Daddy Wanted

by Wylde, Tara

  “Get behind me, Joey .”

  “Mommy?”

  “It’s—it’s all right. Just...just stand behind me, real quiet, huh ?”

  He wraps himself around my leg. I push the door open, tense as a greyhound, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But there’s nothing there—nothing there. Not even the stuff that’s supposed to be; not even —

  I hear a horrible, guttural moan, and I’ve already snatched Joey into my arms before I realize it came from me. The high cabinet, the one above the fridge, the one with the Christmas presents, the ornaments, everything Christmas... It’s open. Empty. And every other cabinet, every drawer —

  “Mommy? Where’s — ?”

  “It’s...it’s....” What to say...what to say? “Ah ....”

  “Did we go in the wrong door ?”

  “Uh...ah....” Say something! “It’s...it’s....” A nightmare. “A game, sweetie! We, uh...it’s a... It’s like hide-and-seek, but, uh...my friends from work? They’ve hidden my things all over town, and—and if I find them, I get...better things. Everything brand new!” Smooth, Lina .

  “Can I play ?”

  “Yeah, definitely, but...but tomorrow, okay? It’s dark now, so, uh.... We’ll start tomorrow. After playgroup. In the park. But for now, ah, I’ve got to... I’m going to take you next door, and you can play with the cats, and I bet Mrs. Thing’ll give you a gingersnap, if you say ‘please ’.”

  “Mrs. Thing !”

  I’m going to owe Mrs. Dzhokharova the biggest fruit basket I can afford. Which will probably amount to a single banana and a Fruit Roll-Up, at this rate. Brownies, then. Or...or I’ll clean her bathroom. Anything, just ....

  I’m freaking out .

  Okay, calm down .

  I must be in shock. Can’t think straight. Need to move, need to ....

  “Okay. Okay.” I go to take Joey by the hand, but he’s —

  —where the fuck, ohmygod where’s he —

  —he’s already run ahead, down the hall. The light’s spilling out, under Mrs. Thing’s door. He must’ve snuck off, and knocked, and been let in, while I was...staring into space? Wringing my hands? What was I just doing ?

  I don’t have time to go to pieces. My sweaty fingers slide on my skin when I go to pinch myself. Forcing myself into action feels like wading through cold molasses. I trail after Joe in a fog, and I must manage to say something to Mrs. Thing, because she fusses, and the cats crowd my ankles, and Joey ends up in her grandson’s PJs. Someone calls the police, and a locksmith, and I’m dimly aware I can’t afford a locksmith, but what choice do I have ?

  I blink, and I’m back in my doorway, alone. I don’t want to turn on the light. There are lumps on the floor, unfamiliar shapes, shards and clumps and broken things that crunch underfoot. Whoever was here, they didn’t just rip me off. In the dim glow of the hall light, I can see where they tore up the carpet, tagged the walls, cut the curtains to shreds .

  I take two steps into the kitchen, needing a glass of water. Something squelches under my heel: Joey’s goldfish, dead in a spray of glass and aquarium pebbles. I scream. My legs give out and I go down hard. There’s something digging into my knees and the tops of my feet—Cheerios; they dumped out a week’s worth of breakfast, for what? For what? Spite ?

  I drop my forehead to the floor, mouth open wide. I can’t cry like I want to. Can’t, can’t, cannot. I blink hard. Two huge tears break free, roll down my cheeks, and drip off my chin. I breathe deep till my eyes stop stinging .

  Can’t even afford a proper cry .

  The cops are coming; there’s that to deal with .

  Get up .

  I stand at attention. Brush Cheerio crumbs off my pants, which are still wet, and starting to chafe .

  Get changed ?

  My bedroom’s a war zone in its own right. The nightstand’s in pieces, and it looks like someone’s run a lawnmower over the bed. Feathers and fabric scraps are everywhere, chunks of mattress foam too. Every lamp’s been shattered. And my clothes...my clothes are on the floor, covered in—yep. Yep. That’d be piss. I fight back another round of hysterical laughter. I came in here so I wouldn’t smell like I wet my pants, and...and...it’s funny, right? Like, in someone else’s life, or on a sitcom, it’d be a scream .

