Broken Daddy Read online

  It breaks my heart. He feels like he got in trouble at the therapy facility. They’re just denying him services because of his level of functioning. We’ve fought so hard to get him to this point. I hate that he has to give up the therapy center where he does OT and art and music therapy. It’s where he sees his friends and gets to do things he loves and that help with his fine motor skills. I want to cry. This is something I could change, if I didn’t have that debt hanging over me. I was planning on a couple of years at the charter school to save money, and then I’d get investors on board and open a center like that one, only more inclusive and less expensive. I’d have to get help finding and applying for grants, but there has to be a way to make these services more available for the people who need them. I hate it for him.

  “I’m sure you’re just too advanced for them now. You outgrew them. You’re so good at making sandwiches and getting to work on time, that they think someone else needs it more,” I say soothingly.

  He nods, but he doesn’t answer. I think maybe he’s trying not to cry. I let him go and then I go cry in the shower because there’s nothing I can do for him right now. Part of what I want with my own special needs center is to have Benny as a worker who helps set up classes and helps decide what activities to feature—to give him a productive role there in an environment where he feels valued and loved. But because I was stupid about Danny, because month after month I let him handle the credit card and the bill and didn’t ask questions, now I’m years away from making my dream a reality. I can save money as a nanny, sure, but I’m not getting the experience in regular and special education that I did at a school. I’m not getting administrative mentorship like I want. I guess I can research nonprofits in my spare time, but it’s not like the on-the-job learning I counted on. It sucks knowing how I screwed up my life, how it’ll be ages before I get back on track.

  I go to bed early and depressed. I hear noises from Lydia’s room and wander in there in my nightgown. When I peek in the door to see if she’s having a bad dream, I see Ridge holding her in his lap, reading to her from her fairy tale book. She’s holding her kitty, leaning her head on his shoulder. I duck out of the doorway, heart pounding. I almost walked in there in my nightgown, but what’s got me distressed is the sweetness of the private moment I just witnessed. That she is awake, and her dad comes in to hold her and read to her. The tenderness of their quiet time together melts my heart. I creep back to bed, but I lay awake for a long time after that.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of Ridge.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ridge

  She’s been here five weeks. There are some noticeable changes around the house. For one thing, Lydia doesn’t shriek like she’s being murdered every morning when it’s time to get up. She’s still grumpy as all hell, but she’s more on the surly and slow-moving end of the scale now instead of the screaming maniac section she used to occupy.

  In the past, I have personally carried Lydia into the bathroom at 7:00 a.m., sat her on the toilet and washed her face while she sat there howling. I enjoy not having to do that. The first nanny, the one who was supposed to relieve me of before school responsibilities, used to sit in Lydia’s room and cry because she wouldn’t cooperate. I, of course, had to then wash and dress my daughter while her nanny wept in frustration. Not that I blame the woman. There have been times I could have howled at the heavens over this kid’s attitude in the mornings. Saying she isn’t a morning person is like saying that Robert E. Lee was kind of a racist.

  She’s not a sunny little sweetheart at breakfast, but she eats better and answers the occasional question with words instead of grunts. Reva keeps her to a schedule, does a lot of arts and crafts with her and plays reading games. I don’t have to charge the iPad every night, which means she’s not using the tablet as much. She’s getting attention. When I took Lydia to the movies on Sunday, she asked why Reva didn’t come. She told me twice during the movie that Reva would’ve liked it. So she’s showing attachment, like it’s a good relationship.

  I see them together. The way Reva gets down to Lydia’s level and talks to her, the reassuring and gentle way she has with her—and the high expectations as well. The shoes are put away. She says thank you more often. These are things I notice, good things that reinforce my belief that I made the right call when I hired this nanny.

