by Meg Ripley
“We don’t.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. Even in kindergarten, I was pretty sure there was homework. I’d have to…my first instinct was to talk to Logan about it. But obviously, I couldn’t do that. I guess I’d have to talk to the teacher. Whatever homework she might have had would have been due days ago; before all this. How much school had she missed so far? Lord. How in the world was I going to do this?
I got up and went to the kitchen. My half-finished beer sat on the counter, slightly warm by then, and I guzzled it down; it wasn’t strong enough to deal with the day I’d been having. How much have I had to drink so far this morning? I rubbed at my face, looking at the cans piled in the recycle bin. When was the last time I’d emptied it? How many days’ worth of drinking was that from? What day is this?
My eyes burned and my head felt light and spun a bit, just the way I liked it to. Has the kid eaten yet today?
“You hungry?” I called into the living room. No answer. “Peyton. Are you hungry?” When she didn’t answer again, my anger flared. This kid had better start listening to me. I stormed into the living room. “Hey! I asked if you were hungry, and when I ask you a question, you need to answer it, okay?”
She looked at me and her lip quivered. She shook her head.
“Fine.” I stomped back into the kitchen. What was I supposed to do with a kid who didn’t talk and wouldn’t do anything? She was supposed to be getting into therapy; my own therapist had suggested that, but the sessions hadn’t started yet. In the meantime, I was losing my mind trying to get her to do anything at all. What six-year-old didn’t even want to watch TV?
A little voice in the back of my head told me, one who just lost her parents, you asshole.
Yeah. I wasn’t cut out for this. I was failing her already and it was making us both miserable. It’d been days since the funeral—and that meant it’d been days since we were left there, alone, in her parents’ house. She obviously didn’t want to be there with me and, truth be told, I didn’t really want to be there with her, either. I wanted my own house. My own shit. My own space that wasn’t full of memories and chick decorations. God, what a nightmare it would be to have a wife, I thought. I couldn’t take it. I’d never marry. But, I’d never planned to have kids, either, and look how that worked out.
My head swung to the side as someone knocked on the door. People had been dropping off food and stopping by. The food wasn’t bad, but I hated drop-bys. Who just showed up and didn’t call first? Rude. We weren’t expecting anyone, and I was tempted to ignore it. But after the knocking came again, Peyton got up and went to the door.
“I’ll get it,” I said. Kids weren’t supposed to answer the door, were they?
I opened it to see someone vaguely familiar standing on the front steps. She must have been at the funeral or something.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Hi, um, I’m Jessie?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Is that a question?”
She clenched her jaw. “I’m Jessie.”
“Well, what do you want? I have things to do.”
“You…told me to come today…”
I tried to remember. Why in the world would I have told her to come over? I mean, she was a hot piece of ass, but… “What for?”
“I’m the nanny?”
I managed to keep myself from rolling my eyes. Why did people insist on making statements into questions?
“The nanny,” I repeated. Then I recalled a moment at the funeral. Outside the bathroom. Right. “Yeah, okay. Come in then, I guess.”
She walked in and looked around. I gestured toward Peyton in the living room.
“She’s over there. If you can get her to talk or do anything, the job is yours.” I went back to the kitchen and cracked another beer. I didn’t want to make it obvious I was observing her, but I needed to know what was going on in there, so I stayed within earshot. It seemed like something a responsible parent would do. Not that I was neither responsible nor a parent.
I heard her soft voice speaking to Peyton. “Hi, I’m Jessie. I’m going to be spending some time with you, I hope. Maybe before and after school, to help out a little. Does that sound okay?”
I didn’t hear Peyton respond. Of course she wouldn’t. This Jessie girl had her work cut out for her.
“You’re Peyton, right?”
I snorted. This girl wasn’t sure of her own name or anyone else’s.
“That’s such a pretty name. Do you have a middle name?”
To my shock, I heard Peyton reply. “Rose. After my grandma.”
“Oh, I love that name!” Jessie exclaimed. “Does that mean roses are your favorite flower?”
No response again. I smiled smugly.
“I love roses,” she continued, “but do you know what I love even more? Tulips. Bright yellow and red tulips. They’re so colorful and cheerful. I like to rub the soft petals between my fingers. Have you ever done that?”
Peyton either didn’t answer or made a head gesture, but I didn’t know for sure. Staying in the kitchen wasn’t going to work; I needed to see what was happening. I moved a few steps forward until I could peek into the living room. Jessie was kneeling down in front of Peyton, who still sat on the couch. Yeah, I did that getting down to their level thing, too, I thought. Didn’t help.
Then she said, “This is a really hard time for you, isn’t it?”
I almost laughed out loud. Was she serious? Of course it was!
But Peyton nodded sadly and said, “I miss Mommy and Daddy.”
“I know you do, sweetheart. I’m sure Uncle Conner misses them, too. I know a lot of people loved your mom and dad, and everyone misses them.”
“Did you know them?” Peyton asked.
“No, but I wish I had. My sister was friends with your mom. Her name is Nikki.”
Peyton nodded. “She came over lots of times, and sometimes, she would paint my nails.”