  The closet’s a forest of empty hangers...empty hangers, and my gym bag, still stuffed with my sweaty old workout gear. So...do I want to reek of pee or BO when the cops get here ?

  Not fair. Not fair, not fair, not fair .

  Joey’s laughing, two doors down. Mrs. Thing must’ve got out the laser pointer again. Joey loves it more than the cats do. I find myself smiling in spite of myself. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. Right now, this has only happened to me. All I need to do is keep it that way .

  My smile grows as a plan forms. We will hunt for our stuff. It’ll be like...a new adventure every day. We’ll ride the subways. Find Pizza Rat. Hit up a museum or two. Pretend to spot our furniture in showroom windows and other people’s living rooms. It’ll be educational, kinda. Even a little magical. And I’ll work a few extra shifts, and in a couple of weeks, we’ll do a Dollarama run. We’ll get fun stuff—plastic tables with toes on their feet, lamps shaped like clowns, whatever’s silly. Joey’ll love it. And Christmas...Christmas ....

  It’ll be fine .

  I’ll make it fine .

  Chapter Two

  N ick

  A n eyeroll emoji. A freaking eyeroll emoji. The dreaded day’s arrived: my nine-year-old’s too cool for her dad .

  My phone chirps again: srsly dad??? pix w/santa? what am i, 5 ?

  I’ve finished emptying the last of the donation bins. Still got to inventory the contents, weed out the expired shit, but Mac said he’d help with that after the early evening rush. I should touch up the lettering too: how’s anyone supposed to see “PY AN FOO ANT” and get “HAPPY BEAN FOOD PANTRY”? No wonder donations are down !

  I fire off a text while I wait: got ur skates sharpened 2day. or u too grown up for that too ?

  wanna see shawn mendes .

  he hottttttttt <3

  Oh, no. Uh-uh. None of that. My thumbs fly: katie, u r way 2 young to be saying “hottttttttt.” or thinking it. and u have homework. or if u don’t u can clean ur room. or my room. clean something and get off the internet .

  The ellipsis icon barely flashes, before another eyeroll pops up. Then two hearts, a sushi roll, and a Grinch head .

  I’m thirty years old, feeling ancient .

  What’s wrong with Santa, anyway ?

  It’s not just Katie. People are way too cynical about Christmas, in general. Christmas music, Christmas lights, Christmas decorations: it seems a waste, if you’re only going to appreciate them one day out of the year. So what if it’s barely Thanksgiving? No such thing as “too early. I love those YouTube videos where people turn their whole houses into spectacles, with hundreds of thousands of lights on timers, flashing their way through Silver Bells or Ride of the Valkyries . I love Santa and jingling sleighs. Turkey too. Doesn’t matter the time of year: show me a string of fairy lights, a Rudolph nose, even a bag of oranges, I get a surge of excitement .

  The one thing I could do without is the cold. I’m freezing my ass off in here. I think it’s still attached back there, but it went numb sometime between lunch and the second box of bananas I dropped on my foot, so who’s to say? My fingers are ice cubes, but my palms are on fire with the start of a fresh crop of blisters. The tip of my nose is stinging .

  “Order up !”

  I straighten. My back crackles and pops. I barely suppress a groan .

  “You dying there, man ?”

  “Think I need mouth to mouth.” I do an exaggerated hunchback walk to the window. Rich snorts and passes me the order .

  “She’s gonna need help lugging that to the station, so meet her out front, when you’re done .”

  “Got it .”

  The order’s for a first-timer pack: a few staples to tide someone over
till we can get ‘em registered—non-perishables, stuff we’ve got plenty of. I pad it out with a selection of our less popular fresh stuff: leeks, Brussels sprouts, those things that look like carrots but taste like turnips—parsnips?—and four ears of corn tied together with string. The corn’s a hot item, but no-one should leave without something good .

  I’m glad for my new scarf when I step out of the pantry. A brisk wind’s gusted in from the north, and there’s a smell of snow in the air. I can feel my cheeks redden .

  The woman waiting on the front bench looks like this is the first time she’s sat down all day. Maybe all week. She’s in a position I know too well: slumped forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, like she could doze off where she sits. I check the name on the order slip .

  “Miss, uh, Petrova? Elina Petrova ?”

