Whisper Me This(51)

“And while you’re at your job, who is going to stay with Grandpa? See? It’s perfect. I do homeschool and take care of him. You go to work. It’s not like you have to teach me things—there’s online school.”

“Your father will never go for that.”

“We could ask him.”

This is not a new discussion, and both of us automatically assume our battle stations, shields up, weapons ready.

Elle has both hands flat on the table, palms down. Every line of her body is alive with focused energy. Her eyes are target-locked on mine. I counter with my relaxed, confident Mom stance, the one that is meant to indicate there is not even an issue to address.

Nothing to see here; move along folks.

Not that this ever works, but I try.

“What about your friends?”

She shrugs, the one-shoulder version that says she’s hiding emotions.

It strikes me that it’s been weeks since anybody has been over or since she’s asked to hang out somewhere.

“Elle?”

She sighs. “Erica’s moving to California. And Jaimie hasn’t talked about anything but boys for a year.”

“You have other friends.”

“Well, here I’ve got Mia.”

“I mean kids your own age.”

“Why? I like Mia. She actually talks about things besides boys and TV. Besides, it’s not like Kansas City has an exclusive on kids.”

And with that, all my resistance crumbles. It’s an epic collapse and feels just like one of those videos where a large building is blown up with a demolition charge. I remember well enough feeling like I didn’t fit in at her age, how hard it was to navigate the relationships with the other girls.

Besides, selfish or not, I need Elle to be with me.

“Okay,” I tell her.

Her mouth flops open and she gasps like a stranded fish. “Wait, what?”

Suddenly giddy, I grin at her. “Great idea. Solves all kinds of problems. Add researching online homeschool to that list. And homeschool support groups in Colville. Oh, and Washington State homeschool regulations. Anything we need to present a case to your father.”

Elle’s mouth closes, her eyes well up, and she melts down in her chair. Her arms go on the table, her face buried in them, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

I freeze, an electric Taser jolt going straight to my heart. Paragraphs of intact text from the parenting books I’ve read laser through my brain. Kids need stability. Structure. Boundaries. They don’t really want change. They push against the boundaries, but they don’t really want them to give way. Elle needed me to hold the line, and instead I’ve restructured our whole world order.

“Elle, honey. We don’t have to. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

She launches like a rocket up out of her chair, sending it skittering backward across the tile. “Of course it’s what I want.” She flings herself into my lap with enough force that my chair nearly goes over backward. Both of her arms wrap around my neck so tightly I can hardly breathe. “Thank you. You don’t know.” Her voice breaks off into sobbing.

I pull her into my lap even though she’s nearly as tall as I am, rocking her like I used to when she was a little girl.

“Honey, don’t get your heart too set on this. We’ve got to get through your father first.”

She sniffles and scrubs her wet face on my shoulder. “You’re the custodial parent.”

“And he’s an attorney. We don’t want to push him too far.”

She sits back then and looks at me, her expressive face transitioning rapidly between joy, tears, fear, and consternation.

“He wouldn’t go all legal on you. Would he?”

“He never has, but I wouldn’t want to push him. He might win, Elle. If it came down to a custody battle.”

“So you’re just going to cave? You’re not even going to try? Homeschooling is the dream of my heart, and you’re going to snatch it away before it has a chance.”

These lines are delivered in true drama queen fashion with one hand over her heart, a performance worthy of an old-time silent movie heroine being tied to the railway tracks. Warring parts of me want to smile, weep, and smack her.

“No, we’re going to create and present an airtight case. That’s your assignment.”

“Got it.” She flings her arms around my neck and hugs me again. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby girl. Now, are you going to keep writing things down? Because we are not done with Maslow yet.”

She rubs her face on my shirt, leaving wet splotches behind, and then grins at me, impish and irrepressible. “Yes, but make it quick. I have a legal brief to write.”

“God have mercy,” I mutter. “Okay. So we’ll live here and let Grandpa pay for our room and board. Our apartment lease is up next month, so we’ll let that go. But I’m still going to need a job.”

Dutifully she writes, Find Mom a job.

My prospects of finding a job in a small town are a little dismal, but if we live here with Dad, our overhead will be minimal. Greg pays healthy child support for Elle, enough to cover anything she needs. But my mother will roll over in her not-yet-grave if I take a job at McDonald’s or some other fast-food establishment.

“You can do better, Maisey.” This has been her response to any job I’ve ever held. She’s right, of course. A gig taking Santa photos at the mall during the holiday season isn’t exactly a resume builder. It was fun, though. I loved every minute. Every job I’ve ever embarked upon was a learning experience or an adventure or just plain fun. Even the newspaper reporter job that took me to Kansas City in the first place was fun, until my editor retired and was replaced by a soul-sucking asshat who wanted to leap the corporate ladder in a single bound.