"I haven't been whining."
"Yes you have. You've been whining since you sat down."
"Liz?"
She absently picked at the armrest before answering. "Maybe a little."
After lunch, and with the day only getting hotter, I decided to bring London to the movies, one of those animated ones. Marge and Liz came with us and seemed to enjoy it as much as London did. As for me, I wanted to enjoy it, but my thoughts kept drifting to the previous week, which made me wonder what on earth might be coming next.
After the movie, I didn't want to go home. Marge and Liz seemed content to hang out at my parents' place as well, and Mom ended up making tuna casserole, something London regarded as a treat, what with all the white flour in the pasta. She had a larger than normal portion and began to doze in the car on our way back home; I figured I'd get her in the bath, read a few stories, and spend the rest of the night zoning out in front of the television.
But it was not to be. As soon as she got in the house, she trotted to see the hamsters and I heard her voice calling to me from upstairs.
"Daddy! Come quick! I think something is wrong with Mrs. Sprinkles!"
I went to her room and peered into the cage, staring at a hamster that seemed to be making an attempt to push through the glass. Her room smelled like a barn. "She seems fine to me," I said.
"That's Mr. Sprinkles. Mrs. Sprinkles isn't moving."
I squinted. "I think she's sleeping, honey."
"But what if she's sick?"
I had no idea what to do in that case and opening the lid, I scooped Mrs. Sprinkles into my hand. She was warm, always a good sign, and I could feel her begin to move.
"Is she okay?"
"She seems fine to me," I said. "Do you want to hold her?"
She nodded and cupped her hands; I put the hamster in them. I watched as she brought the little critter closer to her face.
"I think I'll just hold her for a little while to make sure."
"All right," I said, kissing the top of her head. "But not too long, all right? It's already almost bedtime."
I kissed her on top of the head and headed toward the door.
"Daddy?" she asked.
"Yes?"
"You need to clean their cage."
"I'll do it tomorrow, okay? I'm kind of tired."
"Mommy said you'd clean it."
"I will. I just said I'd clean it tomorrow."
"But what if it's making Mrs. Sprinkles sick? I want you to clean it now." Not only was she not listening, her pitch was beginning to rise, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with it.
"I'll be back in a little while to get you ready for bed. Put your dirty clothes in the hamper, okay?"
For the next half hour, I flipped through the channels, finding nothing whatsoever to watch. More than a hundred channels and zippo, but then again, I was cranky on top of being tired. Tomorrow, I'd be scooping poop from a hamster cage, my client list was hovering at zero, and unless there was some sort of miracle, it would remain that way another week. Meanwhile, my wife was flying on private jets and staying at the Ritz-Carlton.
In time, I rose from my spot on the couch and went back to London's room. By then, her hamsters were back in the cage and she was playing with her Barbies.
"Hey sweetheart," I said. "Are you about ready for your bath?"
She answered without turning toward me. "I don't want to take a bath tonight."
"But you got all sweaty with Nana today."
"No."
I blinked. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"
"I'm mad at you."
"Why are you mad at me?"
"Because you don't care about Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles."
"Of course I care about them." In the cage, both of them were moving about, no different than any other night. "And you know you need a bath."
"I want Mommy to do it."
"I know you do. But Mommy's not here."
"Then I'm not going to take a bath."
"Will you look at me?"
"No."
She sounded almost like Vivian as she said it and I was at a loss. London continued to send Barbie rampaging around the Barbie townhouse; the doll seemed on the verge of kicking over the furniture.
"How about I get the water going, okay? Then we can talk about it. I'll put extra bubbles in there."
As promised, I added extra bubbles to the water and when it was ready, I turned off the faucet. London hadn't moved; Barbie was still raging through the playhouse with Ken by her side.
"I can't make breakfast," I heard her make Barbie say to Ken, "because I have to go to work."
"But daddies are supposed to work," Ken said.
"Maybe you should have thought about that before you quit."
