in.
“Good morning to you too,” I whisper to the empty room.
In a thousand ways, El was a better parent than me. Bedtime routines, good-night stories, and comforting kisses all came natural to her. The only thing I was ever good at was fun.
“Woah! What are you doing?”
In the thirty seconds it’s taken for me to catch up to Quinn, she’s pushed a chair up to the counter and is teetering on the edge for the cabinet door.
I plop her on her bottom and drag the wingback to the table where it belongs. She doesn’t cry, but she doesn’t squeal from the ride either. It’s clear after the stress of the last couple of months, even the fun side of me has died.
I locate what Quinn was trying to reach, except it’s a box of Kodiak Cakes instead of the bag of Krusteaz pancake mix I bought a few days ago. Caroline’s doing, I’m sure. I find a bowl and a pair of scissors, cut the top off the bag, and pour the entire contents in it. Then I read the label.
Makes nine servings. Guess we’ll have leftovers.
The directions seem simple enough: add water. But after a few cups and some strong-handed stirring, there’s no way this gloppy substance will spread on the pan I’ve heated up. I hold the bowl under the faucet and guesstimate.
Pancake soup, that’s what I make next.
Why couldn’t she have asked for cereal? That’s something I’m good at. Something that can’t be messed up.
But now that I’ve used the whole bag, there’s no starting over. I tip the bowl and hope for the best. Runny batter spills onto the pan and spreads into a paper-thin layer. Gravity has the last laugh when the pancake blackens upon contact with the hot surface.
Great. This is going well.
I flip it, give it five seconds on the other side, and toss it on a plate. Quinn grimaces when I slide it in front of her.
“Yeah, let’s do cereal,” I say.
I dump the hockey puck in the garbage and pour the rest of the batter down the drain. Caroline may have replaced the pancake mix, but she can’t reach the cupboard above the fridge.
“Captain Crunch or Frosted Flakes?” I hold up both boxes for Quinn to pick from.
“Dis one.” She points at the face of a giant tiger.
“Frosted Flakes it is.” She sits up on her knees as I push her in tight and turn on Spidey and His Amazing Friends. I start a pot of coffee and check my phone, living on a naive notion that Todd’s called me in the last three minutes and I somehow didn’t hear it.
No such luck. I really need the label to reconsider this tour.
While the coffee maker does its thing, I search . Three clicks later and I have a queen-size mattress being delivered next Friday. This day is suddenly looking up.
“Nummy!” I hear Quinn say as I glance over at her. She’s hanging her head over her bowl and lapping up the milk, sticky liquid dripping from her soaked curls.
“Oh, mess!” she complains as droplets fall onto her bare thighs.
“Quinn!”
I didn’t account for a bath in our morning routine.
No matter how fast I make this, our chances of being on time for school are slim.
I scoop her off the chair and jog upstairs to the tub.
She thinks it’s a game, giggling and kicking off her boots as we go.
I rest her feet on the bathmat and turn on the faucet.
The temperature of the water is not cold, but it’s not hot either, and I don’t have the time to wait for it to heat up. I plunk her in.
“Mo ot,” she whines.
I turn the dial higher. “I’m working on it.”
She reaches for her Paw Patrol boat as I lather my hands with shampoo.
“Put the boat down. We have school.”
She clutches on tighter. I give her another reminder before I’m forced to pry it from her hands. She cries as I shield her eyes like a visor and tip a cup of water over her head. I repeat the process with conditioner, making sure to get the front strands the most.
“No Miss Maimy,” she says through a pouty lip.
I unplug the bath.
“You have fun at school with Miss Amy,” I remind her.
At least I thought the week before spring break went well. This is her first experience going to school. Maybe I should have had her start back in September, but preschool was the last thing on my mind when we lost El.
Her tiny body breaks out in goosebumps when I lift her out of the tub.
She stomps her foot. “No Miss Maimy.”
I cover her head with a towel, rubbing circles against her scalp and muffling her voice.
Does she not like her teacher? When Caroline discovered Be the Brave had a preschool opening so late in the year, my whole family encouraged me to enroll Quinn.
I agreed because I thought she could benefit socially from being around kids her own age.
Her birthday party was evidence she’s making friends here.
I flop the cat hood over her head and wrap her up, carrying her to her room. Her pink dresser drawer gives way with a one-handed pull. I pick the first shirt and pair of pants I can find. They’re two different shades of purple. Probably a no if El were in charge, but it’s all up to me now.
When I try to lay Quinn down, she thrashes against the carpet.
“Stop!” I bark. My patience is wearing thin, and I still need to get her dressed. I fight to get her head in the hole of her T-shirt. Underwear, pants, and socks are a wrestling match too. Air is gusting from my lungs by the time she’s finally clothed.
I check the clock again. How did that take fifteen minutes? We’re already late.
It’s a sprint getting downstairs to brush her hair.
I should have kept everything in the upstairs bathroom we share, but I moved it all down here the night before my parents left.
Quinn wanted to stay up with them as long as possible, which included teeth brushing and hair combing in close proximity.
It seemed like a reasonable compromise at the time.
Now it’s one I regret. Along with not paying attention to how Eliza handled this situation.
Quinn screams when the bristles of the brush catch on a tangle. All of that running around at her party yesterday was no match for conditioner. I try again and get the same outcome.
“I’m sorry!” I say, stopping and holding her close.
Breakfast. The bath. Her hair? I’m terrible at this. I scrub at my face, and a bright yellow bottle flashes between my spread fingers. Tubby Todd Detangler, it reads. Thank god. After a generous spray, I’m able to comb through her hair with ease.
I gather her backpack, coat, water bottle, and lunchbox from the kitchen counter but I’m certain I’m forgetting something. Arms full, I flop her over my shoulder like a ragdoll and swipe the key fob next to my phone. I’m out of hands. Even worse, my phone starts to ring.
Of course it’s Todd calling. The one day he manages to get out of bed, and it couldn’t be a worse time for me.
Quinn’s tears haven’t let up. She’s still recovering from the brush fiasco. If she’s making a bunch of background noise, there’s no way I’ll be able to hear a word that he says, and I really don’t want to call him back.
I swing her down to my hip. “How about some marshmallows?”
“Yep,” she blubbers.
I’ve basically fed my child sugar for breakfast, and she’s still upset.