“This is what you’re wearing.”
“Am not.”
“Are, too.”
“Mommy lets me pick—”
“Come here, Lucy,” he said sternly.
Scrunching her face up, she climbed out of bed and padded toward him. All the time he was dressing her, she was complaining.
“There,” he said when she was dressed. “Pretty as a picture.”
“I look ugly.”
“Hardly.”
She reached up for the pair of wings on the dresser top. “Pin it on me, Daddy. It means she’s thinking of me. Ow! You poked me.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. Picking her up, he carried her downstairs and into the kitchen. There, he put her in her chair and poured her a bowl of cereal.
“It’s clown pancake day,” she informed him crisply, looking down at her wings. “Look at the calendar.”
“It’s Captain Crunch day.”
“That’s for special. Is Mommy coming home?”
“Not today.” He poured the milk into her bowl.
Betsy came running into the kitchen and stopped dead. “I can’t go to school like this,” she cried, flinging out her arms dramatically. “Look at my hair.”
She did sort of look as if she’d just undergone electric shock therapy. “Put a twisty thing in it.”
Betsy’s eyes widened at the thought, her face paled. “You’re ruining my life already.”
“Mommy’s not coming home yet,” Lulu said and burst into tears.
“Eat,” Michael snapped to Lulu; to Betsy, he said, “Sit down. Now.”
Outside, he heard the grinding of gears, the rattling of an old engine. He looked through the kitchen window and saw the yellow blur of a school bus pull up at the end of his driveway.
“I’m late,” Betsy howled. “See?”
Michael ran to the back door and flung it open, yelling, “Wait—”
But it was too late. The bus was pulling away.
He slammed the door shut. “When does school start? That wasn’t on her damn list.”
Betsy stared at him. “You don’t even know?”
“Eat. Then go brush your teeth. We’re leaving in two minutes.”
“I’m not going to first period,” Betsy said. “Ooooh no I’m not. Zoe’s in that class. And Sienna. When they see my hair—”
“You’re going to school. I have a ferry to catch.” Michael looked at the wall clock and grimaced. He was going to miss his ferry, which meant he was going to miss his first meeting of the day.
Betsy crossed her arms. “I’m on a hunger strike.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “Be hungry.” He grabbed the dishes and put them in the sink, cereal and milk and all. In the mudroom, he found Lulu’s pink rubber boots and picked them up.
In the kitchen, Betsy hadn’t moved. She sat in the chair, looking mutinous, with her chin jutted out and her eyes narrowed.
“I’m not going in late. Everyone will stare at me,” she said.
“Who do you think you are, Madonna? A bad hair day doesn’t stop school. Get your backpack.”
“No.”
He looked at her. “Get your backpack and get ready, Betsy, or I’ll walk you in to first period, holding your hand.”
She opened her mouth in horror, then clamped it shut. “Whatever. I’m going.”
He looked through the kitchen to the family room, where Lulu lay curled on the couch, with her blanket and a stuffed orca, watching the video of Jolene reading her a story. “Lulu, come let me put your boots on you. Lulu. Come here.”
“She’s wearing the headband,” Betsy said primly.
Michael marched into the family room and picked Lulu up. At the movement, the headband slid off her head.
“I’m inbisible!” she screamed.
He carried her screaming and squealing out to the car and strapped her into her car seat. Betsy, silent and glowering, climbed in beside her.
Lulu burst into tears. “I want my mommy!”
“Yeah,” Michael said, starting the car. “Don’t we all?”
*
The first week without Jolene almost drove Michael into the ground. He’d had no idea how much there was to do around the house and with the kids. If his mother hadn’t had such boundless energy, he would have had to hire full-time help. She’d been a lifesaver, no doubt about it. Jolene had enrolled Lulu in after-preschool day care, which lasted until four o’clock. That meant his mother could work until almost four, and then pick Lulu up from day care, and get to Michael’s house in time to meet Betsy so that she never came home to an empty house—one of Jolene’s strictest rules. By the time Michael got home at six, his mom had usually started dinner and done some laundry. She was shouldering a big part of his burden.