CJ leaned over from the next machine. “She’s become one with the pixels.”
“I have not.”
“You have. I respect it.”
For two hours, we played everything. Air hockey, where CJ trash-talked so politely it almost sounded educational. Skee-ball, where Bianca developed a scoring strategy and then became furious when physics failed to obey her. A racing game where I beat both of them, then regretted celebrating because Bianca turned toward me with cold mathematical purpose and said, “Again.”
We played again.
She won.
CJ won enough tickets to buy a rubber alien, a ring pop, and something labeled “mystery slime” that I confiscated temporarily because mystery slime sounded directly linked to property damage.
Bianca spent twenty minutes calculating the best prize-to-ticket value and left with a small metal puzzle, a glow-in-the-dark bookmark, and three erasers shaped like sushi.
“You could’ve gotten the giant plush frog,” CJ told her.
“That frog is ticket inflation in physical form.”
“Sometimes joy is worth inflation.”
Bianca considered this, then looked toward the prize counter. So, I bought the frog. She hugged it all the way to lunch.
We got burgers at the diner next door. CJ told us the entire tragic biography of his rubber alien, who had been exiled for evading taxes, with Bianca jumping in every now and then with legal commentary. As I ate my fries, I tried to memorize how they looked when they forgot to manage me.
CJ laughed with his whole body. Bianca got ketchup on her sleeve and didn’t notice for ten minutes. They argued about whether aliens would understand human food.
In that moment, they were kids. Not grieving children performing okay-ness. Just kids.
9
WINNIE
With the other three out of the house, Billie and I declared war on the garden.
It wasn’t the original plan. The original plan had involved a quiet afternoon of laundry, lunch, perhaps a craft indoors when Billie became restless, and then something educational enough that I could report honestly to Conrad without saying, “Your youngest child spent three hours digging in the dirt.”
Unfortunately, Billie came out of her post-pancake sulk with renewed purpose and announced that if CJ and Bianca were having “big kid fun,” she should have “dirt fun.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
The backyard had the damp richness of early spring. The air smelled of wet leaves, and new green shoots had sprung up on the softened ground. The sun had emerged in uncertain intervals, bright enough that I applied an extra layer of sunscreen before stepping outside, then added gloves, my widest-brimmed hat, and the black parasol with the reinforced lining.
For absolutely no reason at all, I suddenly felt nauseous. I gripped the side of the house, and the backyard swam in my vision. It was impossible for me to become ill with the stomach virus the family had. What was going on?
An overwhelming fear surged through me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. My body began to shake. I knew I was safe. I knew there was nothing to fear. Not anymore. Yet my body had decided to have a complete fear response with a five-year-old as the witness. Something wasn’t right. My body could sense it, was flooding my veins with a sense of danger, but for the life of me, I couldn’t pinpoint it.
There was simply an overwhelming sensation of not being safe, something I hadn’t felt so strongly since I’d moved stateside. It was absolutely ridiculous. The backyard was gated, and the community was protected. The last thing that had truly posed any kind of threat to me was deep beneath the sea, where I’d left it over a hundred years ago.
I breathed in slowly through my nose, out through my mouth. After about thirty seconds, the sensation vanished as if it’d never happened.
Thank God. I had a tiny gardening partner depending on me.
Billie stared at me from beside the garden bed, already holding a child-sized shovel. “You look ready for a fancy funeral.”
“I often am.”
“Is this a fancy funeral?” she asked.
