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“You’re doing great.”
“I’ve been at it for weeks. Asking her questions. Being here, trying to let her know I’m listening, talking to the fucking counselor, talking to the gifted-and-talented teacher, filling out the fucking paperwork, but I’m not getting anywhere.”
Caroline slides down next to me. Touches my arm. “You are.”
“She won’t even let me in the fucking room.”
“It’s just the holiday,” Caroline says. “Talking to your mom. Her feelings are running high, but she’s going to come around.”
“She’s pissed at me for taking that top away from her.”
“It was the right thing to do.”
The top was from Mom, low-cut and completely wrong for a ten-year-old.
We sent Mom a photo book. It was Caroline’s idea. We picked out the best snapshots of Frankie and took some more of Iowa, the farm and the sculptures, me with Laurie, Caroline with Frankie, and put them together in an album.
So she’ll see what she’s missing, Frankie said.
When I asked if she got it, Mom said, “It’s nice,” then changed the subject.
She’s back with Bo, fighting with my uncle Jack, on the outs with most of the Leavitts. She told me Leavitts have no loyalty.
I guess she forgot I’m a Leavitt. That her daughter is, too.
I just don’t want her in my life anymore—for my own sake and for Frankie’s. I don’t want her carelessness, her gusts of passion, her brief forays into thoughtfulness that leave you feeling like shit when she forgets all about you. I want Frankie to have more.
Through the door, I can hear the soft sound of her crying.
I stand up. Tap the door again. “Frankie, look. I need you to open this door. I’m going to count to ten. That’s all you get. Ready? Ten—”
Caroline interrupts, “Are you sure you don’t want me to try?”
“Nine.”
“West?”
“I’m sure. Eight. Seven.”
“Can I do anything?” Caroline asks.
“Yeah. Go get me the screwdriver out of the junk drawer in the kitchen. Six.”
“Flathead or Phillips?”
“Five. Phillips.”
She rises to her toes, presses her lips against mine, and says, “I love you.”
“Four. Love you, too, baby. Three.”
Frankie cracks the door open on two. Her eyes are red. “What do you want?”
“To borrow your new purse. Jesus, Franks, what do you think I want? To talk to you. Let me in.” Gently, I push her shoulder so she’ll move aside, and then I walk into her room and close the door.
There’s a neat pile on her desk of everything she got for Christmas today, stacked up and organized in a kind of display that she’s put on for herself. It’s such a kid thing to do, such a Frankie thing, it makes me feel too much at once.
Proud I could give her that stuff so she could have a good Christmas, the kind of Christmas kids are supposed to have.
