No compliments. No pride that she looked like a million bucks, dressed like Meghan Markle, was driving a Lexus SUV. No questions about what she did, where she lived, where she was taking their only grandchild. “Where’s Harminee?” she asked.
“She’s up in your old room, what did you expect?”
Up the stairs Melissa went. The house still smelled like tuna fish and beer. Lovely.
Her niece seemed much older than seven. She wore a dirty T-shirt with a pony on it and had snarled blond curls that looked as if they hadn’t seen a comb since God was a baby.
“Hi, there. I’m your aunt,” she said, saying it the way Dennis did—ahnt instead of ant. “My name’s Melissa.” No response. “I send you presents on your birthday?”
The girl gave her a wary look. She wasn’t unpretty . . . the blond hair could be combed, and she could use an hour-long shower, probably. Harminee had blue eyes, a straight nose and resting bitch face.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” Melissa asked.
No answer. Well, boarding school was just a few years away.
“I’m going to take care of you until your mom gets better,” Melissa said. Like that would ever happen. Kaitlyn had graduated from meth to heroin, she’d told Melissa. Not easy to kick.
“She’s a addict,” the kid said. Oof. That accent.
“Yes. Well. It’s a disease, and we hope she can be cured.” Melissa had read two articles on the plane about talking to kids about addiction. “I live in Manhattan,” she said.
“Where’s that at?”
For heaven’s sake. Melissa forced a smile. “I think you’ll like it, Harminee. It’s a big, beautiful, shiny city with so many fun things to do.” She paused. “How’d you like a new name?”
“What?”
“We can change your name. A new name for a new place.”
“Really?” Finally, something that interested the child. “That’d be all right, I guess. How about . . . I dunno. Star? Or Dallas! How ’bout Dallas?”
Like mother, like daughter with the stripper names. “Oh, what about Ophelia?” Melissa suggested, as if she’d just thought of it. She’d been on Nameberry for days, looking for a name that wouldn’t identify Harminee as white trash. “That’s a gorgeous name. Very cool and mysterious. We can keep Harminee as your middle name.” And change the spelling to Harmony and add Spencer, and then Finch. Ophelia Harmony Spencer Finch. Yes. That would fit right in with the New York elite.
Harminee had already said goodbye to her other grandparents （who might actually miss her, though Melissa wasn’t getting any information from the kid）。 Kaitlyn was already serving her sentence for dealing heroin and cocaine.
If only Katie had followed her lead, Melissa thought. They could’ve escaped together.
After a few days of filling out the legal paperwork that made Melissa her niece’s guardian and arranging for a social worker to oversee her transition in the city, they flew back to New York. Ophelia was unable to suppress her excitement at being on an airplane, then a car with a driver, then an elevator. Dennis welcomed her with a huge pile of gifts. It was love at first sight between the two of them.
Over the next few weeks, Melissa took Ophelia shopping for new clothes. Decorated her room with pastel polka-dot wallpaper （the child had wanted unicorns, poor thing . . . Melissa would teach her about style）。 An antique French double bed with a white duvet underneath a cascade of pink tulle, making the bed look like the most charming fort. A fluffy white rug, pink chandelier and carefully chosen throw pillows （not that Ophelia made the bed . . . not yet, anyway）。 Melissa bought her the prettiest dolls and stuffed animals, little trays and vases, a mobile. It was a dream room, the kind Missy-Jo Cumbo would not have been able to imagine. The girl had her own bathroom, with towels from Anthropologie and shampoo, shower gel and soap from Gilchrist & Soames.
Ophelia remained unimpressed and morose. It was clear she didn’t much like Melissa. This was irritating, since Melissa was doing all the work of looking up schools and tutors and violin lessons and such. The child didn’t want any of the meals Melissa cooked, just asked for macaroni and cheese from a box.
But when Dennis was around, life was like a Hallmark card. The child loved him, and he her. He told Ophelia gruesome stories from the OR, and Ophelia ate them up. “How much blood was there? Seriously? The bone was pokin’ through the skin? Holy shit, Dennis!”
It was a little . . . annoying, the fact that the two had immediately bonded. Melissa had wanted a little mini-me who’d love shopping and manicures, or at least someone who was grateful. And Dennis! He’d never been that interesting, and now all he wanted to talk about was Ophelia. Heck, he’d even brought up fostering another kid! No, thank you!