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“Delphi,” Dad says, with a beckoning hand, appearing like a mirage in the desert. “There’s no time to waste. I’ve got to get you out of here. They’re here to take you. Just like I warned you they would.”
“D-Dad?” I don’t move a step closer, though my heart leaps into my throat. “They?”
He gives a solemn nod. “Who else? The Neptune Society.”
ernest
december 1993
“Daddy! Look what I drew!”
My copy of theNortham Tribuneis torn away by tiny fingers. No more am I staring at a wall of text discussing the latest shifts in Northam’s stock market exchange, but instead a bright-eyed, round-cheeked toddler with two curly puffs at the top of her head. She holds up a piece of paper for me to review.
There’s a house with a chimney and scribbles for plumes of smoke. A block-shaped family with smiley faces and dots for eyes—four of them, representing a father with a tie, a mother with a dress, a son with headphones, and the smallest of all, a daughter with puffs that look curiously familiar.
She’s even drawn some fluffy clouds and a sun (also with a smiley face).
I smile too, bellowing out a deep laugh. “Delphi, baby, it’s a masterpiece! Did you draw this or was it Picasso?”
“Meeee!” she squeaks, jumping up and down.
I reach for her, hoisting her up off her feet and setting her down on my knee. “You sure? What color is this?”
“Green!”
“And this one?”
“Purple!”
“My baby girl’s a genius,” I say proudly.
“Daddy, did you know…” she clutches a crayon in her hand, fiddling with it as she pieces together the information she’s dying to tell me. My girl who’s like a sponge even at age two-and-a-half. “You can use colors, Daddy… to make other colors.”
“Really? Like what?”
Marcel wanders into the breakfast room and catches the tail end of our exchange. For once he’s lowered the headphones to his Walkman long enough to listen to something other than his music. He rolls his eyes, plopping down in his usual chair at the table.
“Not this again,” he says, sighing, grabbing for the box of cereal. “She won’t shut up about the color mixing stuff.”
“What have I told you about being nice to your little sister?”
“But she’s just so… soannoying.”
“Marcel.”
“She got her little sticky fingers on my Tupac tape. Now it won’t play right.”
“Good. You know I hate when you listen to that filth.”
Delphine bows her head, sniffling at her older brother’s words, picking at the wrapper around the crayon. I drop a kiss on her brow and tell her not to worry.
“Tell me more about mixing colors,” I say. “What colors make what?”
Marcel rolls his eyes before he disappears behind the box of Frosted Flakes. For the next five minutes, Delphine tells me everything she’s learned about mixing colors, pausing here and there to think up another nugget of information.
I cherish moments like these.
Moments I get to be a devoted father. Marcel’s entering that age range where he’s too cool for his family, but Delphine’s a daddy’s girl. Leontine tells me about how she tries with all her might to stay up past her bed time each night, waiting on me to get home. Eventually, she nods off, and Leontine tucks her into her bed with a soft chuckle.