  The downside is this—I like the woman. Not in the way I like Caroline, my fifty-eight-year-old secretary—which is with fond respect reserved for those I find useful and pleasant. For one thing, Reva’s not always pleasant. She’s always honest, and she always has an opinion. She doesn’t take any crap off me, and she’s corrected me in front of Lydia a couple of times—once about a vocabulary word, which I guess since she was a teacher is understandable, but once about how far it is to Disneyland. That one was irritating because when I looked it up she was fucking right.

  Her intelligence and outspokenness are sometimes annoying, but I like that Lydia gets to see a strong woman speaking her mind. Even when she’s disagreeing with me. I want to be the ultimate authority in my home. I want to be right all the time. But I don’t want my daughter to fear me like a god, like I am never to be questioned or contradicted. Because someday she’ll have a relationship with a man—god willing not for thirty years or so—and I don’t want her in silent awe of his every word.

  So part of being the best father I can be is letting the hot nanny argue with me at the dinner table. Another part is sitting down and watching some damn My Little Pony we’ve seen six times, but this time with Reva on the couch. Reva whose skin has that intoxicating, sugary smell like something I want to eat. She’s funny—her sarcastic commentary on the characters’ stupid choices always makes me want to laugh. I won’t, of course. I hold it in. I feel like that’s all I do now she lives with us—hide what I’m feeling.

  If I think something she says is funny, I don’t laugh. If I want to kiss her, I don’t. If I want to tell her to shut up, I don’t. If I want to rip her clothes off, I don’t. I just hold it in. The restraint is taking a lot of energy.

  I look at her and listen to her, and I find her attractive. More every day. The way a man looks at a woman he wants, the way her every word and expression take on extra weight. I take notice of everything she does, of the way she puts jam on her toast and the way she bites her lip sometimes when she looks at me. I can’t let myself go down that road. I can’t imagine that she wants me the way I want her. If I let myself believe it, there’ll be no stopping me. I already feel like I’m trying to hold back a runaway train. Like there’s going to be no end to the torment of being so near her all the time but being unable to touch her, to tell her things, to come up behind her at the table and move her hair aside and put my mouth to her throat. It feels like it would be the most natural thing in the world to kiss her, to touch her. Like she was made for me. I find myself more and more often thinking of her at night, or when I’m in the shower. When I can’t restrain myself anymore.

  So when she tells me that she gave Mrs. Whitman the night off and that she’s cooking dinner, I hope that maybe she can’t cook. She’s joked about it, that she only made Lean Cuisines and stuff like that. So maybe it’ll be frozen pizza, something disgusting. Something to make me like her less. When I come home, Lydia runs out of the kitchen and into my arms. I swing her around and notice she’s got flour all over her clothes.

  “What have you been doing?” I ask, “Making a volcano?”

  “Nope. I made cookies for dessert!” she says proudly. She’s so happy, just beaming. I kiss her cheek and put her down, “Everything’s almost ready, go wash up!” she says, sounding for a minute just like Reva.

  I roll up my sleeves and scrub my hands. I rub my hands over my face, steeling myself for the ordeal of eating with Reva, of trying to eat when the pull of her makes me lose my appetite for anything but her. I sit at the table and wait. Reva brings out plates of what looks like pot roast with potatoes and carrots. Lydia comes slowly, so
lemnly carrying a gravy boat that she places beside me. It smells peppery. I tell them it looks great.

  Lydia sits down and glares at the carrots and looks at Reva, “If I eat them all, what do I get?”

  “An adequate supply of Vitamin A,” she deadpans, “eat some of them.”

  “No Barefoot Contessa on tonight to bribe her?” I say teasingly, thinking of the first meal we shared at this table.

  “I doubt it. If you eat it all, I might let you out of drying the dishes,” she offers.

  My daughter looks appalled, “Wait, I have to do dishes?”

  “Yes. One of these days, you’ll have to do stuff for yourself and I want you to know how,” Reva says.

  “Actually, she has a trust fund. It’s unlikely she won’t have household staff,” I say.

  “She can still learn to take care of herself. So if the maid gets sick, Lydia doesn’t starve to death in squalor,” Reva says.

