Sustained
Page 48
About ten minutes into free play, I watch Regan navigate an obstacle course. Next to me is a loudmouthed father cheering his son on like the kid’s about to reach the end zone in the goddamn Super Bowl. He gestures with his head. “He’s the fastest kid here. I got him running the course in forty-five seconds.”
Good for you, buddy.
“Which one’s yours?”
I point to Regan, where she climbs the slide, her orange jumpsuit sparkling beneath the lights. She chants as she goes, “Hi, hi, hi, hi . . . ,” like the Seven Dwarves marching with their pickaxes.
“Is there something wrong with her?” the son of a bitch asks.
I scowl. “No, there’s nothing fucking wrong with her. She’s . . . focused.” Then, for shits and giggles, I add, “And she could totally do this course in under forty-five seconds.”
Dickhead scoffs. “I doubt that.”
I turn cold eyes on him. “Wanna bet?”
He brushes his brown bangs with an arrogant hand. “Fifty bucks says my boy beats her.”
“You’re on.”
I shake his hand, then I go scoop Regan off the slide and coach her as I carry her back to the obstacle course—like Mickey talking to Rocky Balboa in his corner.
“You got this, Regan. Don’t let him distract you—watch his left hook, keep your eyes straight ahead.”
She squeezes my nose.
So I try to use words she’ll understand. “If you do this, I will hi you forever.”
That gets her smiling.
We line them up and the father counts them down. “On your mark, get set, go!”
And they’re off . . .
Douchebag and I cheer them on, like gamblers at the horse track.
“Go, baby, go!”
“That’s it! Pull away from the pack! Make your move!”
They’re neck and neck . . . until the little boy gets distracted by a massive booger hanging out of his nose. He stops to work on it—and the race is Regan’s.
“Yes! Fuckin’ A!” I yell proudly. I pick her up and hold her high above my head; she laughs and squeals. And somewhere Freddie Mercury sings “We Are the Champions.”
As loser dad passes me the fifty, the teenager busts us. “What is going on? This is a cheerful place—there’s no gambling!”
“Right. Well, we’re gonna head out anyway.”
I grab Ronan in one arm and Regan in the other. On our way out the door, I whisper to her, “Let’s just keep this between us, okay?”
She looks me straight in the face and nods. “Hi.”
I spend my Saturdays with Chelsea and the kids. I bring work with me, sneak in scraps of time when I can focus. Most Saturdays, if there aren’t too many activities to get to, are relaxing. Fun, even. But sometimes . . . well . . . there’re six kids. From a purely statistical standpoint, the odds of a bad day are pretty goddamn high.
One morning, as soon as I got out of the car I knew it was going to be a bad day. It wasn’t any kind of sixth sense that gave it away.
It was the screaming.
I open the front door, and the impressive screeching sound that only a really pissed off two-year-old can make hits me like a blast of hot air. Regan sits on the foyer floor in front of the closet, a mess of tears and screams and stamping feet, surrounded by shoes, flip-flops, and boots. Chelsea squats in front of her, holding out a sparkly sneaker for the toddler’s inspection. Two other pairs of tiny shoes are beside her on the floor.
“This one?” she asks, with a mixture of hope and annoyance.
Regan knocks the sneaker from her aunt’s hand, shakes her head, bangs her hands on the ground, and wails.
Guess that wasn’t the one.
Chelsea notices I’m here. I raise my eyebrows and try really damn hard not to grin. “Everything okay?”
“No,” she hisses. “It’s not.” She yanks her hair back from her face, the haphazard bun ready to fall. There’s stains on her T-shirt—looks like peas—and her cheeks are flushed with color.
That’s when I notice that it’s not just Regan making a shit-ton of noise. It’s a chorus—a symphony of angry young voices coming from the living room. Somewhere upstairs, Ronan’s voice joins the melee. And he does not sound fucking happy.
After another shoe rejection, Chelsea stands up and throws the sandal across the room. “Which one, Regan? What do you want?”
Regan just cries and points at absolutely nothing.
Before I can say a word, the twins come crashing into the foyer, arms locked around one another. They drop to the floor, rolling and grunting, teeth bared.
“You knew I was saving it!” Rory yells.
“It was in the cabinet—it’s free game!” Raymond growls.
“Stop it!” Chelsea screams. “Both of you, cut it out!” She’s kind of screechy now, too.
They totally ignore her.
“You’re a jerk!” one shouts.
“You’re a dick!” the other replies, and I’m betting that one was Rory.
“Stop!” Chelsea shrieks, and she grabs the one on top by the tiny, sensitive hairs at the base of his skull. Then she yanks him up.
Even I fucking flinch.
Rory howls, both hands coving the back of his neck. “What the hell?” he demands from his aunt. “I’m gonna have a frigging bald spot now!”
