“Mm-hmm. She said in time, she’ll teach me the others too. Then, once I know them all, we’ll really know each other. She says I’m her special girl. Her trouper.”
I heard footsteps moving toward me and turned, startled, to see Izzy pointing the camera at me. I’d forgotten she was there, had been filming the whole time.
She moved in for a close-up. I put up my hand. “Would you get that fucking camera out of my face, please!”
Izzy backed out of the room, keeping the camera on me. “Sure, Mom,” she said. “Whatever you say.” I heard her pad down the hall, no doubt chasing after her father and the rat, hoping to get a shot of its release; the thick, shiny body slithering off into the snow-covered field behind our house.
I WAS PICKINGup the stuffed animals, tucking them back in around Olivia, smoothing her damp hair and asking if she wanted waffles or pancakes for breakfast, when Mark came back in, carrying the now-empty pink wastepaper basket and the book. Izzy was at his heels.
“Where’s the rat?” Olivia asked, clearly terrified.
“He’s gone, Liv,” Mark promised.
“But he might come back.”
“No. He won’t.”
“The mice we bring outside come back sometimes.”
“Well, the rat isn’t going to,” Mark said. He looked pale, shaken.
“How do you know?” she demanded.
“Because he’s dead, Liv. I killed him.”
“I can vouch for that,” Izzy said, pointing the camera at us all. “I can show you the video if you want. It was kind of awesome. He got it with that old cast-iron Santa on the back porch. Rat guts everywhere! Who knew a rat could bleed that much?”
My body stiffened.
“Enough, Isabelle,” Mark reprimanded.
“What happened to catch and release?” I said.
“It was a rat, Ali. Not a little field mouse.”
I nodded. Point taken. But still, the image of my sweet, animal-loving husband smashing a creature to death with the cast-iron Santa made me feel queasy.
“Daddy killed the Rat King,” Olivia said.
“I did indeed,” he said. He set down the basket and went over to give Olivia a hug and kiss the top of her head.
“You’re like the Nutcracker Prince!” Olivia said.
“Yeah, but it was way cooler than in the ballet,” Izzy said. “The Nutcracker Prince doesn’t use a metal Santa Claus to bludgeon the rat to death.”
“Unnecessary details, Iz,” I said.
“Well, that’s what happened,” she said. “I’m just reporting the facts. Recording them. Isn’t that what a documentary filmmaker is supposed to do?”
I rolled my eyes at her.
“Daddy, guess what? Mommy said the f-word,” Olivia tattled.
“Did she now?” Mark asked, looking over and giving me a weak smile. “Well, I think in moments of stress we all slip up. To tell you the truth, I may have said a few bad words myself this morning.”
“You definitely did when you were out in the yard swinging that Santa,” Izzy said, patting her camera. “It’s all documented right here.”
“Alison!” my mother’s voice squawked over the baby monitor.