I felt my stomach tighten, certain that London was mimicking Vivian and me.
"Your bath is ready," I said.
"I told you I'm not taking a bath!"
"Just come on … "
"NO!!!" she screamed. "I'm not taking a bath and you can't make me! You made Mommy get a job!"
"I didn't make Mommy get a job … "
"YES YOU DID!" she shouted, and when she turned, I saw tears streaming down her cheeks. "She told me that she had to get a job because you're not working!"
Another father probably would have been less defensive, but I was exhausted and her words stung, if only because I felt bad enough about myself already.
"I am working!" I said, my voice rising. "And taking care of you and cleaning the house!"
"I want Mommy!" she cried, and for the first time, I realized that Vivian hadn't called today. Nor could I call her; the event was probably in full swing right about now.
I took a deep breath. "She'll be here tomorrow and the two of you are going to the blueberry farm, remember? You want to be all clean for her, don't you?"
"NO!" she shouted. "I hate you!"
The next thing I knew, I was marching across the room and seized London by the arm. She began to struggle and scream and I dragged her to the bathroom, like a bad-parent video on YouTube.
"Either you get yourself undressed and into the bath, or I'll undress you. I'm not kidding."
"GO AWAY!" she screamed and after putting her pajamas on the countertop, I closed the door. For the next few minutes, I heard her alternately crying and talking to herself while I waited outside the door.
"Get in the bath, London," I warned through the door. "If you don't, I'll make you clean the hamster cage all by yourself."
I heard her scream again; a minute later, though, I heard her climbing into the tub. I continued to wait. After a little while, I heard her playing with her tub toys without the anger I'd heard earlier. Finally, the door opened; London was in her pajamas, her hair wet.
"Can we dry my hair tonight instead of leaving it wet?"
I gritted my teeth. "Of course we can, sweetheart."
"I miss Mommy."
I squatted down and took her in my arms, breathing in the sweet-clean scent of her soap and shampoo. "I know you do," I said, and held her close, wondering how a father as messed up as I could have managed to help make something so wonderful, even as my little girl began to cry.
I read her the story of Noah and the ark as we lay in the bed together. Her favorite part, the part I had to read a second time, was when the ark was finished and the animals started to arrive.
"Two by two," I read aloud, "they came in pairs, from all over the world. Lions and horses and dogs and elephants, zebras and giraffes … "
"And hamsters," London added.
"And hamsters," I agreed, "and two by two, they boarded the ark. How will they all fit, the people wondered. But God had a plan for that, too. They made their way onto the ark and there was plenty of room, and all the animals were happy. And two by two, they stayed in the ark while the rain began to fall."
As I was finishing the story, London was fading. I turned out the light and kissed her cheek.
"I love you, London," I whispered.
"Love you, too, Daddy," she mumbled, and I crept quietly from the room.
Two by two, I thought to myself as I made my way down the stairs. London and me, father and daughter, both of us doing the best we could.
Even then, I felt like I was failing her, failing at everything.
CHAPTER 8
New Experiences
Last February, when things were going from bad to worse for me at the agency, London got the flu, and it wasn't pretty. She threw up pretty much nonstop for two days, and we had to bring her to the hospital to stop the vomiting and administer fluids.
I was scared. Vivian was too, though on the surface, she exuded a lot more confidence with the doctors than I did. When she spoke to them, she was calm and cool while asking appropriate questions.
London didn't have to stay overnight, and when we brought her home, Vivian sat with her until midnight. Because she'd been awake pretty much the entire night the evening before, I took over. Like Vivian, I sat in the rocking chair and held my daughter. She was still feverish and I can remember how small and frail she felt, wrapped in a thin blanket and sweating and shivering at the same time. She woke every twenty minutes. Sometime around six, I finally put her in bed and went downstairs for coffee. An hour later, when I was pouring yet another cup, London padded into the kitchen and took a seat at the table beside Vivian. London moved lethargically and her face was pale.