“No, Lara, it’s okay. I can.” I flick on the turn signal. There’s only one daycare in town, and I’m willing to bet that’s where they are. “Sorry, it caught me off guard. When do I need to get them?”
“Oh, thankGod, they’re out in ten minutes, but I called ahead and they can keep them?—”
“I can be there in five. The one on the corner? By the ice cream place?”
“Yes. Thank you so much. I would never spring this on you like this, but there was an issue today during clinicals, and we have to stay to file reports. My parents are in Minneapolis, and Zachery still isn’t answering my texts?—”
I wince, remembering the way she cried the other night when telling me about what had happened between them.
“It’s okay, Lara. Easy-peasy.”
For the next five minutes, she goes over the pick-up protocol with me - which lane to use, how I’ll have to talk to the teacher about getting their spare booster seats.
Five minutes after I get off the phone with her, I’m waiting in the pick-up lane when a familiar face pops up beside my passenger window.
“JakeBradson, is that you?”
“Ruby, how are you?” I step out of the car and give my old babysitter a hug, learning that she’s working at the daycare now.
“I was so sorry to hear about your father’s passing,” she says, touching my arm lightly, and I thank her while trying not to make a face. When I explain the situation to her — that I’ve never done a pick-up here before — she disappears and returns with two other adults, all holding booster seats.
Aster, Chrys, and Daffy trail behind them, their eyes wide when they see me standing there.
“Hey, guys,” I say, smiling and hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel. “You all are coming home with me today!”
After the daycare workers show me how to strap in the booster seats, help me get the kids buckled in, and one of the workerstries to slip me her number, I hop into the driver’s seat and realize I have nowhere to take them.
I can’t take them back to my place; it wasn’t kid-proofed before the demolition started, and it’s definitely not safe now, with power tools sitting out and hazards littering the place like a mother’s haunted house. If I had a key to Lara’s place, I could take them there, but I don’t.
“Jake?” Daffy says, kicking her feet into the seat hard enough that her light-up sneakers make the backseat look like a rave. “I have to pee.”
“Okay,” I say, anxiety rising inside me. I took the Kings to the Stanley Cup this year. I captained Michigan through the Frozen Four twice, bringing home the trophy once and winning MVP the other. I can handle an afternoon with three kids.
“Like, really bad,” Daffy adds, and I shift my truck into drive, eyes already locking on a place across the street I’m sure can solve all my problems.
Five minutes later, I have the three of them out of the car, out of traffic, and into the ice cream shop. Daffy insists she can go to the bathroom on her own, and I listen at the door to make sure she washes her hands. An attendant gives them each a scoop of their choosing (non-dairy for Aster) and then we’re sitting at a table together, the air conditioning blasting around us.
“I made this for you,” Chrys says, reaching into her pocket and producing a tiny, perfectly folded white square. I stick my spoon in my scoop and take the paper from her, raising an eyebrow while I unfold it.
“Did you fold this?” I ask, even though I know that’s not the point. She doesn’t answer me, but I get the picture open andrealize what I’m looking at, and the ball that lodges in my throat is hard to talk around.
It’s a crayon-drawn picture of Lara, the triplets and me, at the beach. I’m in the water, in my yellow swim trunks, tossing Aster and Daffymuchhigher than I did in real life, and Chrys and Lara are sitting on the beach together, watching us.
I can pick out each person by the color of their swimsuit and hair. The sky is even, somehow, the exact same color it was that day.
“Chrys, this is amazing,” I finally manage to say, looking up at her with genuine wonder. Maybe every new parent feels this, but I think to ask Lara if this is normal, if our daughter is some sort of artistic genius.
“Thank you,” Chrys says, blushing and looking down at the table, and Daffy and Aster immediately lean in, their hands sticky as they grab at me.
“What is it?”
“I want to draw you a picture!”
“Yeah, me too, I want to draw you a picture!”
In the midst of their talking, I realize the ice cream dishes are empty, and unless I keep them here and pump them full of sugar until Lara is off work, I need to find somewhere to take them.
Preferably somewhere they can all do some coloring.
