by Brett Cooper
Chapter Two
At first Christine thought she might actually manage to coax herself to sleep. She lay still and tried to think of nothing. Then she tossed about, attempting to maximize her comfort level. Then she tried counting sheep, and then counting backwards, and then counting her blessings and, finally, praying. At last she gave up, opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.She wanted to give her dad the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it just looked bad. How might this meeting by the dumpster have been innocent? Could it be he was arranging some kind of surprise for her? A surprise that Coach Alexis could help to arrange? But her birthday was far away, six months. Not likely, since her dad wasn’t good at planning ahead. So what could the occasion be?
It definitely looked bad.
Christine remembered her first foray into babysitting, almost two years ago. She’d just turned thirteen, the minimum legal age as set by the State of Idaho. She’d been so excited. Her mom had let her fib about her age to the Park District so that she could take the babysitting classes early and begin babysitting as soon as she turned thirteen.
“Why should they make you wait till thirteen for the training?” her mom had said. “They don’t make you do that for a Driver’s License.”
The Millers down the street, who had just one child, a 6-month old, Ellie, who went to bed at 7:00 and slept like, well, a baby, had asked Christine to sit while they enjoyed their first post-baby date night in celebration of their seventh wedding anniversary. Dinner and a movie. It was perfect. She’d come at six, take care of the baby for an hour, put her down and then turn on the tv while getting a Saturday night head start on her homework. The Millers, Dan and Sylvia, would be home around 11:00. Christine would be paid the tidy sum of $32 for not much more than doing what she normally did on a Saturday night, except with fewer distractions and in a swankier home than hers, with a bigger TV and a plusher couch.
It didn’t quite work out that way. The baby wouldn’t sleep. It only cried in its crib. Maybe little Ellie needed her mom. Or her dad. Christine cradled the girl in her arms, paced around the house, rocked her, patted her back, checked her diaper, offered her a bottle. Eventually, she figured, the poor little thing would cry herself to sleep. It wasn’t happening. The night dragged on. Christine was beside herself, thoroughly stressed.
Perhaps she should have called the Millers and asked for help, but she didn’t want to worry them. At some point not long after Saturday Night Live came on at 10:30, Christine lay on the couch with the crying baby on her chest and covered her legs with a blanket. Suddenly, miraculously, Ellie dozed off. A few seconds later, so did Christine. But not for long. The next she knew, Mrs. Miller was shaking her and shrieking as if the house was on fire, and Christine woke to the sight of Mr. Miller snatching a howling baby Ellie from the white carpet between the couch and the coffee table. The baby had rolled off her chest, hit the floor, awoken in a panic and, terrified, screamed to the high heavens. Christine had been too deep in exhausted sleep to hear.
“Unforgivable,” was the only word Mrs. Miller managed to utter. And Mr. Miller simply added, “I think you’d better go,” as he handed her two twenties, not even willing to let her stay long enough for him to count out the agreed-upon $32 payment.
Christine tried to apologize, tried to explain, even sent a letter of formal apology two days later. But the Millers were traumatized. She couldn’t really blame them. They’d trusted her with their precious little girl, and she’d fallen asleep and nearly let the baby kill itself. Thank God it hadn’t knocked its head on the coffee table when it fell.
Maybe it was the same sort of thing with her dad. Maybe it only looked bad. But she had to know. She had to do something.
How long had it been since she’d switched off the light? She checked the red glow of her alarm clock: 11:33. One hour of sleeplessness. Ugh. But now Christine had an idea.
Very slowly she opened her bedroom door. She padded toward the bathroom, stopping in the hallway, listening. Soon she heard the soft tapping of a keyboard behind the closed door of the fourth bedroom that served as her father’s study. Meanwhile, in her parents’ bedroom, her mom was no doubt asleep. No light or sound coming from that direction.
It ticked her off. They should be together. Her dad should be with her mom, not on the computer alone late at night. Unless he had some special work project to do. Either way, she was angry. At her dad for maybe cheating on her mom. Or at herself for presuming the worst about her dad. She felt schizophrenic not knowing where to place her fury.
And then, without really thinking, a plan hatching itself fully formed in her subconscious, rising to consciousness and then overcoming her in an instant – Christine screamed. When her father exploded from the study, she cried, “There’s someone outside! I saw him, in the window.”
Mom then flew toward them, pulling her robe around her. “What happened?!”
“Get Ben,” Dad barked. “Call 911.”
Mom disappeared into Ben’s room.
Dad said, “Did you see which way he went?”
Christine pointed toward the backyard.
When he’d gone, she sneaked into the study. The computer screen was not locked; he hadn’t had time. A few windows were open. A spreadsheet. She didn’t care about that. A browser open to a financial site. Nope. An email app. She checked this. She scanned the list of emails in the inbox. Nothing jumped out at her until she realized that one from [email protected] must be from Coach Alexis, who had nearly qualified for the 2000 Olympics in Sydney, Australia. Christine clicked the email and read:
“Jimmy, let’s do it again after the meet. Find an excuse to get away. Please, no more talk about your wife. I don’t want her sniffing around us any more than you do.”
Now she knew for sure where to direct her anger. And after the police came and went and found no one and nothing, Christine returned to her bedroom, heartbroken, and stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night.
