He carried Emmie all over the house,
talking non-stop, and dragged her Pack 'n Play into his room so he
could watch over her while she slept.
Even now, Emmie’s toddler bed sits in the
corner of Danny’s room, her dolls, baby blocks, and pink toy
kitchen a stark contrast to the skateboard posters and skeleton
stickers decorating the other side of the room. It’s Danny who
Emmie crawls in bed with when she has a bad dream, and Danny who
finally got her mostly potty-trained a few weeks back,
saving me some much needed money on pull-ups.
The chances that Danny and Emmie will end up
in the same foster home are slim to none. And even if they do, I
can’t imagine a foster family agreeing to a twelve-year-old boy and
a two-year-old girl sharing a room. There are probably rules
against that kind of thing, rules that have to be followed no
matter how much it’s going to devastate two kids who love each
other.
My stomach gurgles and acid burns the back
of my throat.
“You’re going to figure it out,” I mutter to
myself, crossing to grab an antacid.
I’m on top of the kitchen counter on my
knees, reaching up to the top shelf where I’ve kept the medicine
since Ray ate a bar of chocolate laxatives when he was seven, when
the front door opens and the smell of garlic and melted cheese
wafts through the living room into the kitchen.
Immediately, my breath comes easier and my
stomach gurgles—with hunger this time—reminding me I haven’t eaten
anything since ten o’clock this morning.
“Pizza!” Isaac booms in his relentlessly
upbeat voice as the door slams shut behind him. “Come and get it,
Cooneys!”
“You’re an angel!” I call out, grinning as I
hop down from the counter, antacid forgotten as I make a beeline
around the island into the living room.
Footsteps thunder down the stairs, and
moments later Isaac is surrounded by jumping kids, and four pairs
of grabbing hands.
“Hold on,” he says, holding the pizza out of
Danny’s reach, brown eyes crinkling at the edges when he laughs.
“Wash your hands first. It’s too hot to eat yet, anyway.”
“Wash ‘em good,” I call out as Danny,
Ray—who has apparently decided to emerge from bath time seclusion
in the name of supper—and Sean race each other toward the
downstairs bathroom.
I scoop Emmie up before she can get trampled
and lean in to give Isaac a hug.
“Hey there.” He squishes Emmie and me
against a soft brown tee shirt that smells pleasantly of wood-fired
pizza oven, pine-scented air freshener, and best friend. “How you
holding up?”
“Pretty good,” I say, melting into the
hug.
Isaac’s always been a big guy—he played
football when we were in high school and at Limestone College until
he quit to run the family pizza joint after his dad’s stroke—but
since he started working at Frank’s Pies , he’s acquired a
tummy to go with the muscles. His girlfriend, Heather, teases him
about it, but I kind of like the pudge. There’s something
comforting about hugging a guy who feels like a giant, cuddly bear,
but is also capable of ripping a bad guy’s head off with his bare
hands.
“Pretty good, you think you’ve got the
problem licked?” Isaac asks as he pulls away to set the pizza boxes
balanced in his free hand on the crumb-covered table. “Or pretty
good, you’ve only had seven antacids today instead of twelve?”
I wrinkle my nose, but am spared from
answering when Danny skids to a stop beside me and dives for the
pizza.
“Hold on a second! Let me get plates and
napkins.” I hurry into the kitchen, grabbing plates and the roll of
paper towels and sliding them across the island to Isaac, who deals
out place settings like a round of cards.
Emmie, still balanced on my hip, starts to
squirm—obviously ready to join the big boys at the table—so I hurry
over to the sink.
“Let’s get your hands clean, doodle.” I
shift her around, balancing her between my body and the sink so our
hands can tangle together beneath
talking non-stop, and dragged her Pack 'n Play into his room so he
could watch over her while she slept.
Even now, Emmie’s toddler bed sits in the
corner of Danny’s room, her dolls, baby blocks, and pink toy
kitchen a stark contrast to the skateboard posters and skeleton
stickers decorating the other side of the room. It’s Danny who
Emmie crawls in bed with when she has a bad dream, and Danny who
finally got her mostly potty-trained a few weeks back,
saving me some much needed money on pull-ups.
The chances that Danny and Emmie will end up
in the same foster home are slim to none. And even if they do, I
can’t imagine a foster family agreeing to a twelve-year-old boy and
a two-year-old girl sharing a room. There are probably rules
against that kind of thing, rules that have to be followed no
matter how much it’s going to devastate two kids who love each
other.
My stomach gurgles and acid burns the back
of my throat.
“You’re going to figure it out,” I mutter to
myself, crossing to grab an antacid.
I’m on top of the kitchen counter on my
knees, reaching up to the top shelf where I’ve kept the medicine
since Ray ate a bar of chocolate laxatives when he was seven, when
the front door opens and the smell of garlic and melted cheese
wafts through the living room into the kitchen.
Immediately, my breath comes easier and my
stomach gurgles—with hunger this time—reminding me I haven’t eaten
anything since ten o’clock this morning.
“Pizza!” Isaac booms in his relentlessly
upbeat voice as the door slams shut behind him. “Come and get it,
Cooneys!”
“You’re an angel!” I call out, grinning as I
hop down from the counter, antacid forgotten as I make a beeline
around the island into the living room.
Footsteps thunder down the stairs, and
moments later Isaac is surrounded by jumping kids, and four pairs
of grabbing hands.
“Hold on,” he says, holding the pizza out of
Danny’s reach, brown eyes crinkling at the edges when he laughs.
“Wash your hands first. It’s too hot to eat yet, anyway.”
“Wash ‘em good,” I call out as Danny,
Ray—who has apparently decided to emerge from bath time seclusion
in the name of supper—and Sean race each other toward the
downstairs bathroom.
I scoop Emmie up before she can get trampled
and lean in to give Isaac a hug.
“Hey there.” He squishes Emmie and me
against a soft brown tee shirt that smells pleasantly of wood-fired
pizza oven, pine-scented air freshener, and best friend. “How you
holding up?”
“Pretty good,” I say, melting into the
hug.
Isaac’s always been a big guy—he played
football when we were in high school and at Limestone College until
he quit to run the family pizza joint after his dad’s stroke—but
since he started working at Frank’s Pies , he’s acquired a
tummy to go with the muscles. His girlfriend, Heather, teases him
about it, but I kind of like the pudge. There’s something
comforting about hugging a guy who feels like a giant, cuddly bear,
but is also capable of ripping a bad guy’s head off with his bare
hands.
“Pretty good, you think you’ve got the
problem licked?” Isaac asks as he pulls away to set the pizza boxes
balanced in his free hand on the crumb-covered table. “Or pretty
good, you’ve only had seven antacids today instead of twelve?”
I wrinkle my nose, but am spared from
answering when Danny skids to a stop beside me and dives for the
pizza.
“Hold on a second! Let me get plates and
napkins.” I hurry into the kitchen, grabbing plates and the roll of
paper towels and sliding them across the island to Isaac, who deals
out place settings like a round of cards.
Emmie, still balanced on my hip, starts to
squirm—obviously ready to join the big boys at the table—so I hurry
over to the sink.
“Let’s get your hands clean, doodle.” I
shift her around, balancing her between my body and the sink so our
hands can tangle together beneath
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