Like now.
“Ms. Levine? It’s Mrs. Harrison. From Precious Seedlings?”
As if I don’t know where she’s from by now.
Harold is standing by my officette, glowering. I turn my back on him. “Yes, Mrs. Harrison—?”
“If that’s a personal call, young lady, tell them you’ll call back later.”
“Excuse me,” I say to the director, then cup my hand over the phone and swivel back to Frog Man. “It’s my daughter’s day care. Trust me, they’re not calling to shoot the breeze.”
“Make it snappy, then. I’m not paying you to talk on the phone all day.”
Never mind that he doesn’t pay me at all. But at least he goes away. Would that he would stay away, but that much luck, I don’t have.
I sigh and return my attention to the phone. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
There’s a little pause. Which is worrisome because if it’s one thing Mrs. Harrison is not, it’s a prevaricator.
“There’s been…an incident.”
My hands go ice-cold. “What kind of an incident? Is Starr—”
“Oh, no, no, your daughter’s all right.” A pause. “That is, she’s not injured. Exactly.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
Another hesitation. “I don’t think this is something we should discuss over the phone. Would you mind coming right away? I’ll keep Starr in the office with me until you get here.”
Ohmigod. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. My heart now lodged in my throat, I grab my bag from the bottom drawer of my desk and tear out of my office and through the workroom.
“Hey!” Harold yells, following me out to the elevators. “You can’t just leave! What about all those orders on your desk?”
“I’m sorry.” Not. “It’s a family emergency.”
“That’s the trouble with you working mothers,” he says as the elevator arrives. “Can’t get a decent day’s work out of you, because it’s always something with the kids.”
I get on and turn around, flipping him the bird as the doors close. Judging from Valerie’s expression, I just made her day.
Mrs. Harrison is trying to maintain her composure, but her eyes tell another story. The please-God-don’t-sue-us story.
As well they should.
Starr’s out in the playground with one of the workers while I sit here, trying to make sense of the director’s nervously spoken words. Apparently, my baby girl’s been sexually molested, by some boy who exposed himself to her in one of the bathrooms. Granted, the kid was only five as well, but a good six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Starr.
But what I’m finding nearly impossible to digest is that today wasn’t the first time. It was, however, the first time that anybody believed her.
“We all knew she wasn’t happy, that she was having a difficult time adjusting,” Mrs. Harrison is saying, obviously not wanting to meet my gaze. “And children as bright as Starr have a pattern…of coming up with stories they believe will be their ticket out of here.”
“You thought she was lying?”
The woman looks like she’s having a hard time keeping her lunch down. “She was so calm about it, when she told us…I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think it was worth finding out if she was telling the truth. You just assumed she was making it up.”
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Levine, I can assure you nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“That you know of.”
Color floods the woman’s cheeks, turning them almost maroon. “If you feel Starr needs to talk to somebody about this—a professional, I mean—I’ll be happy to pay for it. Out of my own pocket,” she adds, clearly keen on not involving the center’s name if she can help it.
I let out a sigh. While I’m pissed beyond belief that nobody listened to Starr—and wondering why on earth she didn’t tell me, either—neither do I want to blow this out of proportion. Show-and-not-tell is a fairly standard game around here in this age group. I should know. Seems to me I was around that age when I accidentally saw my father’s penis as he was getting out of the shower. I thought it was strange and ugly and immediately asked Luke if he had one. He obliged my curiosity by yanking down his pants and showing me. I believe I said, “Oh,” he pulled his pants back up and we continued watching He-Man without giving it another thought.
Of course, Luke and I were friends and touching wasn’t part of the equation.
“We’ve already notified the boy’s parents, of course,” the director says. At my raised eyebrows, she adds, “He won’t be returning.”
I can tell there’s more. “And…?”
She pauses, then says, very gently, “Ms. Levine, to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure this is the best environment for Starr, either. Her…unique personality seems at odds with the typical day-care setting.”
“She wasn’t fitting in, you mean.”
That gets an apologetic smile. “Not very well, no.” Then she says, “She’s extraordinarily bright, which I’m sure you know. Have you had her tested?”
Inside, I cringe. I am so not ready for testing and all that implies. “No. Not yet.”
“I can recommend somebody, if you like.” She stands. “And I meant what I said. About footing the bill for her to talk to a professional, if that seems necessary. And it goes without saying, we’ll refund you for the week.”
Damn straight.
After I liberate my daughter, we decide ice cream is in order.
“C’n I get a sundae?” she says when we slip into the coffee shop booth.
“You can get whatever you want.”
Starr orders a hot-fudge sundae with extra whipped cream. I order a vanilla egg cream. Leo used to buy these for me all the time when I was little. And not so little. My insides knot with missing him, with wanting to talk to him about this, ask his advice. Except if he’d been around to talk to, none of this would’ve happened, anyway.
“Were you scared?” I ask while we’re waiting for our order.
My baby’s delicate little brows crinkle behind her glasses for a moment, then she shakes her head. “I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t scared.” She makes a face. “It looked like a fat, icky worm, though. Gross.”
