“A few things,” he began. “First, I can’t make brunch tomorrow. I was invited to a golf outing with some important people. We will resume the regular brunch schedule next week.”
My giddy relief at having Sunday brunch cancelled was short-lived as he continued on.
“Second, Jeffrey hasn’t heard from you regarding the email he sent this week. As I was coming here, I told him I would verify your choice of nanny with you.”
He took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to me. Opening it revealed pictures and short bios for the nannies I remembered seeing in Jeffrey’s email.
“All of these nannies are able to relocate here for one year. I will pay their salary. They will report to both you and I. If they are found to be insufficient, a replacement will be sent.”
I continued to stare at the paper, but fury interfered with my ability to process any information. Perhaps any other single mother would jump at this chance. Perhaps I was being ungrateful?
I looked up at my father silently. His expression was predictably stoic.
“And if I may be frank, Polly, I can’t help but say how disappointed I am. The party today was in poor taste. My granddaughter was running around wildly and barely acknowledged me in my own home. I rarely saw Max and when I did, he didn’t say a word to me. From the way you and your children behaved to how they were dressed, it was completely inappropriate. Our family is to be held to a higher standard. My nomination to the Tennessee Supreme Court is on the line. You should be instilling your children with decorum and discipline. Maybe then, they would be normal.”
Nope. I wasn’t being ungrateful.
I was becomingunglued.I jerkily folded the paper and thrust it back to him.
“If you cannot choose a nanny, then I will be forced—” He was still talking when I uncharacteristically cut him off.
“I already hired a nanny.”
He stilled, clearly caught off guard.
“And I’m signing a new contract with Mercy Health next week. A full-time position. So, while I appreciate your help,” I had to practically spit the words out of my mouth, they tasted so bitter, “I will not be needing any additional assistance.”
The rigidity in my spine increased as I layered lie upon lie. My chest ached with pressure and tears burned behind my eyes. I was two point six seconds from seriously losing my shit.
“Excuse me.” I brushed past him and retreated blindly down the hallway, somehow ending up in my parent’s old bedroom. I’d only come in here a handful of times since we’d moved in—mostly to drop off clean towels when Mrs. Simon had stayed overnight. Leah found it too unsettling to sleep in here, opting to sleep on the couch in the living room instead.
It was dark, so I couldn’t see much. It smelled of dust and like any room left long undisturbed, there was a certain stillness about the air. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I took in the familiar layout of the room. It hadn’t changed in thirty-eight years. An antique four poster bed was on the left side of the room, headboard against the wall. The bathroom and closet were off to my right, opposite the bed. Straight ahead, on the far side of the room, was an ornate fireplace and sitting area. My father had kept my mother’s shrine well preserved. Everything was precisely how it had been when my mother was alive and yet, nothing was the same.
Keeping the lights off, I leaned back against the closed door and dropped my face in my hands, finally able to let out a stifled scream.
Wiping my hands down my face, I stared unseeingly in front of me, my mind going a mile a minute. How dare my father do this? How dare Iletmy father do this? Did I really need his help so much? What was I going to do? I either needed to pick a nanny or move out. If it were only me to think about, I’d gladly move out and stay in a rusted tin can to spite him. But moving my kids again, after all the changes they’ve had this year?
How did I let myself get into this situation?
My eyes had now fully adjusted to the dark, letting me take in the familiar wainscoting, the white marble of the unused fireplace, and the floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the fireplace; their rose window valences and thick curtains were pulled tight, a thin line of sunlight hinting at the edges.
“Actually, Father,” I said aloud, no one around to hear me except the ghost of my mother, “thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather live on peanut butter and moldy bread than take one more cent from you. Not only are you a terrible father, but somehow, you’ve managed to be an even worse grandfather. Congratulations! And while I’m at it, thank you for screwing me up so much, that I married the first person who showed me a pale impression of love, thinking it was the real thing until, surprise! I acted however he wanted me to act, thinking it was the only way he’d love me, twisting myself up into a pretzel so tightly, I don’t even know who I am anymore!”
I bent forward and rested my hands on my knees, sucking in air, gripping them tight. I did feel marginally better. Not good, but less unhinged. Maybe I’d have to come in here to rage more often.
I was about to turn and leave when the door to the ensuite bathroom suddenly opened. Jumping back, I rammed my head and back into the door and shouted. I had no idea what I said, I was too focused on not getting murdered by the murderer that came through the door.
But it wasn’t a murderer.
There, looking equally stunned, hair wet, face red and blotchy, was Jace Vargas. He held a black shirt to his bare, ripped chest, and a yellow clown costume was tied at his waist.
Fucking hell!
Jace was Kent the Clown!
Sidenote: He had a six pack.
Second sidenote: I wanted to touch it.
