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Noah
Georgiawastruetoher word and left the guardianship paperwork under my front doormat. I waited at her office to deliver it to her before she even arrived on Monday morning. It’s debatable if I’ve ever submitted non-work documents on time. This isn’t for me, though, and I can’t waste time and screw this up.
Almost a week later, I’ve not heard a single update and I’m sweating for some news. Despite years of drugs and crime, my brother always slithers his way out of jail and back into Rainey’s life with nominal time away. I’ve never understood how he does it. Guardianship would be a better long-term solution if my brother receives the sentence Georgia predicts. It would mean up to a year of safety and peace for Rainey.
Rainey’s first-grade school year begins in a week and preparing for it has been a needed distraction. She’s enthusiastic about returning to school and seeing the friends she made in kindergarten. I’m thrilled for her, but I’m elated for myself. I love Rainey with every fiber of my being, but in the course of a week I’ve gone from being responsible for myself alone to being on ‘parent’ duty 24/7. My brain threatens mutiny at the thought of another Pinterest craft. Watching the blue dog and her sister run around on yet another adventure is low on the list of things I’d choose, though it is the most tolerable kid show I’ve found yet.
The rare one or two-day instances I previously watched Rainey when my brother was in jail or rehab didn’t prepare me for this. Back then, she couldn’t walk or talk, and spent several hours a day napping. The difference in the level of stimulation a six-year-old requires quickly smacked me in the face, and exhaustion is now my middle name.
But we’re figuring this out together; that’s the daily mantra getting me through. Rainey misses her dad and pre-slumber meltdowns mean peaceful tuck-ins aren’t happening right now. A refusal to eat punctuates meals. I’m learning on the fly what foods she’ll try—frozen spinach-stuffed shells were a hard no, but mac ’n’ cheese is a “yes” any time of day.
My phone buzzes. I have a text message from Georgia.
Georgia: What’s your schedule like Monday? An appointment was canceled and we can fit in your guardianship interview.
My heart takes off like a racehorse fresh out the gate. Over 48 hours’ notice to prepare for the interview would be great. But if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t know how to prepare either way. Rainey may not know it, but she can’t afford for me to mess this up. The tangle of nerves created by my niece’s undecided fate forces an affirmative reply from my fingers.
After a few texts back and forth, I’m scheduled to interview Monday morning, leaving me two days to panic. We have to get out of this house today or my anxiety will steer the ship and wreck our weekend.
Rainey’s sprawled on her bedroom floor playing with her new toys. I’d insisted on only buying two toys, but later in a moment of weakness, I surprised her with several others I ordered online. I’m not trying to buy her love, but a few more toys seemed like a harmless way to assuage the guilt rooting deep in my heart when I imagine the last few years of her life and all I’ve missed.
I announce myself with a knock on the door to Rainey’s bedroom. As we make this massive transition, being cognizant of her comfort and boundaries is crucial to me. She flips onto her back and grins at the sight of me in her doorway.
“Wanna play?”
“Actually, I’ve got a different idea,” I say. Her face brightens with curiosity, and her attention is all mine.
“What if we went to the library?” I fake a cheerful voice, needing to convince Rainey this is an excellent idea. “They have story hour soon. Might be fun . . .”
I needed to complain to someone this morning about the last few days, and Izabeth is that person. Iz listened before suggesting I take Rainey to the library’s story hour—I could relax for an hour while she’s entertained. My saint of a best friend watches her cousins most weekends, and she’s well versed in the social niceties the parent community expects. However, I’m terrified of dropping a ‘F’ bomb and losing Hopeful-Guardian of the Year. Unfortunately, Iz’s busy this morning and can’t join us to operate as my social lubricant.
I called my boss the day after I brought Rainey home and requested a leave of absence until school began. My boss was less than thrilled, but legally she couldn’t deny it. So, I’ve been on leave, but my inbox has not.
Rainey’s on board with the library and talks a mile a minute during the short drive there. We’re early, a shocking occurrence. I stop near the foyer and gift myself a moment to breathe in the nostalgic smell only old books can provide. The fifteen elementary-aged kids ripping around in utter chaos shatter my second of calm.
Rainey cuts loose inside the tiny building like a wildling. The blonde crackerjack rushes up to a giggling cluster of girls and works her way into the mix. She’s braver than I ever was at her age, and oblivious to how down on her luck she might be. Satisfied she’s having fun, I claim a seat on a stool, pull out my cell phone, and get to work. This story hour is a precious time I hadn’t expected to find, and I need to make the most of every minute. Scrolling through my inbox, I start with the most recent, time-sensitive messages.
Every few minutes I glance up and find Rainey’s face in the crowd. The smile plastered on her face reflects onto mine as she leaps and chases her friends around the room. We both need to leave the house more frequently—it’s good for her to play with kids her age.
The librarian claps to gain the kids’ attention and causes me to jump. My sudden alertness makes it impossible to miss a man walking in with a young girl. His face is familiar, but I can’t place him. Unfamiliar faces can’t hide for long in a town this size; he must not be from around here.
Miraculously, the librarian quietens the kids and engrosses them all with her story. The little girl who came in with the man plops down on the rainbow carpet next to Rainey, and I refocus on my inbox. A low voice interrupts my work as the latecomer leans toward me and whispers.
“Thanks again for saving me the other day.”
I give him a once-over with a puzzled look. How did I save this man? I’m prepared to tell him I’m busy with work, but he clarifies, “With the laundry detergent . . . remember?”Ah—the shopper I rescued last weekend. I tell him I’m glad I could help before returning to my email app, but he interrupts me again.
“I’m Logan, by the way.” He extends his hand, offering to shake mine. “It’s nice to meet you. Well, we kind of met at the grocery store, I guess, but . . . You know what I mean.” He smiles, and I swear to God a chill runs down my body. I’ve never seen such perfect teeth. It’s a peculiar thing to notice, but it’s something you can’t miss.
“I’m Noah. It’s nice to meet you, too.” I reach my hand out to shake his, and I swear he blushes. He shakes my hand a second too long, and the moment turns awkward.
Logan’s cute enough, I decide as I extract my hand from his, but he’s not my type. I prefer a polished man—someone who dresses nice, wears irresistible cologne, and causes my body to clench when I see him in a suit. I award bonus points to blue-eyed blondes, a particular weakness of mine responsible for breaking my heart several times.
Logan is none of the above. His brown hair is wild and mimics the just-rolled-out-of-bed look, but not purposefully in the way some women find alluring. The sleeves of his olive-and-navy plaid button-up rest at his elbows, revealing tanned skin. Brown, tortoiseshell glasses teeter on the edge of his nose and threaten to slip off at any moment. Something about him gives me pause.
“How long have you lived in Alexandria? Besides our run-in at Walmart, I don’t remember seeing you.”
“We’ve been here a few months. We’re staying with my aunt and uncle and spend most of our time at their farm.” Logan shifts the conversation back to me. “What about you?”