“She painted mine last night!” Jessie wiggled her pink nails at Peyton. “I’m not as good as she is, but maybe we could paint nails one day. Would you like that?”
Peyton nodded.
“What else do you like to do?”
Peyton gave a little shrug and didn’t answer.
“Yeah, I get that,” Jessie continued. “Nothing seems fun anymore, does it?”
Peyton shook her head and a tear ran down her cheek. Great. She had been there, what, twenty minutes? And already, she was making the kid cry. I was about to walk in there and put an end to it. But then Peyton did something. She leaned forward and nestled her head into Jessie. She started to cry and Jessie rubbed her back and spoke softly to her. I couldn’t hear what she said and that aggravated me. What were you supposed to say to a crying kid?
After a few minutes, they got up. Peyton stuck her hand right in Jessie’s as she slid off the couch. I thought they would come to find me, but instead, they walked down the hall and turned into Peyton’s room. I inched closer to listen in.
Peyton was showing her around, telling her about her toys and stuffed animals. Actually talking. And then I heard something I couldn’t even believe. Jessie must’ve done something with a stuffed animal; I don’t know what, but it involved a goofy voice. What it did to Peyton was magic. She laughed. She actually laughed.
I shrugged and went back to the living room with my beer and sat down. In under an hour, Jessie had done what I’d tried to do for days. What a fuck up I was. I had no clue. I would’ve messed this kid up pretty good, though. Made sure she had all sorts of issues like me. Made sure she grew up drunk and miserable. Like me.
I sat for a while, hating myself, and both despising and loving Jessie at the same time. Either the pills or the alcohol—or the combination of both—started to kick in and my eyes drooped. I might have slept for a whole hour or two the night before. I had to take sleep when it came, and if it was coming, then I was going to get every minute I could.
I went to Peyton’s door and knocked on the frame. They were eng
rossed in some game and both looked over at me.
“You can start now,” I muttered.
In a daze, I padded off to my room, which was actually Logan and Alaina’s, flopped onto the bed and passed out.
7
Jessie
“What is this one’s name?” I asked Peyton, holding up a doll with long, pink hair.
“Strawberry. Mommy named her.” Her face fell and she let the doll fall to the ground. She looked at the carpet.
“Do you want to have Strawberry come and play with this doll?’ I held up another one.
Peyton shook her head and tears ran down her cheeks.
“Hey.” I was sitting on the floor and she stood in front of me. I took both her hands in mine. “You can be sad. Be mad. Be whatever you want to be. It’s okay. You can cry whenever you need to.”
Her little chest had started hitching. “But—Uncle Conner—doesn’t like it—”
My chest squeezed, and I almost cried myself.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I whispered. I moved closer to her, and she tilted her head down to me. “I don’t think Uncle Conner knows what to do when you cry. He doesn’t know how to be a daddy yet, and this is hard for him, too. We have to try to remember that, even when he’s being mean, okay?”
She nodded and wiped her cheeks.
“Don’t ever be afraid to cry and let your emotions out,” I told her. “Especially not when you’re with me. Okay?”
She nodded again.
“Are you in kindergarten?”
Peyton nodded.
“Do you like your teacher?”
“She’s nice.”
“That’s good. What’s the best part of school?”
Peyton thought for a moment. “Recess.”
I chuckled. “That was my favorite, too. And gym. I liked to run around.”
“Me, too.”
“What games do you like to play?”
“Tag. I’m good at tag.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. We’ll have to play sometime. Would you like that?”
She nodded.
I was relieved. In all my training to be a teacher, there had been plenty of child psychology courses and instruction on how to connect with young children. If I did end up teaching one day, at least I knew the techniques I studied worked. Peyton seemed to have no trouble talking to me. I wasn’t sure, though, how much was due to my asking the right questions and how much was due to her having such a difficult uncle to live with. If I had been in her place, I might open up to the first person who didn’t snap at me, too.
Hours later, Conner stumbled out of his bedroom and stood in the doorway of Peyton’s room. His t-shirt was crumpled and his shorts were hanging a little too low on his hips. Even like that, with his scruffy, week-old beard and tousled hair, he still looked hot. Nikki was right about that. I didn’t mind the look of him. It was everything else about him that drove me mad.
“You guys okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, we’re great,” I said.
Peyton looked at him, wide-eyed.
“You okay?” he asked, looking directly at her.
She nodded and inched closer to me.
“You hungry?” he asked.
Peyton nodded again. He walked away; to the kitchen, I assumed, and I stood.
“I’m going to talk to Uncle Conner for just a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Peyton resumed our game by herself.
Enough hours had passed that I was getting hungry, too. I wasn’t sure what the plan was, how long I would be there, or anything, really. I found him in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge with a beer in one hand and a bottle of whiskey on the table.
“So, I was just wondering…what’s the plan, here?”
“Leftovers.” He didn’t look at me. “People keep bringing trays of food over. We have way more than we can eat.”
“I mean for me. How long do you want me to stay, and when do you want me come by to stay with Peyton?”
“Oh.” He closed the fridge and turned to me. “Um. She has school in the mornings. So, I guess before school and after school?”
“Do you want me to come every day or just on school days? When do you need me?”
