Life and Other Inconveniences(17)

Miller got undressed and took a shower. Tess cried the entire time. When he buckled her in the sturdy high chair and attempted to give her breakfast, she smeared the honeyed pieces of waffle in her hair, then threw them at him. When he offered her milk in her blue cup, she said, “No blue!” so he got her the green cup, which she then threw. He turned on the TV, hoping Big Bird could work his magic, and packed her lunch, as well as a bag of Cheerios and a banana. Judith would hate that she hadn’t eaten, would hate that she had to supervise breakfast on top of all she already did.

He heard a noise and glanced over his shoulder. Tess was heaving herself in the high chair, scootching it to the counter. Before he could get to her, she grabbed his cell phone and threw it down.

“Tess, no throwing,” he said, dragging her chair back. He picked up his phone. The photo that served as the phone’s wallpaper was a picture of Ashley and him on their tenth anniversary, and now a jagged crack ran right through the middle of Ashley’s face.

I hate our daughter, he told his wife silently. I hate her. Your fault for dying.

Tess was digging her spork into the padding of her high chair. Good. Let her. She didn’t deserve a nice high chair. Let her have one that was stained and tattered and ripped. Like her father’s soul.

A hundred and thirteen minutes left.

He went into the dining room, where Tess couldn’t see him, and pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes until the impotent rage faded.

His daughter was only three. She hadn’t meant to kill her mother.

She was Ashley’s child, too, and some days that was the only thought that kept Miller from walking out forever.

He took her out of the high chair.

“Time to brush those pretty teeth,” he said.

Of course, Tess hated having her teeth brushed. She clamped down on the toothbrush, which was rough with bite marks.

“Your teeth will hurt if we don’t brush,” he said. “Come on. I’ll sing the ABCs and you brush, honey. Let go of the brush. Stop biting it, honey.”

He twisted it until he was afraid he’d break her tooth. Well. If her teeth were busy clenching that brush . . . he took his own toothbrush and managed a few swipes of her tiny little teeth before she caught on and screamed, which made it easier to get the molars.

“Shit!” he said as she bit him. “Okay, we’re done.”

Back in the car seat. More crying. When he and Ashley had bought this house, they’d had to gut it, and, being in construction, Miller had known that really good insulation was a must. Good thing, because otherwise the nice Oliveras family next door might move.

Once again, Miller wedged Tess’s seat in the linen closet and went to get Luigi, who was sticky and miserable.

“I’m so sorry, pal,” he said, filling up the sink with warm water.

Unlike Tess, Luigi didn’t mind baths. Miller lathered him with baby shampoo a few times, then combed out his fur. Tess was silent, having fallen asleep, so at least there was that.

He tried not to feel so guilty that he liked the cat so much better than his kid. Giving the cat a bath made him feel paternal and gentle.

God had a twisted sense of humor.

By the time Luigi was Desitin-free and purring, Tess was awake. “I hungry, Daddy!”

“Should’ve eaten your waffles, then,” he said. No way was he caving into her tyrannical demands.

“Shit. Shit! Shit!” she yelled.

He knew she learned the word from him, and felt guilty. She was hungry, so he couldn’t blame her. He made her another waffle. She took one bite, then winged it, Frisbee-like, into the living room, where, unerringly, it hit the TV screen and stuck there, then slid down, the honey leaving a sticky trail.

An eternity later, Miller grabbed the backpack of clothes and diapers, wrestled Tess back into the car seat and carried it out to the Jeep, getting his hair yanked in the process, and finally, finally headed over to his mother-in-law’s.

Tess was quiet as he drove. Miller glanced in the rearview mirror. She had what he thought of as her serial killer face on—oddly pleased and . . . well . . . plotting.

“Daddy loves you,” he said, thinking of his dead wife.

She ignored him.

When he lifted his daughter out of the car seat, she was stiff and resistant. At least she didn’t head-butt him, which she did often, and which hurt them both.

“Hey, Judith,” he said as his mother-in-law answered the door.

She sighed. “Hi, Tess.” He put his daughter down and she ran inside, yelling a greeting to her grandfather. Something crashed. His father-in-law’s sharp voice reproached her.

Ashley had been an only child. Judith was only sixty-two, but she looked fifteen years older these days. Miller had hoped, after Tess’s first few months, that his in-laws would beg him to let them raise Tess.

No such luck. She’d been colicky and fitful. After colic came teething. Now that she had her molars, it was something else. Growing pains. Inability to verbalize emotions. Demonic possession.

“Listen, Miller,” Judith said now. “I can’t do this much longer. I’m sorry. We’re exhausted. You need to put her in day care or get a nanny.”

Five day care centers had kicked Tess out. Three nannies had quit.

“I understand. Uh . . . I’ll look around.”

“We’ll give you a couple of weeks, but we’re just too tired.” Her eyes held all the accusations he felt himself . . . Why hadn’t he saved Ashley somehow? Why hadn’t he sensed something was wrong?—your fault, why didn’t you, you should have—and Miller felt his soul die a little more.