We’d put Ronnie to bed at seven, after she’d hugged everyone good night and distributed a few sloppy kisses to “my Cassy” and “Uncle Damien.”
Stella had already retired to her room, complaining of a head cold.
Cass and Siobhan left about ten minutes after Nikki and Damien, and although I’d been looking forward to unwinding with Jackson, it quickly became clear that wasn’t going to happen tonight. Or, at least, not if I wanted him conscious.
He’d told me he was going to go lay down, and suggested that I join him with a bottle of wine.
I did, but by the time I got there, he was sound asleep on top of the covers, still in his clothes but dead to the world.
I took his shoes off, but left him dressed, opting to cover him gently with a blanket. God knew he had to be exhausted, both physically and mentally, and I didn’t want to risk waking him up when he so desperately needed sleep.
I tried to drift off, too, but couldn’t seem to manage it. And I was just about to try to induce sleep with a glass of the wine I’d poured when the high-pitched screams of a little girl had me leaping out of bed and sprinting across the apartment.
That’s where I am now, frantically trying to soothe her. I hold her in my arms, this small bundle who is half-in and half-out of sleep. Who is crying out, her body red from the effort of trying to breathe through the tears and the convulsions. Who is screaming for her Grammy, but Betty isn’t here to help her, and I’m too flustered to know what to do. Me, who has lived with nightmares my whole life and still doesn’t have the power to help this poor child.
I think that hours must have passed and my ears are splitting from her cries and Jackson hasn’t come and my body aches with the effort of holding her. But still she is crying and now I’m crying too, and I’m about to start screaming myself, I’m so lost and afraid and impotent.
And that’s when Stella rushes in, her bathrobe half-open over a long cotton nightgown, her hair that is usually pulled back into a sensible bun falling loose around her face.
“Oh, baby,” she says, and I feel a sudden stab of self-loathing when I see that her words are directed at me. At the fact that I must look so rattled and so helpless. “Here, let me have her.”
She takes Ronnie, then bounces her on her hip. “It’s okay, precious. Stella’s here. Did you have a bad dream?”
As Stella coos to her and bounces her, the little girl’s sobs slow into hiccups, and then, miraculously, fade away. Her body softens with exhaustion, and her thumb goes to her mouth.
“I’ve got her, Miss Sylvia,” Stella says, finally looking up at me. I realize I’ve been standing there, frozen, watching her work some sort of magic that I don’t possess.
“Right,” I say. “Thank you.”
And then I head out of the room and back to my bedroom, feeling a little bit lost, a little bit useless, and a whole lot scared.
twenty-seven
“So what do you think?” I ask Ronnie, who’s standing beside me as we peer into the refrigerator. Nikki stocked it for us with kid-friendly yogurt, milk, and juice boxes, and those refrigerated staples are supplemented in the pantry by blue boxes of macaroni and cheese, some cereal with cartoon animals on the box, and a huge bag of goldfish crackers.
There isn’t, however, much in the way of grown-up food.
Apparently, I need to make a grocery store run.
It’s mid-morning on Sunday, and Jackson, Ronnie, and I have been up for a few hours. We’ve watched morning television and snuggled on the couch, and had cereal for breakfast. As far as I can tell, Ronnie has no lingering effects from her nightmare last night.
The same can’t be said of me. I feel a bit like I’m walking on glass, but I’m determined to put it behind me and write it off to simply being both surprised and unprepared. I haven’t told Jackson about it, though, and neither has Stella, who has gone out to do some sightseeing at Jackson’s urging.
“Apple juice,” Ronnie demands, holding out her little hand for the box. I pass it to her, help her stab the straw through the hole, and frown at the refrigerator.
“Why don’t we make a special dinner for Daddy? We can pick up something yummy when we go to the store.”
“I heard my name,” Jackson says, coming in from the other room where he’s been working on his laptop.
“We’re planning dinner,” I say, accepting his kiss, and then moving in for another.
“Ice cream?” Ronnie suggests, her expression entirely serious.
“I think we might need something that’s not dessert,” Jackson says.
Her lips pucker as she thinks about it. “Why?”
I glance at Jackson. “She has you there.” To Ronnie, I say, “How about meat loaf?” I can actually make meat loaf, and according to the notebook that I now consider my personal bible, Ronnie will eat it. Three-year-olds, it turns out, have a rather limited palate.
“With ice cream?” she asks, because she’s clearly inherited her father’s determination.
I glance at Jackson, who is fighting a grin. Then I turn back to the little girl. “Perfect,” I say. “And maybe some green beans, too?”
She sticks her tongue out and wrinkles her nose. Jackson grabs up the dish towel and pretends to sneeze, but it’s very clear to me that he’s laughing.
“Fench fies!” Ronnie says. “Pease, Sylvie?” She makes prayer hands and looks up at me with eyes so blue and familiar it makes my heart squeeze. “Pretty pease?”
I crouch down so that we’re eye to eye and put on my most serious negotiation face. The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. For all I know, I should be setting firmer boundaries. Making strict rules about ice cream. Watching out for ways to sing the praises of green vegetables.
But I can only do what I can do, so I tap her nose lightly. “I tell you what. If you promise to eat at least a few green beans, you can have french fries, too. Deal?”
“Deal.” She thrusts out her hand, sticky from the chocolate her father snuck her earlier. We shake gravely, and then I turn to Jackson, waving my soiled palm. He shrugs sheepishly.
“Sooner or later you’ll have to quit indulging her,” I tease.
“I’m well aware. Ten or eleven more years and I’ll be completely over it.”
I laugh. Frankly, I think he’s underestimating. I lean against the counter and watch as she holds her hands up, demanding he lift her. He does, and lets her hang on his hip like a little monkey. He looks happy and engaged. Not to mention competent and completely smitten, and I think it’s about the sexiest I’ve ever seen him.
“Okay, you two. I need to go to the store to get everything for our celebration. I’ll be back soon.”
“Me, too! Me, too!”
I glance at Jackson. “What do you think? Can you come?”
He shakes his head. “I have a call. About your resort,” he adds, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “But you two go on ahead.” He grins. “Your first mommy/daughter outing.”
The thought makes butterflies dance in my stomach, and I’m about to protest. But I look at the little girl, so clearly excited to go out into the world. “All right,” I say after a moment. “Why not.” After all, how hard could it be?
I’m pretty certain that every person in Los Angeles is at the Ralphs on West 9th today. At least that’s how it feels as I try to maneuver through the crowd with one hand on the cart and one hand tight in Ronnie’s little one.
“Come on, kiddo,” I say. “Don’t you want to ride?” I’d tried putting her in the cart when we’d first arrived, but she is absolutely determined to help me, and apparently helping me means walking beside me while I try to navigate the crowd and figure out what we need to buy.
She stubbornly shakes her head. “Wanna walk, Sylvie. Wanna push the cart.”
“You can’t reach the cart,” I counter. “But okay. Walking it is.”
I’ve already grabbed the ground beef, eggs, tomato sauce, and ice cream. So now I need to get some potatoes, onions, and the green beans that we negotiated during our ice cream and vegetable summit.