  I try the pot roast. It’s fine. It’s not disgusting. It’s just okay. So I try to be nice and make small talk.

  “Where did you learn to make pot roast?”

  “Oh, it’s my aunt’s recipe. It’s her total specialty. We had it at like every holiday and birthday ever when I was growing up. It didn’t matter if it was Easter dinner or if we were playing with water guns outside because it was so hot. We were still having pot roast. That was the thing she cooks. And she taught it to me. I’m not even a really big meat eater, but it’s all those great memories of running around with my cousins and just a bunch of us around the table…” she trails off, looks at Lydia.

  I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking my daughter is missing out. She doesn’t have a big extended family or cousins to play with. She just has me and the staff and the security guards. I feel defensive, angry even. I don’t say anything. Once more, I hold it in.

  “I cut up some potatoes,” Lydia says.

  “She’s too little to be using a knife,” I say flatly.

  “I was right there, and she did a really good job,” Reva says, making my daughter beam proudly over something I don’t want her doing.

  “She won’t be using anything but a butter knife for at least another two years. Take care to remember that,” I say and take another bite.

  Reva looks like she’s about to say something back but thinks better of it. Smart woman. I’m still irritable from hearing her happy memories about cousins and water guns and huge, loving families. Like Lydia’s missing out on something. Now is not the moment to cross me.

  Lydia chatters about school, tells us all about learning Tai Chi in PE. Reva says that she used to play dodgeball in PE, but she went to public school.

  “What’s public school?” Lydia says, puzzled.

  “It’s where the peasants go,” Reva says with a laugh, “It’s regular school. Not like the one you go to or the one I taught at. Those are special and have more resources—more money and supplies. At public school, I learned reading and math and social studies. We didn’t really do art or music or Tai Chi. In PE we just chased each other or threw balls at each other,” she says.

  “Oh, that sounds boring. And, like, you got hit with balls.”

  “I did. A lot. Then I practiced running and got faster, and then they couldn’t catch me, and I could get out of the way when they threw dodgeballs at me.”

  “Good idea,” Lydia says.

  We finish eating. Lydia eats enough carrots that she’s excused from dish duty. Reva insists on not leaving dirty dishes for Mrs. Whitman to come back to. So I give Lydia her bath while Reva washes the dishes. It feels strange, like we’re dividing up tasks the way parents do—the way married people do. I shake it off and listen to Lydia play mermaids for a while, until it’s time to wash her hair and she thrashes and flails and demands that Reva wash her hair.

  “She doesn’t get soap bubbles in my ears!” she howls.

  “I’m washing your hair,” I tell her. It’s not about my daughter preferring her nanny over me. It’s about not giving in to pointless demands.

  “No!”

  “Cover your ears if you want to,” I tell her.

  “I have to cover my eyes so you don’t get soap in them,” she huff, “I can’t do both!”

  I wash her hair, which is tricky with her trying to squirm away. By the time I’m done, I’m soaking wet. Once she’s out of the tub safely and wrapped in her towel, I go change clothes. When I return, Lydia is snuggled in bed with Reva listening to a chapter book. I linger in the doorway listening. It’s a silly book about a child hiding from the school bus line, and my daughter is laughing like a loon at it. Reva giggles, too, their heads together. At the end of the chapter, Reva gets up, kisses her forehead and tells her to have sweet dreams. When she leaves us alone, Lydia stares after her for a minute. I was going to rock Lydia in the chair and read with her, but it seems silly—she’s already been read to, already been tucked in. I feel at loose ends as I bend over and kiss her good night.

  “I’ll sit with you if you want to,” she offers generously. I shake my head.

  “You get some sleep, baby girl,” I say a little sadly.

  I’m ready to kick back and watch some ESPN, unplug my brain for a while. I grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and head for the couch. It’s already occupied. Reva is on the couch watching some kind of celebrity show. There seem to be a lot of flashy women arguing about salads. I look from the TV to her. She has a TV in her room. She should go there. I hesitate, think about retreating, since I have a TV in my bedroom as well, of course. But there’s something about relinquishing my turf after she tucked my daughter into bed. I feel like staking a claim. Even if it’s just my couch, my living room.

