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3 years later
SEPTEMBER
73
garrison abbey
Our loft in the city is a happy home, not just for Willow and me, but now this cute little three-year-old who giggles while eating Fruity Pebbles and who loves mismatched socks. She chose a neon purple sock and a black and teal polka-dot sock today.
Vada is unnaturally patient. Even as I tug her sandy-brown hair with a brush, she swings her legs at the kitchen table, already finished with breakfast. She hums to herself and then slightly winces.
I stop yanking at a knot. “Did that hurt?”
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s okay though, Daddy. You can keep trying.”
If you look up angelic in the dictionary, the name Vada Lauren Abbey would be printed there. Whatever good thing Willow and I did in our lives, our collective banked luck has befallen upon our daughter. Yeah, I’m biased.
I’m her dad, but seriously, she is patient, kind, and thoughtful.
And she’s only three.
Sure, that could all change as she gets older, but these are supposed to be the hardest years, aren’t they? Terrible Twos were Terrific Twos. Threes have been a breeze. Give me all the toddler years if they’re this good.
I do my best to be gentle with this stupid fucking knot near her ear. She knows Mommy usually does her hair, but Willow is sick with a sinus infection—one that Vada just hurdled over a couple days ago. They were both bed-ridden with stuffy noses, coughs, and headaches.
Vada kept asking why I wasn’t sick too. I wanted to say that I’m such an asshole I bet the sinus infection looked at me and said, nah, he’s already plague-ridden, gotta go for the pure ones.
However, I am not promoting self-loathing in this household, and I’m at a place where I do believe I’m a better person than I once was. It’s hard to see my life now and think otherwise.
So I told her that I’m just immune.
She asked what immune meant, and I told her I can’t get sick. Which will probably bite me in the ass when I do actually contract a cold in the future. Did I lie to my kid? I don’t know. I’m just kind of winging this whole dad thing, and I have to say—I’m not that bad at it. Maybe it’s all the babysitting experience or it’s just natural for me, but I’m enjoying being a dad to this sweet little girl.
Once I finish her hair, she hops off the chair. “Can we play go-karts now?” She waits expectantly for me to say sure.
I check my watch. Shit, we have like fifteen minutes tops before we need to be out the door. She’s brushed her teeth. She’s dressed in a black shirt and sunflower overalls—the overall phase is purely Vada wanting to wear what Willow wears. Her blue-jean backpack is already filled and zipped.
She’s ready. We could leave early.
“Puhleaase,” she pleads, melting my heart and part of my resolve to not be late.
“We don’t have long. You remember what today is?”
“School with Nony,” she says, “but can we…uh, play the go-karts first?” She thinks hard about her words. “We have time!” She brightens like she does think we have time, even if she has no clue what time we really need to leave. “Lots of time, Daddy. Let’s go play.” She doesn’t take my hand and drag me over to the game console and beanbags.
She simply waits.
God, she’s such a good kid. I wouldn’t say I’m a softie necessarily, but I haven’t had to be strict with Vada. “We have fifteen minutes. Can you count to fifteen?”
She nods vigorously, then stares at her fingers. “One, toof, three, fifeeth!” She beams.
“Good, okay, go grab your controller and I’ll be there in a sec. We don’t have long remember, so go fast.”
She bolts with a laugh towards the game console. I switch on the TV and put on Mario Kart for her. Willow was sad that she doesn’t love Diddy Kong Racing as much, but at least she enjoys something on the N64 console.
Quickly, I pour coffee in a steaming cup and butter a toasted croissant. Quick glance back—Vada is entranced at the loading screen where NPCs race go-karts on a cow-infested track called Moo Moo Farm. Giving me a second to go check on Willow.
I slip into our bedroom, morning light shining through the curtain. Willow slowly wakes and blows her nose in a tissue. A mountain of tissues fill a trash-bin on her side of the bed.
“Hey, how do you feel?”
She scoots up, and I sit near her thigh. “Stuffy.” She sounds worse than yesterday, but she’s already seen a doctor and taking medication. “My head doesn’t hurt as much.”
“That’s good. Here, maybe some food will help.” I pass her the croissant before the coffee. “You want this or water?”
“Oh coffee.” Her eyes widen. “Something warm. I just wanna smell it, really.” She cups the mug and sniffs the fumes. “You’re the best. I’m sorry I can’t help.” Willow frowns over at the cracked door. We can hear the theme music to Mario Kart from here. “I’m going to miss her first day of pre-K.”