“Don’t fight with your brother!”
“He ate the last chocolate chunk cookie!” Rory fires back. “He knew I was saving it and he ate it anyway.”
Good for you, buddy.
“Which one’s yours?”
I point to Regan, where she climbs the slide, her orange jumpsuit sparkling beneath the lights. She chants as she goes, “Hi, hi, hi, hi . . . ,” like the Seven Dwarves marching with their pickaxes.
“Is there something wrong with her?” the son of a bitch asks.
I scowl. “No, there’s nothing fucking wrong with her. She’s . . . focused.” Then, for shits and giggles, I add, “And she could totally do this course in under forty-five seconds.”
Dickhead scoffs. “I doubt that.”
I turn cold eyes on him. “Wanna bet?”
He brushes his brown bangs with an arrogant hand. “Fifty bucks says my boy beats her.”
“You’re on.”
I shake his hand, then I go scoop Regan off the slide and coach her as I carry her back to the obstacle course—like Mickey talking to Rocky Balboa in his corner.
“You got this, Regan. Don’t let him distract you—watch his left hook, keep your eyes straight ahead.”
She squeezes my nose.
So I try to use words she’ll understand. “If you do this, I will hi you forever.”
That gets her smiling.
We line them up and the father counts them down. “On your mark, get set, go!”
And they’re off . . .
Douchebag and I cheer them on, like gamblers at the horse track.
“Go, baby, go!”
“That’s it! Pull away from the pack! Make your move!”
They’re neck and neck . . . until the little boy gets distracted by a massive booger hanging out of his nose. He stops to work on it—and the race is Regan’s.
“Yes! Fuckin’ A!” I yell proudly. I pick her up and hold her high above my head; she laughs and squeals. And somewhere Freddie Mercury sings “We Are the Champions.”
As loser dad passes me the fifty, the teenager busts us. “What is going on? This is a cheerful place—there’s no gambling!”
“Right. Well, we’re gonna head out anyway.”
I grab Ronan in one arm and Regan in the other. On our way out the door, I whisper to her, “Let’s just keep this between us, okay?”
She looks me straight in the face and nods. “Hi.”
I spend my Saturdays with Chelsea and the kids. I bring work with me, sneak in scraps of time when I can focus. Most Saturdays, if there aren’t too many activities to get to, are relaxing. Fun, even. But sometimes . . . well . . . there’re six kids. From a purely statistical standpoint, the odds of a bad day are pretty goddamn high.
One morning, as soon as I got out of the car I knew it was going to be a bad day. It wasn’t any kind of sixth sense that gave it away.
It was the screaming.
I open the front door, and the impressive screeching sound that only a really pissed off two-year-old can make hits me like a blast of hot air. Regan sits on the foyer floor in front of the closet, a mess of tears and screams and stamping feet, surrounded by shoes, flip-flops, and boots. Chelsea squats in front of her, holding out a sparkly sneaker for the toddler’s inspection. Two other pairs of tiny shoes are beside her on the floor.
“This one?” she asks, with a mixture of hope and annoyance.
Regan knocks the sneaker from her aunt’s hand, shakes her head, bangs her hands on the ground, and wails.
Guess that wasn’t the one.
Chelsea notices I’m here. I raise my eyebrows and try really damn hard not to grin. “Everything okay?”
“No,” she hisses. “It’s not.” She yanks her hair back from her face, the haphazard bun ready to fall. There’s stains on her T-shirt—looks like peas—and her cheeks are flushed with color.
That’s when I notice that it’s not just Regan making a shit-ton of noise. It’s a chorus—a symphony of angry young voices coming from the living room. Somewhere upstairs, Ronan’s voice joins the melee. And he does not sound fucking happy.
After another shoe rejection, Chelsea stands up and throws the sandal across the room. “Which one, Regan? What do you want?”
Regan just cries and points at absolutely nothing.
Before I can say a word, the twins come crashing into the foyer, arms locked around one another. They drop to the floor, rolling and grunting, teeth bared.
“You knew I was saving it!” Rory yells.
“It was in the cabinet—it’s free game!” Raymond growls.
“Stop it!” Chelsea screams. “Both of you, cut it out!” She’s kind of screechy now, too.
They totally ignore her.
“You’re a jerk!” one shouts.
“You’re a dick!” the other replies, and I’m betting that one was Rory.
“Stop!” Chelsea shrieks, and she grabs the one on top by the tiny, sensitive hairs at the base of his skull. Then she yanks him up.
Even I fucking flinch.
Rory howls, both hands coving the back of his neck. “What the hell?” he demands from his aunt. “I’m gonna have a frigging bald spot now!”
“Don’t fight with your brother!”
“He ate the last chocolate chunk cookie!” Rory fires back. “He knew I was saving it and he ate it anyway.”
