Nothing to See Here (37)

“Seven?” Roland offered.

“No,” I said, and then quickly, “close, though.”

“I hate this,” Bessie said again.

“C’mon, Bessie. Four times three?”

“I have no idea,” she replied, her face red with embarrassment.

“Okay, it’s just four three times. So what’s four plus four plus four?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“It’s twelve,” I said. “Four plus four plus four is twelve. Four times three is twelve.”

“I know that,” Bessie said, her voice rising. “I know addition. I know.” I could see her getting angry now, not just embarrassed. I could see her body getting red. She took the pencil and started to write a giant 12 on the page, but the pencil lead snapped off before she could even complete the first number.

“Breathe,” I said, softly, calmly. “Okay, Bessie? Breathe deep.”

“We never do math,” Bessie said. “We don’t do math, so we don’t know math.”

“Don’t talk,” I said. “Just breathe.” I looked over at Roland. His mouth was wide open. He had drawn a frowny face on the worksheet. But he wasn’t red. He wasn’t angry.

“Roland,” I said, so quiet, so calm, like I was euthanizing a cat, “go get me a towel, okay? From the bathroom. Roland?” Roland just stood there, frozen with fear. “A towel? A towel? Roland? In the bathroom? A towel? Roland? Can you get that for me? In the bathroom? A towel?”

“Okay,” Roland finally said, and he ran off.

Bessie’s face was all scrunched up. “I knew that Mom wasn’t teaching us enough,” she said. “She says math doesn’t matter. But I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen, and everyone would think I was stupid. We tried to figure it out ourselves, but it didn’t make sense. I tried, okay?”

“I can teach you, Bessie,” I said, but she was really red now. I picked her up, felt how hot she was, and I set her on the floor. “Don’t talk, just breathe. Can you breathe?”

Bessie started breathing, deep breaths. “It’s not working!” she yelled.

Roland came back with a towel and I ran to the sink and soaked it, then wrung it out as much as I could. When I turned around, there were little flames starting to form on Bessie’s arms, at her ankles. I took the towel and rubbed it on her arms and legs, and each time, there would be this steam coming off her.

“Bessie, please. Just breathe, okay? See, the towel is helping.”

“Just throw me in the shower,” Bessie said.

“No,” I said. “We can do this.” I rubbed the towel over her, then wrapped it around her body like a cocoon. Roland ran off, but I was too focused on Bessie to do anything about it.

“I’m right here, okay?” I said to her, whispering in her ear. Her body was so fucking warm, like the worst fever. The towel was smoking. “Just breathe. And then it will go away. And then we won’t do the math worksheet. We’ll have ice cream. And in a few days, we’ll go to the mansion for our family dinner, and we’ll eat whatever you want. And pretty soon, we’ll go into town. We’ll buy some toys. We’ll get new books. We’ll buy clothes that you like. We’ll get a real sundae at a real ice cream shop.”

“With sprinkles and a cherry. And hot fudge,” she said. The towel was on fire, it was burning. I took it off Bessie and threw it on the floor, where it smoked. I stomped on it until the fire went out, which didn’t take long. And then, like magic, Bessie wasn’t on fire, like it had transferred from her to the towel.

“Okay,” she said, looking at me. “Okay, then.”

She sat on the floor, exhausted. I cradled her. “Where’s Roland?” she asked.

“Roland?” I shouted. A few seconds later, Roland, fully dressed and absolutely soaking wet, walked into the living room, water pooling around him. “I jumped in the shower,” he said.

“That’s fine,” I said.

“She’s not on fire,” Roland said, pointing at Bessie.

“Not right now,” I replied.

Roland came and sat down next to us.

“I’m going to take care of you guys,” I said.

“Are you a good person?” Bessie asked, which was such a strange question, the kind of question a kid asks because they haven’t lived long enough to know how easy that question is to answer.

I paused, giving it mock thought. “Not really,” I said. “I’m not a bad person, but I could be a lot better. Sorry. But here I am. And here you guys are.”

“You’ll leave, though,” Bessie said.

“Someday,” I said. “When you don’t need me.”

“I knew it,” Bessie said.

“Not for a long time,” I said. Was three months a long time to a kid? It was a long time to me.

Bessie and Roland looked at each other. They were doing that twin thing where they talked without talking.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to, okay?” I finally said. “I’ll stay.”

They didn’t seem to hear me. We just sat there, and I prayed that Carl would not come to the house right at this moment. How would I explain it? I’d have to knock him out with a lamp, drag him to his car, and make him think that he’d dreamed the whole thing.