7. Present
Chapter seven
Present
“Bye, Miss Taylor!” the little girl with two front teeth missing calls over her shoulder. “Thanks for waiting with me.”
I close and lock the front door of the old school building where I run the after-school drop-in center in Jamaica, Queens. I walk across the parking lot to my car, being watchful of my surroundings. Lately there’s been a string of carjackings in this area.
I climb safely into the car and punch the door lock button before starting the engine.
The snow from earlier in the day has melted to gray puddles of slush, which splash up on the car doors as I drive past the delicatessens and dollar stores down Jamaica Avenue, heading towards the parkway.
I turn on the radio, flipping through stations until I settle on a played-out pop song.
I’m merging onto the parkway when my cell phone rings. Seeing Matt’s number appear on the screen, I feel my throat close. It’s been just over a week since I saw him. I figured that at this point the dust had settled from my surprise visit and he was never going to call. I try to swallow.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I croak. I clear my throat.
Silence follows, and it’s oddly comforting. His breathing is a little bit slow and possibly labored, although I might just be imagining the worst. The sound makes me feel close to him. It’s weird to hear dead air on the line, but he called me, I remember, so I can wait to hear what he has to say.
“So,” he finally begins.
“So,” I echo.
“I’ve thought about it.”
“And?”
He pauses. “Well, I’m calling, right?”
My heart swells. I try to respond, but no sound comes out when I open my mouth. My wipers clear dirty splashes of melted snow and sediment being kicked up by the sedan in front of me, but my vision blurs anyway.
“Taylor? You there?” he asks.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“I just—”
“What?”
“Can you come over?”
“When? Now?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you’re busy—”
“No,” I reply. “Not busy. I can come.” The clock glows 7:55 p.m. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long day, and I’m out of it, and I can tell it’s upsetting Brett.”
Brett. His daughter.
“I would’ve called my parents,” he continues. “But they’re away this week on a cruise. They booked it months ago, before all this happened.”
I gulp, nodding to myself. “I can be there in 30 minutes. Should I bring anything?”
“No. Thank you, though. I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to—”
“Stop. I’m glad you called. I mean, I’m not glad you’re not feeling well, but, well, you know—”
“I know,” he assures me.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Thanks, Taylor.”
The drive probably takes the whole half hour, but my head spins so fast I don’t feel the time pass. I park in front of the driveway this time, blocking both cars.
I ring the doorbell, rubbing my hands together for warmth.
The door opens and before me stands a small girl with a dark ponytail and brown, curious eyes flanked by the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, magnified by a pair of pink-rimmed glasses.
Her rosy lips are pursed in a way that makes me wonder whether the girl is angry or sad.
She's wearing jeans and a purple hoodie, and I wonder if the child should be in pajamas given the time.
Her little arms are folded across her chest, creating a stance that I remember all too well from my youth. Armor. False strength.
“Hi,” I say quietly, offering my hand to the girl.
Her shoulders sag, but she doesn’t accept the handshake. “Hi,” she concedes. “Are you Daddy’s friend?”
“I am. My name’s Taylor. Can I come in?”
Matt’s daughter steps out of the doorway, allowing me enough space to enter the house.
“You must be Brett,” I continue.
She nods.
“That’s a pretty name.”
Brett shrugs.
“Where’s your dad?”
“He fell asleep. He said he wasn’t feeling good. But he drank those.” She points at the kitchen counter, where five cans of Bud Light sit empty.
I check my phone. 8:23. Shit.
“Have you had any dinner, honey?”
She shakes her head no.
“Well, let’s start with that.”
“I was just going to make myself a bowl of cereal. I don’t need any help. I can reach it myself and eat it by the TV.”
Dinner alone in front of the television. Sounds familiar. “Cereal’s good,” I agree. “But what’s your favorite food?”
Brett looks at the ceiling, thinking. “I don’t know. Pizza, I guess.”
“Really? That’s my favorite too. How about this? I haven’t eaten yet. Why don’t I order us a pizza, and we’ll get you washed up and into your pajamas. Would you like that?”
Brett shrugs again, offering a half smile. “I guess,” she mumbles.
I check my phone to find a nearby pizza place through Uber Eats.
I order a large pie—half plain, half with extra mushrooms—Matt’s favorite, I remember, and evidently Brett’s favorite too.