And God willing, she will keep thinking that for a very long time.
“Did he try to touch you?”
Another head shake. “He wanted to kiss me, but I wouldn’t let him.” Her expression tells me she found this prospect even more disgusting than the fat, icky worm business.
“So how come you didn’t tell me?” I say carefully.
She shrugs. “’Cause I didn’t want you to worry, I guess.”
My insides cramp. “Starr, sweetie, I’m your mother. I’m supposed to worry. And you’re supposed to tell me anytime somebody does something bad or mean to you, you got that?”
After a long, steady look, she nods. “Okay.”
Our treats arrive. She hands me the maraschino cherry—she hates them—then starts her methodical annihilation of the whipped cream. “Are you going back to work?”
“Not today, no.”
After a second, she says, “Do I have to go back there?”
“Never.”
“Never ever?”
“Never ever.”
“Then who’s going to take care of me when you’re at work?”
I open my mouth to say…what? That I’ll find someplace else to send her? Even though I’m reeling right now, I know what happened today isn’t the norm, that most accredited day cares provide safe, loving environments for the children entrusted to them. At least, I want to believe that, for all those parents who don’t have a choice, who have to trust someone else to take care of their babies for part of the day. But the fact is, I already know this was the only place I could afford. And as it was, I wasn’t coming out ahead, even with my raise.
I am not by nature an impulsive person, as we all know, save perhaps for the series of events that brought about Starr’s
existence. And even now, despite what I’m about to say, I question whether I’m being protective or overprotective. If giving in to my fear might do Starr a disservice in the long run. But right now, I don’t give a damn about the long run. I only care that she’s safe and happy now, when she’s five and has just lost her great-grandfather and needs to know her mommy cares more about her than anything else in the world.
And what I might want, or need, will just have to take a back seat. I also don’t know how I’m going to make ends meet, but I’ll figure it out.
So I reach across the table and wrap my hand around hers. “I’m not going back to work, at least not until you start school. I’m going to stay home with you.”
“Cool,” she says with a little smile, as worry sloughs off her tiny shoulders like a mudslide.
chapter 15
My kitchen faucet is lying in about a hundred unidentifiable pieces all over my sink and counter. Luke hands me a wrench.
“Now you put it back together.”
Right.
With all the events of the day, I’d totally spaced that he was supposed to come over tonight for my first Ms. Fixit lesson. My initial reaction was to plead a headache or something and send him away. Partly because the last thing I feel like doing right now is reconstructing something that looks only marginally less complex than the innards of the Space Shuttle. And partly because I’d really like a few minutes to sort out my thoughts, not to mention my life, before everybody else jumps in with their two cents.
Except no sooner had he walked in the door than Starr piped up with, “Mama quit her job and I don’t have to go to that ’scusting place anymore.” Followed by, before I could stop her, “They called Mama to come get me—”
“Starr…”
“—cuzsomeboyshowedmehiswienie.”
I now know how much noise a fully loaded toolbox makes when dropped onto a wooden floor.
I thought the man was going to explode. Then he dropped to his knees and hugged Starr so tightly I was afraid he’d crack a tiny rib. Then, just as abruptly, he held her out at arm’s length and asked her if she was okay.
“Uh-huh,” she assured him, her head cocked. Frito (Starr named the cat, don’t ask) came up and writhed around her skinny legs as she patted Luke’s shoulder. “It’s okay, really. ’Specially since Mama’s staying home now.” Then she twisted around and asked if she could go over to the Gomezes’ for a little while.
Which is where she still is, an hour later. And here I am, having an intimate personal relationship with assorted metal and rubber bits, while Luke continues to emit sporadic bursts of steam like a faulty iron.
“What the hell kind of place lets somethin’ like that happen?”
I remind him of our little show-me-the-goods experience. Not a subject I would have brought up, God knows, if I hadn’t had to make a point.
He doesn’t look convinced.
“Oh, come on,” I say, stacking one piece on top of another— I glance at Luke, he nods his approval. “She may have been a little grossed out, but I don’t think she’s traumatized for life or anything.”
“You hope.”
“They were kids, Luke.”
“Wait—” He hands me one of the other pieces. “This one comes next.”
“Oh. I knew that.”
“Liar.”
I smile.
“So. Were you grossed out?”
“About what happened to Starr? Sure—”
“No. Not today.” I look over. He’s trying his damnedest to look cool. “Back then. Us.”
“Oh. That.” I shrug. Hey, he’s not the only one in the room who can do cool. “Please. We weren’t even in grade school. Besides, I asked to see it, remember?”
“I do. And I seem to remember you were impressed.”
“Male selective memory strikes again. Hey!”
He’s lightly thunked me on the head with a roll of paper towels. I grab for the towels, we tussle for a minute, my heart rate goes up and my nipples tighten, then we both seem to realize what we’re doing and back away from each other.
I return to my silver puzzle. Luke’s made a diagram of the exploded faucet for me, but since his drawing skills suck, most of the real pieces bear little resemblance to the ones on the diagram.
