Page 33 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Death was supposed to be a natural part of life, but fuck, this was hard. Even more so when you were trying to explain it to a five-year-old. Still, Monroe held Maisie’s stare and leaned in closer. “Right,” she answered, trying to keep the crack of emotion from her own voice. “She can’t be with us anymore.”

Monroe waited while Maisie considered the words, watching as the little girl’s mind processed the information in real time. “What about the phone? I talk to Daddy on the phone sometimes, even though he’s gone.”

She’d missed Dean’s call from prison the first week, but he’d been able to catch her a few days later. He always called the landline at the house at a specified time to talk to their mom and Maisie, which Monroe hadn’t known.

Her adult relationship with her brother—or lack thereof—had been triangulated through their mother, and she wasn’t even sure how Child Protective Services had gotten her number.

And truly, she hadn’t been trying to punish Dean, but he was low man on the totem pole the first few weeks of her return to Cypress Falls, as she’d tried to figure out passwords and utilities and Maisie’s schedule from the bits and pieces her mom had shared over the years.

Plus, that man wouldn’t know a parenting book if it smacked him on the head, so he was possibly even worse than Monroe was at explaining death to her.

That dumbass had actually told Maisie that Nana was going to be sleeping forever, which had set off a handful of sleepless nights for both of them, since Maisie was afraid to go to bed in case she didn’t wake up again.

Monroe bit her lip, buying herself a few seconds to make sure she didn’t step on any landmines while explaining things. “Daddy lives in Florida, so we can call him on the phone. Nana died, sweetie. When people die, you can’t call them.”

The books—so many fucking books—said to be clear about death. No euphemisms. No veiled language. No complicated language. No metaphors.

It didn’t matter that Monroe could barely accept that her mom was gone. She was responsible for making sure that Maisie understood Nana hadn’t wanted to leave her and that, even if they were both unhappy about not having her here, they couldn’t change the fact that she was gone.

Maisie jutted out her chin, even as it wobbled, her eyes glassy. “I miss her. Why isn’t she coming home? Is she mad at me?”

Fuck. Monroe blinked hard, willing her own tears not to start falling. She reached out and put her hands on Maisie’s shoulders, hoping the touch was comforting but not knowing for sure. She hoped Maisie wouldn’t notice how her own hands were shaking with emotion. “Maisie, your Nana loved you more than anything. I promise you that. She didn’t . . . she didn’t want to die, and her dying wasn’t because of anything you did. She wanted to be with you for a lot longer.”

Big, fat tears started to fall from Maisie’s eyes, and Monroe felt like she’d been gut-punched. “I miss Nana!” The little girl bellowed, hugging her arms around herself, shaking with the intensity of her pent-up emotions.

Monroe was crying, too, now, though she was hanging on, not sobbing uncontrollably like Maisie, who looked like a dam that had finally burst wide open.

“I miss Nana, too,” Monroe cooed, moving a hand to rub at Maisie’s back. She wished that she could take this hurt away from her niece. There was no way of knowing if, when it came to this experience, it was better to be herself and understand the reality of death—along with how fucking unfair it all was—or to be Maisie, confused and trying so hard to wrap her little mind around the finality of it all.

Either way, it hurt like nothing Monroe had ever experienced before. It hurt more than going to bed hungry or spending time in foster care or breaking up with Sylvia or wondering what the point of her art was, when it mostly went to pretentious, rich assholes.

All of those were nothing compared to the hollow, aching, ever-present feeling in her chest, like a star turning dark, threatening to implode into a black hole that would engulf her.

The only thing that kept the darkness at bay was the knowledge that Maisie had no one else and that Monroe needed to be there for her.

If she fell apart, what would happen to Maisie?

If she couldn’t figure out how to make this work, what would her niece’s life look like? Foster homes? Hopeful adoptions that may or may not happen?

Monroe wiped her own tears away.

No, she wasn’t going to let that happen.

She knew what foster care was like, even in the best of situations. And she wasn’t going to let that be Maisie’s future, her own hurt be damned.

“I’m so sorry, Maisie,” she said, pulling Maisie toward her, enveloping her in a hug, trying to be brave for the both of them, even when all she wanted to do was crumple to the ground and cry her eyes out.

And, for a moment, Maisie let her. Let herself be held, comforted, but then she pushed away from Monroe, anger in her voice as she cried, “I want Nana. I don’t want you!”

Maisie wiped at her snot-streaked face and let out another long, guttural sob before running out of the room. Seconds later, Monroe heard Maisie’s bedroom door slam shut.

God.

She leaned back in her chair, counting to ten silently. She was going to give Maisie a minute or so to calm down on her own—to get some space—but then she had to go in there. No matter how much Maisie pushed her away, she needed to keep coming back. Showing up for her, even when Maisie protested.

. . . Right?

Not for the first time—or even the dozenth since getting the call that had changed everything—Monroe wondered how the hell she was actually going to do this.