I follow Brett into her lilac-colored bedroom and help her choose a fresh pair of flannel pajamas.
Then, I bring the child into the bathroom and sit on the closed toilet seat, keeping her company while she washes her face.
Without her pink glasses on, I notice the freckles on Brett’s nose and a dimple in her left cheek that’s identical to the one I used to admire on Matt.
I also notice her fingernails, which are bitten down to the quick.
I hand Brett a towel from a hook on the wall.
After she dries off, I wander down the hallway back to the kitchen.
I can’t help but notice the lack of family photos on the walls.
Brett sits in a chair at the round kitchen table. The sink is filled with dirty dishes. A light bulb is out over the fridge. I make small talk while fumbling through cabinets and drawers in search of napkins, plates, a pizza cutter, and cups.
“So, what grade are you in?” I ask, setting the items on the table.
“First,” Brett replies.
“I loved first grade,” I reply. “We had a class hamster. Does your class have a pet?”
The girl shakes her head no.
“Bummer. Do you have a favorite animal?” I begin washing the dishes in the sink.
This elicits a shrug. “Bunnies, I guess,” she says, holding up the ratty stuffed bunny she carries around. “His name’s Velveteen.” I notice the way Brett compulsively rubs the rabbit’s long ear between her thumb and forefinger, like she’s desperately seeking comfort.
“Do you know that was one of my very favorite books growing up?” I reply.
“Really?” Brett asks. “I hated it.”
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “Then why do you have the bunny from the story as your stuffed animal?”
“To save it,” she explains.
I turn to look at her quizzically. “I don’t understand.”
“At the end of the book, they try to kill the bunny in the fire because the boy is sick. You don’t do that. If the boy loved it, he should have fought harder to save the bunny.”
“Ah.” I nod, remembering the story. “I forgot that part.”
“I’m going to save my daddy,” Brett says.
“He’s okay, now, though. Right?” I ask.
“No. He’s not himself anymore.”
I’m careful to be gentle with my questions. “How’s that?”
“He’s sad now.”
I press my lips together into a line. “I’m sorry,” I offer.
“It’s because Mommy’s away, I think. And I get it. I’m sad too.”
“You’re a sweet girl, you know that?”
This information elicits the hint of a smile. “Thank you.”
“Do you like to read?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
Brett nods. “Do you know the book about Greta?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“She saves the forest from the giants,” Brett explains. “The giants build and build and take away the habitat from the animals there. But Greta works to save them.”
“I’ll have to look that one up,” I say.
“It’s based on a real person. My teacher said so. Greta wants to save the whole world,” Brett continues. “If she can do all that, and she’s just a teenager, then I can save my dad.”
I stay quiet so that Brett can elaborate. But she says nothing more.
I finish the dishes and pour a glass of milk for Brett, feeling all too aware of my status as an invited intruder busily moving about some other woman’s kitchen.
A buzz on my phone tells me the Uber Eats driver has left our food on the stoop. “Pizza’s here,” I announce.
I retrieve the box and set it on the table, pulling out a slice for each of us. Brett folds the triangle in half and takes a voracious bite.
After a slice of pizza and a cup of milk, Brett rubs her eyes and resumes clutching Velveteen.
“Let’s get you to bed. You must be exhausted,” I offer.
“’Kay.” Brett pads back down the hall, but instead of making a right into her bedroom, she goes left, into what could only be Matt’s room.
“Wait,” I whisper. “Isn’t your room this way?” I point.
“I sleep with Daddy,” Brett explains. “I’m keeping Mommy’s spot warm till she comes back.” Her face is stoic, and she leans into me as if to tell me a secret. “It’s all part of my plan.”
I place my hand on her head and run it down her silky ponytail. “Your daddy is so lucky to have you as his daughter,” I whisper.
Brett smiles before turning to head into Matt’s room.
I wordlessly watch the child climb through the darkness into the messy folds of covers in a room that holds the faint scent of cheap beer and sweat mixed with Lysol spray.
My eyes adjust to the lack of light in time to see Brett curl up along Matt’s back, a tiny body trying to spoon a six-foot giant.
“Good night,” I breathe into the air, unsure of whether any sound has escaped my lips at all.