The chiropractor’s office was a rinky-dink storefront in a run-down industrial area, not the kind of place anyone might feel comfortable seeing a health practitioner. A single once-over revealed that my potential client was in desperate need of my services.
Unfortunately, the client felt otherwise. He was interested in neither the PowerPoint presentation I’d prepared nor anything I had to say, especially when compared to the interest he showed in the sandwich he was eating. He was irked that it didn’t have any mustard. I know this because he told me three times, and when I asked if he had any questions at the end of my presentation, he asked me if I had any packets of mustard in my car that I could spare.
I wasn’t in the best of moods when I picked up London from my mom’s, and after swinging by the pet store, we headed home. I hopped back onto the computer and worked until it was time for dance, but finding London’s outfits took some time since neither of us had any idea where Vivian put them. We were a few minutes late leaving the house and London grew fretful as the clock continued to tick.
“Ms. Hamshaw gets really, really mad if you break her rules.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll just tell her it’s my fault.”
“It won’t matter.”
It turns out London was right. Just inside the entrance was a seating area occupied by five unspeaking women; directly ahead was the dance floor, the two areas separated by a low wall with a swinging door. To the right were cases filled with trophies; the walls were decorated with banners proclaiming various students and teams as winners of national competitions.
“Go on in,” I urged.
“I can’t walk onto the floor until I’m told I can proceed.”
“What does that mean?”
“Stop talking, Daddy. Parents are supposed to be quiet when Ms. Hamshaw is talking. I’ll get in even more trouble.”
Ms. Hamshaw – a stern woman with iron-colored hair pulled into a tight bun – barked directions at a class comprised of five- and six-years-olds. In time, she strode toward us.
“I’m sorry about being late,” I began. “London’s mom started work today and I couldn’t find her dance outfit.”
“I see,” Hamshaw interrupted, staring up at me. She said nothing else, simply telegraphed her disapproval before finally putting a hand on London’s back. “You may proceed onto the floor.”
London shuffled through the door and into the studio, her eyes downcast.
Hamshaw watched her proceed before turning her attention on me again. “Please don’t let it happen again. Late arrivals disrupt the class, and it’s already hard enough to keep my students focused.”
Stepping outside, I called my receptionist only to learn there were no messages, then spent the rest of the hour watching London and the other girls as they did their best to please Ms. Hamshaw, who seemed pretty much unpleasable. More than once, I saw London gnawing on her fingernails.
When class was over, London trailed a few steps behind as we made our way to the car, her shoulders curled inward. She said nothing at all until we pulled out of the parking lot.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Can I have Lucky Charms when we get home?”
“That’s not dinner. That’s breakfast. And you know your mom doesn’t like you having sugary cereals.”
“Bodhi’s mom lets him have Lucky Charms as a snack sometimes. And I’m hungry. Please, Daddy?”
Please, Daddy spoken in that most plaintive of voices. As a father, how could I say no?
I hit the grocery store and grabbed the box of cereal, arriving home three minutes later than I otherwise would have.
I poured her a bowl, shot Vivian a text asking when she’d be home, and squeezed in some more work, feeling as though I’d been whipsawed since the moment I crawled out of bed. I must have lost track of time; when Vivian finally pulled in the drive, I noticed it was coming up on eight o’clock.
Eight?
London beat me to the door and I watched as Vivian scooped her up and kissed her before putting her back down.
“Sorry I’m late. There was an emergency at work.”
“I thought you were doing orientation.”
“I did. Pretty much all day. And then at four o’clock, we found out that a journalist from the Raleigh News & Observer is planning an alleged ‘exposé’ of one of Walter’s developments. All at once, we were in crisis mode. Including me.”
“Why you? It’s your first day?”
“That’s why they hired me,” she said. “And I have a lot of experience in crisis management. My boss in New York was always in trouble with the press. So anyway, we had to meet and come up with a plan and I had to touch base with Spannerman’s outside publicists. It was one thing after another. I hope you saved me some dinner. I’m starved. I don’t care what you made.”
Oops.
She must have seen the expression on my face because her shoulders dropped slightly. “You didn’t make dinner?”
“No. I got caught up with my work…”
“So London hasn’t eaten?”
“Dad let me have Lucky Charms,” my daughter volunteered with a smile.
“Lucky Charms?”
“It was just a snack,” I said, hearing the defensiveness in my tone.
But by then, Vivian was barely listening. “How about we see what we can scrounge up for dinner, okay? Something healthy.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
“How did dance class go?”
“We were late,” London answered, “and the teacher was really, really mad at Daddy.” Vivian’s face was tight, her displeasure as evident as Hamshaw’s had been.