“Aye aye!” She salutes, a mannerism stolen from another movie, I’m sure.
“So what are you going to do at Yiayia and Papou’s today?” I ask as we walk toward the elevator.
“Color. And maybe watch a movie.”
“What movie?”
“Do you think Yiayia hasThe Little Mermaid?”
“Maybe. She might have it on VHS.”
“If she doesn’t have that one, I’ll just watch what Aunt Maria watches when she’s in the office.”
I look down at her, raising a brow. “What does Aunt Maria watch in the office?”
“Something calledBasic Instinct.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
“That’s what she said it was called. She said I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
“Emma, you can’t watch that!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s—” I’m trying to figure out how to explain this to a four-year-old. “It’s not for kids.”
“But Aunt Maria watches it.”
“Aunt Maria is twenty-nine. She’s a grown-up.”
“So?”
“So when you’re twenty-nine, you can watch whatever you want. Until then, you’re stuck with the singing crustaceans.”
She considers this. “What if I watchAladdininstead?”
“That works, too.”
I make a mental note to bring this up to Maria later. I love my sister to death, but when it came to children, sometimes she was way out of her depth. We reach the elevator and I press the button. Emma swings our joined hands back and forth, humming something that might be “Under the Sea” or some random notes strung together.
“Dad?” she says after a minute.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think Mommy watches movies wherever she is?”
The question catches me off guard. “I don’t know, Em.”
“I think maybe she watchesThe Little Mermaidand thinks about me.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
The elevator arrives and we step inside. Emma is still holding my hand, still humming, and I realize she’s already moved on to the next thought. This is how her brain works now—quick jumps from topic to topic, never staying in one place too long. Like if she keeps moving she won’t have to sit with the sad parts.
I get it. I do the same thing.
Out on the street, the rain is a steady, gray curtain. She immediately finds a promising puddle and jumps, soaking her pants to the knee. She laughs, delighted, and I can’t help but smile. This is the kid I remember. The one who finds joy in small things. The one who isn’t angry all the time.