  She jerks upright—maybe she was sleeping. “Oh! Yes! Lina, though; everyone calls me Lina.” She smiles, and for a second, I forget we’re strangers. She’s got one of those smiles that makes you feel like you must’ve done something awesome to deserve it. Makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole world. “Sorry! Didn’t see you there .”

  “Don’t worry about it. Where you headed ?”

  “Brighton Beach .”

  “Whoa, that’s....” I shift the bags from one hand to the other. Even for me, they’re getting heavy. “I mean, you gonna manage all this? That’s a subway and a bus, and quite a walk in between .”

  “I’ll make it work.” Lina conjures up another smile, kind of a watery one this time. “It’s just, it’s kind of an emergency, and you were the only ones open this late. I, uh...really messed up .”

  “I’m sure you didn’t .”

  “No, I did. I mean, I feel bad even coming here, taking away food from people who need it, after I—after I — “

  I set down the bags. “Hey. Come on. That’s exactly what we’re here for. Emergencies. People in a pinch. You’re not taking anything from anyone.” I pat her arm. She feels too thin, lost in her winter coat .

  “Thanks. Thanks; you’re—that’s really nice of you. It’s just, I did the shopping yesterday. But then my hands were full, so I left some of the bags under the stairs. And I got distracted, and by the time I went back....” She smacks herself in the forehead. “See? Idiot .”

  “Had a student come in last week because he didn’t know he had to plug in his fridge, and everything his mom bought him went bad.” Not true, but she doesn’t need to know that .

  She laughs, but it feels forced. There’s something about her, a look in her eyes, like she’s a million miles away, running down a list of worries that never ends. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror too many times .

  “Just a sec,” I tell her, snatching back one of the bags. “Just realized, uh—this one’s not—grabbed the wrong—be right back !”

  She holds up her hand like she’s about to tell me to wait, it doesn’t matter, but I’m already on my mission. I don’t know: maybe it’s the Christmas music still playing in my head. Maybe it’s that look in her eyes, haunted and familiar. Can’t put my finger on the reason, but I want to give her something nice to come home to .

  Instead of the pantry, I go for my car. A quick rummage through the mess that is my back seat turns up what I’m looking for: a snack basket from the deli. It’s not much—a few champagne truffles; a tube of gourmet crackers; spicy smoked oysters; jars of peppers and olives and grape leaves in oil; a lot of little packs of this and that. I’d planned to gobble it over the sink like a hobo when I got home, but this is better. I scribble a little note to go with it and bury it in the bag, under a head of lettuce .

  Lina’s checking out our Christmas display when I get back. I did a whole Frosty the Snowman thing in the window, complete with flurries of hand-cut snowflakes .

  “Like it ?”

  Her real smile’s back, the sunny one. “Love it. Festive, with the snowstorm.” She’s one of those people who talks with her hands. She does a whole finger-wiggling thing, miming falling snow .

  “That was my idea .”

  “Creative and modest, eh?” She picks up one of the bags and starts walking. I fall into step beside her. The trek to the subway feels too quick: before I know it, I’m standing on the platform, watching the train whisk her away. Somehow, I managed to talk about myself the whole way: my questionable artistic talents, my Christmas plans, my job at the food pantry...and I never learned a thing about her .

  This is why I’m single .

  In my defense, she did keep asking questions .

  No. This is definitely why I’m single .

  Chapter Three

  E lina

  The guy from the food pantry hands off my bags with a courtly half-bow. I want to say something, thank him properly, but the doors are already closing. Can’t even wave with my arms full of food. Normally I’d be too tired to care, but there was something sweet about him. Reminded me of Joey, in a way—probably all that talk of Christmas. Never seen a grown man so excited about...what was he even on about? Snow angels? Hot toddies by the fire? Ridiculous ....

  I shake my head. All right for some, I guess. Me, I’m back to square one .

  Well. Not quite. Mrs. Dzhokharova said I could have her artificial tree, and two strings of lights. Must make Joey quit calling her Mrs. Thing. That can be his New Year’s resolution: no more Mrs. Thing .

  My phone buzzes with a text—a meme of a laughing toddler in a box: “Latest toy: $200. Box it came in: priceless.” Pff. Can’t picture Joey being thrilled with an empty box. Maybe a box filled with ribbons and glitter and buttons and beads, everything he needs to turn our place into a disaster area ?

