By then, she was already on her way to see London.
While they were in the family room, I made a quick dinner; chicken, rice, glazed carrots, and a salad. When it was ready, they came to the table. Vivian was still distracted and tense. London, meanwhile, kept up a steady stream of chatter – how she and Bodhi played hopscotch at recess, that Bodhi was a really good jumper, and countless other details of her exciting day at school.
After dinner, I cleaned the kitchen while Vivian went upstairs with London. Despite the late hour, I called Taglieri to speak to him about the rehearsal tomorrow and make sure he’d reviewed the script. The one thing I’d learned from clients is that the more familiar they were with the script, the more successful they were at integrating other directions.
By the time I got off the phone, I could hear the sound of shouting upstairs. I hurried up the steps, stopping in the doorway of London’s bedroom. Vivian was holding a damp towel; London, in her pajamas, had wet hair and her cheeks were streaked with tears.
“How many times have I told you not to put the wet towels into the hamper?” Vivian demanded. “And this dress shouldn’t have gone in the hamper in the first place!”
“I said I’m sorry!” London shouted back. “I didn’t mean it!”
“Now everything is going to smell mildewed and some of the stains have probably set.”
“I’m sorry!”
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
Vivian turned toward me, her expression livid. “What’s going on is that your daughter’s new dress is probably ruined. The one she wore on Sunday.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” London said, her face crumpling. Vivian held up her hand, her lips a grim line.
“I know you didn’t. That’s not the point. The point is, you put a dirty dress into the hamper with your new dress, and then you put wet towels on top of them. How many times have I told you to let the towels dry over the side of the tub before you put them in the hamper?”
“I forgot!” London cried. “I’m sorry!”
“It was my fault,” I interjected, the wet-towel rule clearly new to me. I’d never seen Vivian and London yell at each other like this before. The sight brought back memories of the night London and I had argued. “I just tell her to put anything dirty in the hamper.”
“The truth is that she knows what to do!” Vivian snapped before directing her attention to London. “Right?”
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she said.
“I’ll bring them to the dry cleaner tomorrow,” I volunteered. “I’m sure we’ll be able to get the stains out.”
“That’s not the point, Russ! She doesn’t have any respect for the things I’ve bought her, no matter how many times I tell her!”
“I said I’m SORRY!” London screamed.
One thing I knew for sure: Vivian was way too angry and London way too tired for something like this to continue.
“How about I finish up here?” I offered. “I can get her in bed.”
“Why? So you can tell her that I’m overreacting?”
“No, of course not —”
“Oh, please. You’ve been undermining me ever since I went back to work,” she said, “but okay, fine. I’ll leave the two of you alone.” She started for our bedroom before facing London again. “I’m very disappointed that you don’t care enough about me to listen,” she said.
I saw the angst on London’s face as soon as Vivian left and my first thought was to try to make sense of how cruel Vivian had sounded. I should have responded but Vivian was already down the steps and London was crying so I stepped farther into the room and took a seat on the bed. I opened my arms. “Come here, baby girl,” I whispered and London came toward me. I put my arms around her and pulled her close, feeling her body continue to shake.
“I didn’t mean to ruin my dress,” she whimpered.
“I know you didn’t. Let’s not worry about that right now.”
“But Mommy’s mad at me.”
“She’ll be okay in a little while. She had a rough day at work and I know she’s really proud that you did so well in school today.”
Her cries gradually began to subside, diminishing to sniffles. I wiped her tears away with my finger.
“I’m proud of you, too, Pumpkin.”
“Papa calls me that, not you.”
“Maybe I can call you that, too.”
“No,” she said.
Despite her sadness, I smiled. “Okay. Maybe I’ll call you… Donkey.”
“No.”
“Butterbun?”
“No,” she said. “Call me London.”
“Not even baby girl? Or sweetie?”
“Okay,” she nodded, her head shifting against my chest. “Mommy doesn’t love me anymore.”
“Of course she does. She’ll always love you.”
“Then why is she moving away?”
“She’s not moving away,” I said. “She just has to work in Atlanta sometimes. I know you’ll miss her.” As I held my daughter, I ached for the little girl who was no doubt as confused as I was by what was happening to our family.
It took more than the usual number of stories before London was able to finally settle down enough to go to sleep. After kissing her on the cheek, I went downstairs and found Vivian pulling items from the closet.
“She’s ready for a kiss if you want to head up.”