I just feel like they don’t really know. They can’t have any idea.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?” My fork goes careening across the plate of salad, making a horribly sharp noise.
I look at Shade, but I can see Feeney looking at me. She’s staring at me in the kind of way that would make anyone squirm because it’s very direct and knowing. Like she can see straight into my heart, mind, soul—all the places I’d like to keep locked up—my own secret vault.
I’m for sure adding that to the negative side of the list—her knowing look.
“Do flies really eat poop?”
Feeney snorts and covers her mouth. She doesn’t tell Shade we’re eating and to not talk about poop while we’re eating. She also doesn’t act like poop is the world’s worst dinner table topic. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all, which makes me like her more. I don’t have a block of ice in my heart, and I’m done with clichés. I most certainly have a heart, and it’s warm and gooey, just like everyone else’s. It’s alive, human, and filled to the brim with emotion. I’m not against liking her because liking her is a bonus. Liking her helps. It’s everything else that I can’t stand.
“Yes,” I stab a huge piece of tomato onto my fork. I don’t like them either, but these ones are surprisingly delicious. “They really do.”
CHAPTER 8
Feeney
I know it’s probably totally taboo, and I shouldn’t stick my nose in it, but I can’t help it. It’s eight days until Christmas, and the house is totally barren. Not a single decoration in sight. Not even a mention. Maybe Luke finds Christmas triggering. Maybe he doesn’t like it because it reminds him of loss. Maybe this, maybe that. He still has a four-year-old son that I know he would do anything for, so I decided to take a chance and ask Shade how he feels.
We’re eating breakfast—pancakes I managed not to burn, with the added bonus of a whole bunch of cut-up fruit on top—when I just go for it.
“Do you like Christmas, Shade?”
“Yup!” He nods with a mouthful of pancake. His cheeks are bulging like a hamster even though I cut the pancakes into small pieces. It’s not my fault that he shoves five pieces in at one time.
“Do you ever put up a tree or decorate the house?”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
“No. But we do go to grandpa’s, and he has a tree.”
“Your grandpa?” Right. Of course he has a grandpa.
“Yeah. And the other grandma and grandpa. They don’t like to have me over, though, because it makes them sad. I know they miss my mom, and they always say I look like her.”
“No! That’s not true. That’s not why they don’t like to have you over.”
“It is. Dad told me.”
“Jesus.”
“Dad says not to say that. Or god. It’s bad.”
“Sorry. I mean, pickles with dipping sauce. Is that better?”
“It’s funny.”
“Good.” I’m quiet for a while. I eat half of my pancake before I try again. “Are you…do you ever go over to their house? Are they mean to you?”
“They’re not mean. They’re just sad. That’s what Dad says. I mostly don’t remember my mom. I can remember a few things like her reading to me, giving me a bath, and taking me for a walk. I also remember her in the hospital before she went to heaven. She told me not to be sad and said I’d have a good life, and that one day, she’d see me again.”
Jesus for real. I have to set my fork down because there’s no way I can eat past the lump in my throat. “Do you remember her saying all of that?”
“Not really. Dad told me, though. He tells me that lots. That she’s in heaven.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Not really. I asked Dad where it is, and he says he doesn’t know. He says there are other levels of things you can’t see. It’s kind of like that. Like how you can’t see really, really far into space, but it’s out there.”
One day, when I have kids, I hope they’re this smart. Actually, no. No, I don’t. I don’t because it makes me scared and sad and surprised all at once. It makes my heart swell up with love and sorrow, and I barely even know this kid. He’s too smart to be four, but maybe he just has a really good memory, and he just recites back what he’s heard. I can’t say which one I actually hope is true. There are things no child should have to understand fully, and Shade’s already gone through that, and he’s not even five. It’s heartbreaking.
“That’s true. I don’t think anyone knows what happens after we die, but there are lots of people who try to explain it by using energy. How a person’s energy or soul or spirit goes somewhere else that we can’t see.”
“Does everything go somewhere else when it does?”
“I really don’t know, but if everything is energy, then I guess it does. Or become something else. I’m not a science expert, and I’m not religious either, so I really don’t know.”
“You said no one knows anyway.” Shade shrugs. “It sucks not having a mom. I can’t really remember what it was like, but I think she’d be more patient than some of the nannies I’ve had. She’d actually like me.”
“Some of those nannies were bad. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. You’re actually really amazing.” I reach over and ruffle his soft hair.
He looks up at me for a second, but that second is filled with emotion, then he starts eating his pancakes again.
“Would you like to put up a tree?”
“Yeah! I’d like that!”
“Do you guys have one?”
“I think so, but I can’t remember.”
“We could make some ornaments if we go out and buy crafting supplies. Have you ever made a paper chain?”
“No! What’s that?”
“Oh, just wait.”
Shade perks up. I can tell I have his interest now. He clearly likes crafts. I store that info at the back of my head because crafts can be endless. They’re a great way to kill time when there’s nothing else to do. I was always pretty artsy. I liked reading and writing, but I also loved making things. I can’t say I’m overly good at one thing, but I am alright at many different things.
“Can we? Can we go buy stuff to make things?”
“For sure. We’ll spend the afternoon doing some different crafts. When your dad gets home, I’ll ask him about the tree. He’ll know if there’s one. If there isn’t, then we’ll get one. I promise.”
“Yay! That’s awesome!”
Shade eats the rest of his pancakes, but then his face gets pensive again. I can’t imagine what’s going on in his head. I feel pretty sorry for him, but I don’t really know what to do or say. I don’t have a degree in child psychology or grief counseling. All I can do is be here, which is maybe just what he needs. Or maybe I’m messing him up more, though I freaking seriously hope not.
“I think we should make my grandpa a gift. Dad doesn’t like him even though he’s his own dad.”