Gavin leaps from the bed and runs from the room, probably trying to outrun another argument from his big sister.
“You know he’s only trying to stay up later,” she says snidely. “He always tries to get another drink when he doesn’t want to go to bed. Then Mommy says he can have water and it makes him stop asking.”
I fight the urge to chew the inside of my lip. It’s a nervous habit and I’m suddenly keenly aware of not exhibiting any signs that might show fear. If Remmi knows she’s making me doubt my choices one night in, she’ll be running this household within the week.
Well, at least on my watch. Liz probably won’t crumble quite as easily.
“Honestly, Remmi,” I sigh, getting up from where I’ve been sprawled out in Gavin’s bed to join her and squat beside the bean bag, “I think it might be okay for everyone to break a few rules for a little bit.”
She gasps, eyes darkening as though I’ve just enacted a betrayal against her parents worthy of war.
“Not big rules,” I rush to go on. “Little ones. Because little rules are going to change, Remmi. As much as we all want things to stay the same, they’re not going to. So if it gives Gavin a little comfort to have a glass of milk and stay up a little past his bedtime, and if it makes you laugh a little to sneak into the kitchen after Aunt Liz tucks you in tonight, to scare the crap out of her,” I nudge her side and wink, “I think that would be perfectly fine.”
Remmi’s expression softens a little, the mischievous side of her I love slowly surfacing. “Aunt Liz is the best to scare. She always screams and falls to the floor.” She giggles as if imagining the sight.
“I know.” I wiggle my brows at her. “I used to scare her all the time when we were kids. Easiest way to get in a good laugh there is.”
Remmi scoots herself out of the bean bag. “I think I want a glass of milk, too.”
“You know,” I say, following her as she heads out of the room. “I’m pretty sure there’s a secret stash of ginger cookies hidden in the oatmeal box on the top shelf in the pantry. I think I might get them down and have a little milk myself.”
She turns over her shoulder, eyes wide. “You know about those?”
“Whose idea do you think it was to hide them there?” I laugh.
She grins. “Are you going to share?”
I shrug, side-eyeing her slyly. “Maybe.”
We reach the stairs, and she pauses, one foot hovering over the first step down. “How are we going to get them out of the hiding place without Aunt Liz noticing?”
“You’re right,” I say, tapping my chin. “We’ll need a plan.” I bend down to get closer to her and lower my voice. “Any ideas?”
She crinkles her nose and furrows her brow, getting serious about our scheming. Seeing her like this hits me like a brick to the chest. It’s like I only just noticed how much she’s changed in the last couple of weeks. How much of her was swallowed in the grief of losing her parents and weighed down by the responsibility of being the oldest child, the next in line.
My jaw clenches. I don’t care what it takes, I will ease this burden for her. I won’t see her grow up the way I did. The way Liz did.
She’ll be a child. She’ll be carefree. Maybe not for a while, but eventually.
And this is how she’ll get back there.
By remembering to play.
“Here’s what I’m thinking.” I lean in a little closer, dropping my voice a little lower. “You go down first and you go straight to Aunt Liz.”
She nods curtly, like this is serious business.
“Then,” I go on, “you tell her you can’t find something and send her on a wild goose chase around the house looking for it.”
“Like what?”
“Like…something you know Gavin will want the second he hears you say it, so he insists she finds it and starts looking with her.” I’m drawing a blank on what that might be, but judging by the way her face lights up, Remmi’s already thought of something.
“The galaxy light. Mommy puts in the hall sometimes and it makes pretty star shapes all over the walls. When our doors are open, it shines into our rooms as well.”
I remember hearing about it. It runs on a timer. By the time Trent would come strolling through the hall at night, the lamp would be out and he’d trip over it. Every time. Without fail.
He hated that thing.