  I sit down, not beside her but near her. She looks up from her phone, tucks her sock feet up underneath her.

  “You can change the channel if you want,” she says, “I’ll just go to my room.”

  “Don’t, you can stay,” I say. I have no idea why, except perhaps because I’m a moron. I want her to go watch her own TV, let me have my ESPN and solitude, right? Right?

  She stays. I feel a surge of triumph. Like I really wanted her to stay. I switch the channel to ESPN almost defiantly. It’s on a commercial. For an erectile dysfunction medicine. Great. I shut my eyes briefly. As if there were anything to make this more awkward, trying to sit on the couch with the incredibly sexy nanny, it would be an ad showing a couple cavorting happily and suggestively on a beach with a voiceover about erections. You’d think the embarrassment would make me lose my hard on, but you’d be wrong. Because I get a whiff of her sugary scent and I want to gather her in my arms. I can’t remember ever being so attracted to anyone in my life.

  “How’s, um, your brother?” I ask.

  “He’s good. He really likes working in fast food. He’s great at patterns and repetitive tasks. I’m just—I’m a little worried about him.”

  “Why? I mean, it sounds as though he’s found a job that suits him, allows him to be productive and have some independence,” I say.

  “He isn’t eligible for his art therapy at the center anymore. Benny loves his art and music classes at the therapy center, but because he’s got a job now, he doesn’t qualify for services. Essentially, he’s accomplished too much so they’re taking away his supports even though it’s basically his entire social life and his group of friends. He can’t drive or socialize as easily as most young adults—I hate this for him. This is one of the reasons I wanted to open my own center! I could get investors, donors to help me provide services like OT as well as art and music programs, and I wouldn’t punish patients for being successful!”

  She’s so passionate, her eyes alight when she talks about her dream, about the facility that would serve everyone. It’s easy to see that she’s dedicated to helping people, that even her fondest wish is more about her brother’s well-being than her own. I find it moving that she cares for him so deeply, wants so much to help others with the same struggle. It’s admirable, sure, but more than
that. It’s beautiful. Just like the tenderness she shows my daughter is beautiful. It makes her something more than merely an attractive woman taking up space in my house. It’s too late for me. I see her, how she wants something worth fighting for, how she is fully human with dreams and desires.

  It makes me want her more. Everything I learn about her makes me want her more. Makes me think of her and like her. It’s inconvenient that she’s so likeable as well as so sexy. She’s a deadly combination.

  “A center like that would help a lot of people. It’s like the grants and services are mostly focused on early intervention, on preschool and elementary kids. Which is great, and so important, but these kids age out of available services. It doesn’t mean they don’t need the therapies, just that it’s harder to get them and qualify for them—especially to afford them. My parents spent a fortune on OT and PT for Benny growing up. My dad’s a judge, I mean we were pretty well off as far as like upper middle class. Imagine somebody who’s a welder or a waitress having a kid like Benny with special needs and what they could afford. My mom and dad literally sold their house and moved us to a much smaller one—no more pool, no more playroom—three bedrooms, two baths, living room and kitchen—so they could afford the resources Benny needed. Think what a facility with great OT plus art and music and daily living skills classes could accomplish!”

  “Why haven’t you done that?” I ask, unsure why she’s sitting in my living room and employed as a nanny when she has bigger plans and interests than that.

  “Uh, money,” she says as if I’m the stupidest person alive, “and experience too. That’s why I was at the charter school—getting hands on experience with inclusive classrooms and trying to learn from the administrator. I need investors and people to help me set up a nonprofit and manage it. And all of that takes PR and, like, a fortune. Which I don’t have.”

  “I’m sure you can save some money during your tenure as Lydia’s nanny, put that toward a start-up,” I say mildly.