My own breath mirrors hers. “What happened?”
With my palm flat on the door, I gently press it open.
I scrub both of my palms over my face. “Holy shit, Eleanor.”
“I know it looks like ahugemess. I couldn’t get the cap off, and I pulled really,reallyhard, and it just…” With her eyes as round as saucers, she throws her arms out in a circle to mimic an explosion. The motion is a blur of gold sparkles falling silently to the carpet. “It really wasn’t even my fault.”
I survey the catastrophe at our feet. What appears to be an entire pound of the gold glitter Silas bought her for her last birthday. And not the chunky kind. This shit is microscopic. She took it out once for an art project, and I found glitter on my clothes for three months. Our washing machine is still fucked. The mess is scattered as if she tried to scoop it up with her hands.
“What are you even doing with the glitter before school? We don’t have time to make art.”
“Miss Parker always wears sparkles on her eyes at dance class. I wanted to put on some sparkles too.”
“Honey, Miss Parker is wearing eye shadow. This isn’t safe for your eyes. Besides, you aren’t allowed to wear makeup until you’re twenty.”
She opens her mouth, presumably to continue arguing her innocence, but a glance at my watch reveals the situation is now dire. As in T-minus ten minutes until impact.
I spare one glance at the ceiling to plead with the Almighty.
“Go wash your hands. I’ll clean this up, but I need you to feed Merit and get plates down from the cabinet. I need your help so that I’m not late for work.”
Nellie tucks her chin to her chest and marches pitifully past. Once in the hall, she turns her chin into her shoulder with her messy hair caught between the two. “What if Ms. Thompson makes me breakfast?”
“No.”
I retrieve the vacuum from her closet and plug it in without elaborating.
“But—”
“Eleanor.” My voice is stern. “Go feed Merit.”
“Sorry, Daddy.”
I sigh. “It’s okay. Ask for permission next time.” I switch on the vacuum, effectively moving us beyond the mishap.
The vacuum is as old as Nellie. I’m pretty sure my mom gifted it to me as a welcome-to-parenthood present, and there’s a high probability she nabbed it from a thrift store. Nothing wrong with that, but the thing shows its age when, halfway through the task, it gives me three half-hearted passes before it shudders and revs up like an old car engine.
“What the hell is wrong now?”
Shaking my head, I give it a jiggle. Needs more suction. I turn it up to max.
A loud pop fills the room, and a cloud of micro-glitter and dust billows out the back of the canister. I clench my eyes shut and vibrate my lips, spitting out the dander and dust mites and glitter landing in my mouth.
“Shit!”
I slam the switch to the off position, and the motor sputters out.
“Daddy!” Eleanor’s worried voice sounds from the kitchen.
“It’s okay, Nellie-Jo. The vacuum?—”
“Daddy, there’s smoke coming from the stove!”
Dammit, the bacon!
The vacuum crashes to her bedroom floor, forgotten as I sprint up the stairs to the kitchen. I swipe the extra towel I laid on the recliner earlier and round the corner. Nellie hops down from her chair as I pass and backs up toward the door just as the fire alarm starts screaming.
“Everything’s fine,” I reassure her, waving the towel toward the alarm with one hand and fishing an oven mitt from the drawer with the other.
