Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [72]
“Okay,” I tell him, pushing myself up on one arm and encircling Chloe with the other, pulling her in close to me and waiting to see if my father will kiss me, too. He does, a perfunctory peck on the top of my head. I know I’m behaving like a petulant child, holding unreasonable and wholly unsupported opinions about the woman my father is dating, a woman who has been nothing but kind to me. And to my daughter. Which, of course, is part of the problem.
Throughout the morning I catch Chloe watching me, sneaking little sidelong glances and venturing closer to me whenever she senses she’s lost my attention. It’s amazing, the uncanny ability of babies to gauge the moods of adults, to monitor our every move, almost without seeming to. I suppose it’s evidence of their capacity for adaptation, for survival, this vested interest in keeping close tabs on our mental states, taking stock of us, making sure we don’t forget them—or, just as bad—forget ourselves. It might be my imagination, but Chloe plays with her toys listlessly, as if, having spent the morning watching my dull expression, she too has decided that there’s nothing worth getting too excited about.
I’ve gotten as far as rereading my mother’s recipes, desultorily thumbing through the pages of handwritten notes, and morosely reflecting on how much time the French have wasted over the centuries by uniformly dicing their vegetables and carefully fanning slices of potato and apple into complicated tarts. I’ve been hoping to summon up a little enthusiasm for a trip to the grocery store, but when I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, I’m so shocked by my appearance that it dashes any hopes of venturing outside, at least until cover of darkness.
I draw a bath for myself and Chloe, gather up her rubber duckies and tub toys, and add several capfuls of bubble bath to the tub. Chloe giggles as I lower us both into the warm water and offer her a palm full of bubbles in the shape of a frosted cupcake. I put her on my lap facing me, and she delights in playing with the bubbles, dotting my hair with little fistfuls of them. I wet her hair and twist what little there is into an upward spiral and put the hand mirror in front of her so she can see. Then I do mine, fashioning myself several long, soapy dreadlocks.
I’ve left the door to the bathroom wide open, and suddenly the baby monitor jumps to life, picking up the static of a slammed door and the rumble of steps in the back hall. It must be my father, coming home at lunchtime to check on us. Sure enough, I hear his heavy step on the stairs, whistling a bluesy tune I don’t know.
“Dad?” I call. “I’m in the tub with Chloe.” No answer. I pull Chloe onto my lap and sink lower in the tub, hoping to avoid shocking my father. “Dad?”
But the man who rounds the corner isn’t my father.
My scream startles him, and immediately Chloe begins to cry. I reach for the hand mirror, which I hurl at him. He barely manages to sidestep it as it crashes against the doorframe, scattering shards of glass and plastic all over the bathroom floor.
He yanks the earplugs from his ears. “Jeez! Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think anyone was home,” he says, covering his eyes and backing out the door.
“Who are you? How did you get in?” I scream.
I put an arm protectively around Chloe, who is still screaming, and sink lower into the tub, noticing with renewed horror that the bubbles seem to have totally dissipated.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Ben, Ben Stemple. Fi’s nephew. See? I have a key,” he says, still standing behind the door, but holding his key ring at arm’s length so I can see it from the tub.
“Who?”
“Fiona? I’m her nephew—I’m a plumber. She called me about the leak under your sink.”
“What leak?”
“You must be Mira, right? And that must be Chloe. Fiona’s always talking about her. She’s a cutie.”
“Do you