4. Daisy
DAISY
“Do you think Vandal will get hurt?” Elsie says when I try to tuck her into bed.
I shake my head as I rub circles on her back to help her feel sleepy. “I’m sure he’s been very brave.”
She smiles at that. “He made the music stop so I can fall asleep.”
It’s funny sometimes how selective a child’s memory can be. It’s like she’s forgotten the screams and cries of the men in the apartment and the crashing that continued after the music stopped. If I had to guess, he executed some kind of permanent damage to the speakers.
“In which case, missy, you should make the most of it and close your eyes. You’re wasting his effort if you lie here wide awake.”
Her eyes droop closed. “I wanted to say good night,” she says, sleepily.
“I know. But he’s probably a very busy man, so we should let him get on with his day…night.”
“Okay,” Elsie says as she sighs.
I stay with her for a few more minutes, rubbing her back in small circles until I hear the soft puffs of air that tell me she’s asleep.
When I get to the door, I pause and take a look back at her. If you saw her asleep, you’d never be able to tell all the baggage we carry. I wonder how much of it she remembers given she was three and a half when we left, and I don’t even know where to begin explaining why her father’s in prison.
She’s supposed to start kindergarten this year, and I want her to have a solid and safe childhood.
Her father’s from Miami and always said that the rural communities of the Everglades were for weirdos.
Why go on an airboat on a swamp when you can go out in the waters of the ocean with a speedboat?
He’d mock them as uneducated. Call the people who live here weirdos.
He’d spin stories about people disappearing forever in these small towns.
And while there is a slightly off-kilter gothic horror charm about this part of the state, I’ve found the people to be kind.
But knowing her father, he won’t have given up on us easily.
When he first went to prison, he tried to pursue me for visitation rights, for access for his family.
And the organization he worked for was big enough that any one of them could be out looking for us.
So we’re taking refuge in the one place he’d never think of trying to find us, which still allows me to be close enough to my parents in an emergency and Elsie’s eye doctor who has always worked hard to keep Elsie’s medical costs as low as possible.
I think about Vandal down the corridor. I want to know he’s okay, but I also don’t want him to come back.
A man like him has no place in my life…and yet, he made Elsie smile.
To avoid thinking about it, I decide to occupy myself by tidying the now dry dishes from dinner and putting them away.
The previous tenant broke the dishwasher; it’s one of the reasons Annie gave us a discount on the rent.
And thankfully I’m just drying a little Tupperware when someone gently knocks on my door, because I drop it when I jump in fright.
“Daisy, it’s me. Vandal.”
I hurry to the door to open it, but not because I want to see him again. “You’re going to wake Elsie,” I say in a hushed whisper.
“Shit, sorry,” he says. “Just wanted to let you know that you shouldn’t have any more trouble with those guys.” He looks down at his knuckles and flexes his fingers as he speaks; I see the torn skin and blood.
I want to send him away. I don’t trust myself around men like this. I’ve made so many bad choices for myself that I can’t even give my daughter a good life. But he helped me out tonight. And it’s, for once, blessedly peaceful. “Come in and clean that up before you leave.”
The sound of a siren cuts through the night sky, and he looks out over the lot for a second. “I should just go.”
But as he speaks, the sheriff’s police car pulls into the parking lot, and I see Vandal look nervously in the direction of his bike.
Ignoring every better instinct I have, I reach for his wrist and pull him inside. “You helped me, I’ll help you.”
He follows me in. “Thank you.”
I lead him to the bathroom, where I keep all the first aid supplies.
The space is small enough when it’s just Elsie and me in here.
But with Vandal, it feels even more crowded.
We stand side by side like those videos I see on social media, the ones where you use your phone to show what each other’s POV of your height difference looks like.
There’s a small stack of plastic cups on the side of the tub. Elsie still loves to play with them in the bath, and I love having something on hand to help rinse her hair. Our towels are white with little green frogs on them. They aren’t the thickest, but they dry fast and pack small.
“We should get your knuckles cleaned up,” I say, crouching to pull the first aid kit from the sink vanity.
I rummage around for some antiseptic wipes, but before I can find them, he pulls off his rings, turns on the tap, and rinses his hands in the cold water before pumping some hand soap into his palms.
The guy doesn’t even wince as he soaps his knuckles thoroughly.
I’d probably be crying by now if it were me.
