Within days, I've accepted that Gemma Lockhart is going to be a problem.
Not because she's loud---she's not. Not because she's invasive---she keeps to herself, mostly. The problem is Ivy.
"Is Gemma home?" This is the first thing out of my daughter's mouth every morning now. Not "good morning" or "what's for breakfast," but a breathless inquiry about our tenant like she's checking on the status of a religious pilgrimage.
"I don't know," I say.
"Can we check?" she asks.
"No," I tell her.
"Why not?" she presses.
"Because we don't bother people before they're awake," I say.
Ivy processes this, spooning Cheerios into her mouth. "But what if she needs help? What if she's sad?"
I don't know where she gets this stuff. "She's fine."
"You don't know that. You're not psycho."
"Psychic."
"That either."
I'm saved from this circular logic by my phone buzzing---shift starts soon. I point Ivy toward her room to get dressed, pushing away the thought that she's right. I have no idea if Gemma's fine. She could be in her suite right now, crying into her fern or whatever people do when they're running from their problems.
Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
Definitely not my problem.
Shift ends. I pick up Ivy from Mrs. Delgado's, and by the time we're home and dinner is on the stove, I've heard a complete breakdown of which dinosaurs would survive a volcanic winter and why the answer is not, despite popular opinion, the T-Rex. We eat spaghetti. Ivy asks if Gemma likes spaghetti, and when I tell her I don't know, she suggests we find out, and when I tell her no, she accepts this the way she accepts most things I say---publicly, and with obvious reservations.
I'm in the kitchen afterward, scrubbing a pan that's already clean because I need something to do with my hands, when I hear Ivy's door open. Then the back door. Then her voice, high and excited, drifting through the screen.
"Gemma! Gemma! Come see my dinosaurs!"
I freeze, pan dripping soap onto the counter.
There's a pause---long enough that I almost relax---then I hear it. Gemma's voice, warm and amused. "Hey, Ivy. What've you got there?"
"T-Rex versus Triceratops! They're having a BATTLE!"
"Intense. Who's winning?"
"Nobody yet. They're still arguing about territory."
I should go out there. Establish boundaries. Remind my daughter that our tenant is not her personal playmate. Instead, I stay frozen at the sink, listening to Ivy explain the territorial disputes of the Cretaceous period with the kind of detail usually reserved for military strategists.
Gemma asks questions. Good ones. Not the patronizing "oh really?" that adults usually give kids, but actual follow-up questions about hunting patterns and migration habits. Ivy is in heaven.
I'm in hell.
This is exactly what I didn't want. Ivy getting attached. Ivy building fantasies about some sunshine neighbor who'll probably be gone in a few weeks when she realizes small-town Montana isn't the fresh start she was hoping for. I've seen it before---people running from their problems, thinking a change of scenery will fix everything. It never does.
A flash of orange crosses my peripheral vision.
Clarence.