  Yeah. I mean, no. He’d absolutely go for the box of messy crap... And it’s never, ever going to happen .

  Maybe I could dig up my old favorites, pass them down as heirlooms. There was some dirty old doll I found behind a dumpster; Mama used to crochet dresses for it. Dozens and dozens of them, each pinker and frillier than the last. That’d be a no. But there was definitely a red bike—what ever happened to that? Maybe Mama still has it. I could fix it up... Would Joey be big enough to ride, if I screwed on some training wheels ?

  I feel heavy all over. It’s warm in here. I could drift off so easy, miss my stop .

  I don’t want to, but I get up. Can’t afford any more screwups .

  This’ll be my first time doing Christmas on my own, and the first one Joey’ll be old enough to remember. If I don’t miss a beat between now and then, I might pull it off .

  By the time I get home, it’s starting to come together in my head. Which isn’t the same as coming together in reality, but still feels like progress. I’m almost positive I can get my hands on that bike. And I might have a line on a bag of used Legos, plus an extra-large bubble wand. Not exactly the epic haul I’d been planning, but it’s a start .

  I find the door cracked open again. Panic floods my veins. I almost drop my bags, almost scream for Joey, but I can hear him already. And he’s laughing. I elbow the door open, to find Mrs. Dzhokharova painting over the graffiti in the living room, and Joey... Well, I guess you could say he’s helping. He’s got his own little brush, the one that came with his watercolor set, and he’s following her around, painting scary blue spiders along the edges of her coverup .

  “They’re washable,” she says. “This...the creepy-crawlies. Scrub right off .”

  “Thanks for this.” I squeeze around them and start putting the food away .

  Mrs. D’s really been busy. I managed to deal with the worst of the mess before Joey woke up—even replaced the goldfish, heaven help me—but this is above and beyond. She’s brought over a TV table, a couple of chairs, a pile of cushions, and hung a colorful tablecloth over the window in place of curtains. It’s starting to look almost homelike again .

  “Got to get home in time for my shows,” she says. “But my Emin’s coming tomorrow. Thought Joey might join us for Chuck-E-Cheese and a sleepover? Bed by eight
, of course .”

  “Yeah, Mommy!” Joey’s practically jumping up and down .

  I pull out a bag of Brussels sprouts and dangle them in his face. “Choke down four of these tonight, and you’re on .”

  “Aw, Momm-eeee !”

  I nod at Mrs. D. He’ll be there .

  I’m already planning tonight’s dinner as I unpack. There’s enough here to make spaghetti, Joey’s favorite—that ought to help the sprouts go down easier. Or I could be nice and do a salad instead. Sprouts keep longer than lettuce. There’s a good leafy head of Romaine, and underneath —

  —what the hell ?

  This fancy basket cannot be standard food pantry fare. It’s...it’s an actual, no-fooling picnic basket, woven wicker, with a checkered cloth lining. Inside, there’s cheese, crackers, jars and cans with fancy labels—even chocolate. Nice chocolate, dark and rich, dusted with cocoa powder. And are those...smoked oysters? My mouth waters. Not sure Joey’ll go for those, but I love them .

  “Joey?”

  He looks up from the cobweb he’s painting into the corner. “Yeah ?”

  “Wash your hands and get your red blanket .”

  “My blanket ?”

  “Can’t have a picnic without a blanket, right?” I hold up the basket. A scrap of paper flutters loose. Joey’s eyes go wide .

  “No Brussels sprouts ?”

  “Not tonight .”

  He runs off cheering. I wait till I hear water running—sometimes, he only pretends he’s washed his hands—and retrieve the receipt. Only it’s not a receipt. It’s a handwritten note, a few scribbled words: Thought you could use a treat. Their stuffed peppers are the best ! :-)

  I feel my eyes well up. This must be...this must be what that guy ran back for, when he said he’d grabbed the wrong bag. He was probably looking forward to those amazing stuffed peppers himself... And I didn’t even get his name. Wasn’t even that nice to him. Let him ramble all the way to the station, so I wouldn’t have to come up with anything to say. And the whole time...the whole time ....