But I drop the antiseptic wipe because, well, I guess we don’t need it.
Instead, I grab the antiseptic cream and some tissues for him to dry his hands on because I don’t want blood on my white towels.
“Give me the finger on your other hand,” I say, holding the tube of antiseptic cream.
I try not to pay attention to just how thick his biceps are.
They’re covered in colorful ink that’s beautifully artistic.
I suppose it’s a cliché to think bikers would all have cheap ink.
But this was created by a talented artist. There’s the portrait of a woman with black hair and a gorgeous smile. Beneath it says Livin’ on a Prayer.
There’s a clock with a very specific time on it. Forty-four minutes past four, and the text All she had was enough. There are bright wedges of limes and oranges. It’s a blend of dark shading and pops of vibrant color.
We’re close. Probably too close. He still smells like whiskey. And under the harsh ceiling light, his bloodshot eyes look worse than they did outside. But he has a gentleness that’s hard to put my finger on.
My history says I should be scared of him, but he isn’t giving me any reason why I’m at risk.
Without question, he does exactly what I ask. I hold his hand steady as I apply a healthy line of antiseptic to it.
“Thank you,” he says.
I tip my head in the direction of his other hand. “Rub that in across your knuckles.”
“Yes, Mom,” he says. But there’s the slightest bit of a wince when he does as I say.
I get a closer look at his scars. Whatever this man went through, it was extreme.
I love those late-night, real-life emergency shows where they show injured people arriving at the ER.
I’m no surgeon, but I know they don’t cut your head open from ear to ear without good reason.
I wonder if it was a bike accident, or some kind of brain cancer or something. But it looks recent, so I don’t want to ask.
There’s another knock at the door, and this one makes both of us jump. We turn at the same time in the direction of the door, our bodies so close I have to put my hands to his chest to avoid stumbling into him.
“Let me get it,” he says.
“It could be the police,” I say. And Lord knows I don’t want to be involved in a whole conversation with them as to why I have a biker in my apartment who just smashed up my neighbors’ speakers and…well…my neighbors. “Let me get rid of them. You…stay in here.”
He loops his fingers gently around my wrist. “Use the peephole first. If it’s any of those men, shout for me.”
I nod. “Just…please stay hidden. I don’t need you being found here any more than you probably want to be found.”
I open the bathroom door and glance to Elsie’s room. Fortunately, it looks like she’s slept through the interruptions. Quickly, I make it to the living room, just as the officer outside raises his fist to knock again.
It shocks him when I pull the door open before he can make contact, and he stumbles a little as he tries to pull back. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says and then makes formal introductions, including flashing me his badge. “We’re investigating a disturbance and wondered if you know anything about it.”
Stick to the truth if you can so you never get tripped up. But, if you’re gonna lie, lie like you mean it.
That was the advice my mom gave me. And I think about that before I answer. I need to give them the truth, until I can’t, and then I need to lie like my life depends on it.
“I have a little girl, so my focus was on keeping her safe. But those men, they cause a constant ruckus. Always playing their music loud and having unsavory people coming and going at all hours. Makes this place a frightening place to live.”
“So, you didn’t see anything?” he asks.
Memories of Vandal holding the man over the balcony, of him nudging me back inside, of the music finally and blessedly coming to a halt, assault me.
“No. I mean, one of them was hammering on my door earlier. Shouting my name. Kind of creeped me out because he’s been slimy since I moved in.
But I didn’t open the door to him because I had to think of my daughter. He could have forced his way in.”
“Would you make a statement to that effect?” he asks.
“I really don’t want to get caught in trouble, and given there are a lot more of them than there are of me…”
The sheriff’s deputy nods. “I understand. Well, thank you for your time.” He gives me a card with his name on it. Jesse Andrews. “If you think of anything else, let me know. Looks like someone woke up. I got a little one that age too.”
I glance over my shoulder to where Elsie is standing in the hallway, facing the open bathroom door, grinning. With the worst possible timing, she mimics zipping her mouth shut and throwing the key over her shoulder. She’s communicating with Vandal in plain sight.
My heart pounds so viciously, I can feel it in my temples.
I glance back at the deputy, who is still smiling at her. “Well, good night,” he says.
Then I close the door and put my back against it.
I thought I’d left this kind of life behind. Don’t know what kind of cruel lesson the universe is teaching me by throwing me back into it now.