“No, the gasket comes next. The gasket,” he says, handing me some little round thing that looks exactly like all the other little round things. Somehow, I don’t think plumbing is my calling. “So what’d your boss say about your quitting?”
“I, um, haven’t exactly told her yet.”
“Ellie. Jesus.”
“Hey. This is going to take a little finessing, okay? She’s not going to be happy that I’m leaving, especially without giving notice.”
“But you were gonna leave anyway if you’d gotten that other job.”
“At least I could’ve eased her into that. Not dropped a bomb like this is going to be.”
“El, honey…oh, for godssake, lemme have that, this is making me nuts….” Like I’m gonna argue with the man. “It’s not like it’s that big a deal. I mean, it was just an assistant’s job, right? Not like you’re interrupting some big career or anything.”
Why should this take my breath? It’s not as if he’s saying something I didn’t know. Nor does he mean to be hurtful. All he’s doing is rationalizing things in order to make this easier for me. Still, knowing something and hearing somebody else say it are two different things.
“Yes,” I say quietly, my arms folded over my middle. “Not like I’m interrupting any big career.”
“So maybe this’ll give you some time to think about what you wanna do next.”
While I stand there, pondering what he means by that, he lowers himself to my floor, which isn’t exactly pristine, then disappears underneath the sink. From underneath comes, “You gonna be okay, though? Financially?”
“I don’t know,” I say to faded denim knees and chamois-colored workboots. “Figuring that out was on my agenda for this evening.” I bend over, tossing words in the general direction of his head. “Until you showed up.”
He finishes whatever mystery thing he was doing under there and emerges. His hair’s grown out a bit in the last few weeks; now it’s sitting up in little startled spikes all over his head. Concern tightens his mouth as looks up at me.
“Hey. Like I said before, you need anything, I’m here.”
“I know. And thanks. But I’m sure I’ll be fine.” As long as nobody gets sick because—it hits me—I no longer have medical coverage.
Luke gets to his feet with an agility I can only envy, frowning as he wipes his hands on about six paper towels. Then he stuffs the trash can and cleaning paraphernalia back underneath the sink, banging shut the cabinet door. I’ve known him too long not to read his body language.
“What?” I say before he can start with me. “You don’t think I can pull this off?”
“Not if you can’t learn to do some of this maintenance work yourself. These houses are old, they take a lot of upkeep. You can’t be callin’ a plumber or electrician every five minutes.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. But maybe tonight wasn’t the best time for me to try learning something new.” When he grunts, I add, “I’ll figure it out, okay?”
“Right.”
“I will! For God’s sake, Luke, at least give me a chance to work through some of this!” At his continued expression of disbelief, my face warms. “Hey,” I say, poking his chest. “How about a little support here, huh? Like trusting me to stand on my own two feet.”
His brows inch even closer together. “I worry about you, okay? So sue me.”
I let out a sigh. “I’m not going to let you make it easy for me to lean on you, Luke. Not like—”
I stop myself, but it’s too late.
“Not like I did Tina,” he finishes. “No, it’s okay, I already knew where you were going with this. Even if you didn’t.” The tools make a dreadful racket as he tosses them all back
into his metal box, then turns the water on to wash his hands. “But that’s why you’re the smarter one here.”
“What are you talking about?”
He flicks the excess water off his hands, then uses another six towels to dry them. Honestly.
“You’ve always been able to see things I couldn’t, even if they were starin’ me in the face. Like with Tina and me.” He stops, the towels crumpled in his hand, and squints at me. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about things the past several weeks. Things I couldn’t see for squat as long as Tina and me were still together.” He pauses. “You knew all along I was makin’ her dependent on me, didn’t you?”
Oh, boy.
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” I say quietly.
Luke watches me for a moment, then balls up the towels, yanks open the door under the sink and tosses them into the trash can. “Yeah,” he says on a heavy sigh. “That’s what I thought I wanted, too. Now that I’ve got a little distance, though, I’m thinkin’ maybe that was stupid.”
“You loved her,” I said. “That wasn’t stupid.”
“Because I figured she needed me to love her. That if I didn’t, nobody else would.” He turns to me, his eyes fathomless. “How lame is that?”
“Some people might call it noble.”
He smirks. “I should’ve known you’d say something like that. Pitying somebody isn’t the same as loving them. And sure as hell makin’ ’em dependent on you isn’t. But it wasn’t until I realized she was lying to me that it dawned on me what I’d been doing to her.”
My eyes pop open. “L-lying?”
“Oh, come on, El—you didn’t honestly believe all that crap about her havin’ somebody else, did you?”
I swear, the blood’s pounding through my veins so hard they’re going to burst. “You did!”
“For about five minutes. Okay, maybe for a little longer than that. But once she moved to Jersey…you didn’t know she’d moved to Trenton?” I shake my head. “Yeah,” he says, “a few weeks back. So I’m back at my old place. Anyway, once I got to thinking about things, I realized there were several pieces of her story that weren’t fitting together right. I told you, the marriage was falling apart way before she lost the baby. If you ask me, that whole it-wasn’t-yours business was just her way of putting the final nail in the coffin.”
Hanging by a Thread Page 20
