Happily Ever Ninja(27)

“It also explains why your grandmother has no soul. She’s one hundred percent robot.”

“Am I a robot?” Grace whispered her question; she must’ve been standing very close to our bedroom door.

“You have the same percentage as your brother,” Greg responded very gently, “and that’s why you don’t like baths.”

Relaxing into the pillows, I folded my hands behind my head and listened.

“But, Gracie, baths are good for you. They keep your circuitry working. And dirty robots can’t dance.”

“Can they do the robot?” Jack asked, his tone exceptionally dry. He’d been growing more and more sarcastic over the last few months.

“No. Dirty robots can’t even dance the robot, but they can do the skunk.”

“What’s the skunk?” Grace asked.

“It’s where you stand really, really still . . . and then you fart.”

Both children launched into a fit of hysterical laughter, with Grace exclaiming, “That’s not a dance!”

“It is so a dance. Here, watch me.”

“Dad, no!” I could almost see Jack roll his eyes.

“Jack, where’s your mute button? Or did you have it taken offline?”

“I don’t have a mute button.”

“What? Well then, we’ll need to have one installed as soon as possible . . .” Greg’s voice faded, as did Gracie’s giggles. I heard the front door open and close, then silence.

All at once I realized I was smiling; I also didn’t have a headache. I couldn’t remember the last time I woke up smiling. It was probably the last time Greg had been home.

I allowed myself another few moments of luxury—lying in bed, in the morning, surrounded by quiet—before I sat up and glanced at the alarm clock.

My mouth dropped open.

11:57 a.m.

I couldn’t believe it.

I’d slept for over twelve hours.

Greg was leaving for the airport at 1:00 p.m.

I jumped from the bed and darted to the bathroom, tripping over his shoes and nearly face-planting into the carpet. I caught myself against the wall, noticing the mess of clothes all over the place. A few were mine—the ones he’d removed last night—but most were his.

Two pairs of jeans were on the floor in front of the hamper; his socks, boxers, pajamas, and shirts were strewn like confetti all over the place. I frowned at the mess, but decided to ignore it for now in favor of taking a quick shower.

Though I did mutter to myself as I waited for the water to heat up, “What is so hard about putting clothes in the hamper?”

Ten minutes later, I was showered and dressed and feeling like it was Christmas morning. I quickly walked to the living room and was about to call out to see if anyone was home, but I abruptly lost my ability to speak.

The apartment was a disaster.

A consummate disaster.

If mess-making were an Olympic sport, this mess would have won the bronze medal, maybe the silver.

Apparently, every toy Grace and Jack owned was scattered—again, confetti style—all over the living room. The cushions had been pulled from the couch. Grace must’ve been painting at the coffee table—which I never allowed—because the water jar for her paint brush had tipped over. Dirty brown water had spilled all over the carpet.

Breakfast plates and cups were where the sofa cushions had once been. Three boxes of miscellaneous cables and broken machinery—which, last I knew, were in storage downstairs—were spread out on the dining room table along with Greg’s soldering gun and the kids’ toolboxes.

A stack of clothes, clothes I’d just folded the day before yesterday, were piled in a disordered jumble by the entranceway.

I closed my eyes against the visually violent mess assault. I was afraid to check the kids’ rooms or the kitchen. I felt like crying.

I might have just slept for twelve hours, woken up refreshed and reinvigorated, but this chaos had effectively undone two and a half days of work. My knitting group was coming on Tuesday. I’d been so careful about keeping everything clean.

Pragmatic me knew, in the scheme of things, it was no big deal. It was just a mess. My friends wouldn’t care. I could clear the dishes, replace the cushions, and push the toys to one side of the room. I could strong-arm Grace and Jack into putting their belongings away tomorrow. I could refold the laundry while listening to an audiobook. The carpet would be stained . . . so what? It happens. Shit happens.

And yet, why was it necessary for shit to happen all over the apartment I’d just cleaned? Why couldn’t they have shit outside?

The front door opened and I shook myself, trying to figure out what I should do and who I should be. Defaulting to pragmatic me was easiest because it was where I lived most of the time. I was good at bottling my frustrations and disappointments, especially when they didn’t really matter.