“Whenever I work.”
“And when is that?”
He pointed to a calendar hanging on the wall. Beside it, a piece of paper was taped up. I glanced at it. It listed a number of days off for bereavement, but I didn’t see any sort of work schedule.
“So, you don’t need me the next few weeks? You’re not working, according to this.”
“Just be here every day. Before school. After school. Weekends. Whatever the usual wage is, I’ll add 15%.”
I had no idea what the usual wage was, but I threw out a number that seemed within reason.
“Fine,” he replied. “Well, are you hungry?”
“Um, sure, I could eat, if you don’t mind.”
He turned and took a few steps, reaching up into a cabinet for plates. But then I saw that he was stumbling, barely walking straight or standing still.
“Are you drunk?” I accused.
He set the plates down hard. “What if I am? What are you going to do? Call the police? I know all the cops around these parts.”
“No, I just…well, I’ll stay then. To make sure Peyton is okay.”
“Yeah.” He picked up a plate and glared at me. “You do that.”
Maybe I should have asked for a higher rate for dealing with his bullshit. “Look, I know you’re going through a lot right now, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to be so mean. People might actually like you if you were nicer.” I turned and went back into Peyton’s room, but when a half hour had passed and there didn’t seem to be any food coming, I went back to the kitchen. I found Conner passed out at the table, hunched over his bent arms, his face smeared across the wood surface. Food sat on the counter in plastic containers, unopened.
I searched through the fridge, pulling out several other items and began to heat up some of the leftovers. He must’ve woken from the noise or smell because as I was setting plates on the dining room table, he sat up.
“I think you’d better eat something,” I told him before going off to get Peyton and have her wash her hands.
When we returned to the dining room, his plate was already half empty. He couldn’t even have waited for us? I shook my head, but we sat with him anyway. Peyton and I ate together; she was quiet, though, and it was clear she didn’t want to speak in front of her uncle.
After dinner, I rinsed the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher. Conner stretched out on the couch while I gave Peyton a bath and put on her pajamas.
“What do you and Uncle Conner usually do at bedtime?”
She shrugged and climbed into bed.
“Do you read a story or say a prayer?”
She shook her head.
“Anything like that at all?”
She shook her head again. “Do you want to read a story?”
She nodded enthusiastically. I picked out a book and sat beside her on the bed to read. By the time I was at the end, her eyes were drooping and her head drifted forward, so I laid her down and tucked her in tight.
“I’m really glad that I get to spend time with you,” I whispered and kissed her on the forehead.
“Me, too,” she replied, smiling and closing her eyes.
8
Conner
I woke up somewhere in the dim hours of the morning. My heart raced, and it took a moment for me to recall where I was: in the living room in my brother’s house. Not lying in a ditch in the deserts of Afghanistan. I breathed slowly, using the exercises my therapist taught me. When I had calmed my heart and anxiety, I rubbed my eyes so that I could read my watch.
4 am.
I jumped up. I’d slept enough that I was sober again, and now that I realized where I was, the night started to come back.
Where was Peyton? Where was Jessie? I glanced outside; Jessie’s
car was gone. I walked quietly down the hall and peeked into Peyton’s room. She was in there, fast asleep. In the kitchen, the leftovers had been cleaned up, neatly put away in the refrigerator, and the dishes had been rinsed loaded into the dishwasher. The bathroom smelled faintly of Peyton’s strawberry shampoo, and a damp towel hung on the back of the door. I noticed Jessie had left her jasmine hand lotion on the counter and I slowly inhaled the sweet scent. Damn, she’s beautiful. I had to put that out of my mind, though. She worked for me, and it wasn’t appropriate. But I couldn’t deny that my inner bear rumbled at the thought of her lying beneath me.
I tried to shake off the thought and go back through the day, but there were a lot of holes. One thing I knew for sure is that I’d been a little harsh on Jessie, and she didn’t deserve it. I’d tried to get dinner going, but when I’d passed out at the kitchen table, she had picked up the slack for me. She’d gotten Peyton cleaned up and into bed. She’d been there all day. I didn’t know if she’d had any plans or other things she needed to do; frankly, I hadn’t cared enough to ask. I’d been more concerned with drinking my feelings away. What a selfish prick you’ve been, I told myself.
With that realization came another, and a lump began to form in my throat. Jessie reminded me of family; of home. My mother was like her, always making sure Logan and I had food to eat—good food, too—making sure we had clean clothes and school supplies, making sure we’d actually done our homework and had managed to shower. She took care of my father, too. He worked long hours to provide for us, and she did everything she could to support that, whether it was pressing his shirts and making him coffee early in the morning before he left for the day or taking dinner to him when his hours grew long. Mom had that quiet, gentle, caring nature that I missed. And I saw it in Jessie.
My family was mostly gone by that point. My father died years earlier; heart attack, of course. He’d always worked too hard and hadn’t shifted and run enough. My mother was so ill, she needed around-the-clock help, so a live-in nurse took care of her. Logan was dead. And Me? I might as well have been. I was worthless to everyone. How was it that I, the most unreliable of all the Griffin men, was the one left standing? It should have been any of them but me.
