I hang my checkered apron on its hook and head to my room to exchange my sweats for jeans. I catch Meredith swiping a third piece of brittle as I hurry past the kitchen.
“Have fun!” she calls through a mouthful.
There’s nothing fun about two-year-olds. Oliver’s undeniably adorable, but he might as well be a Martian—that’s how little I relate to him. And I can tell he doesn’t care much for me, either, probably because I don’t kneel down and assume a Minnie Mouse falsetto when speaking to him. I’m wondering how desperate Marcy must be to have called me, Repeller of Children, as I dash across the street. By the time I ring the Holdens’ bell, a fine mist is clinging to my fleece and I’m agonizing over all the ways I’ll likely fail at babysitting.
Marcy flings the door open. “Bill’s sleeping,” she says, ushering me into the house. “His doctors are worried about him getting sick thanks to cold and flu season, so I’ve convinced him to nap every afternoon. We’re hoping the extra rest will help keep his strength up.”
Poor Bill.
“Ivy’s out with Becky,” Marcy continues, zipping her jacket. Her mouth pinches as she says that second name, probably because she’s still pissed about the night Officer Tate brought Max home—as she should be. I can’t for the life of me figure out what Becky was thinking, letting him get behind the wheel. “Max went to the gym with his friends, but Leo’s bringing him home now. Oli’s watching TV. I doubt he’ll even notice I’ve left, but if you need anything, call me.” She gives me a quick hug, grabs her purse, and scurries out the door.
I make my way to the living room where, sure enough, Oliver is engrossed in an episode ofBarney. His little head, covered in dark, spiky hair like Max’s, bobs along to music.
“Hi, Oliver,” I say.
He doesn’t look away from the dancing dinosaur. I’m not offended; I don’t really want to talk to him, either.
I sink down onto the couch beside him, feeling oddly displaced in this house that’s almost as familiar as my own. It’s obvious the living room’s been recently cleaned. It’s devoid of anything Christmas, like the holiday never happened at all. I wonder how long it took Marcy to box up the ornaments and dump the tree Max so carefully picked out, erasing all evidence of holiday merriment—not that there’s been a whole lot of that this year.
On the TV, Barney finishes a vivacious song about taking turns. Oliver, apparently sensing a break in the fun, turns to me and says, “Juice.”
“You want a drink?”
He blinks huge eyes rimmed in long lashes, caricature cute. “Juice,pwease.”
“Okay, sure. Let’s go see what we can find.”
He follows me to the kitchen, where I try and fail to ignore the wall just off the staircase, the one Max put his fist through. The damaged area has been patched and painted over; it’s barely discernible. My dad brought the incident up a zillion times while we were in Portland, as if I could forget the look on my oldest friend’s face as I effectively rejected him. I wonder if Brett took care of the repair, or if Max manned up and cleaned his own mess.
Oliver tugs on the hem of my fleece, and I tear my attention from the wall to dig a spouted cup from a cabinet. I fill it to the brim with apple juice.
The second the lid’s secure, he grabs it and sucks the juice down.
“More,” he says, holding the cup out again.
“Really? I think that’s enough.”
“More!” he screeches. Fat crocodile tears fill his eyes.
“Oh, okay, don’t cry! I’ll get you more.” I take his cup and refill it quickly, motivated by the threat of a tantrum. I don’t want him to disturb Bill, and I don’t want Max to roll in and find that I’m incapable of handling this person who can’t even tie his own shoes. “Let’s go see ifBarney’s still on, okay?”
I dangle the cup in front of his face and, predictably, he follows like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. When he’s back on the couch, juice in hand, I congratulate myself on handling his near meltdown like a pro. Maybe it won’t be so hard to have a baby around our house after all.
Oliver tosses a stuffed turtle onto my lap while Barney drones on about kindness to a group of children far too old to fall for his shtick.
I pick up the shabby toy. “Is this your friend?”
He nods. “Turtle.”
“Yep, he is a turtle. What’s his name?”
“Turtle.”
“But what’s his name?”
“Turtle!” Oliver shouts, his face flushed with outrage. He snatches his stuffed animal back and glares like I’m completely obtuse.
“A turtle named Turtle? Very clever, Oliver.”
