So Much More(64)

“It’s going to make your skin feel and look younger. You haven’t been good to your skin. It shows. You have to be friends with it if you want it to treat you well in the long run. Skin care is a marathon, not a sprint.” I’m not putting her down, I’m being honest. And I think she’s the type of person who can take it.

“Oh. It will make me pretty. When do we take it off?” See? She can take it.

“Twenty minutes,” I say as I slather a coat on my face.





I walk in on the most bizarre sight I think I’ve ever seen. Miranda and Hope are sitting at the kitchen table with green shit all over their faces, drinking orange juice, amongst a plethora of dirty baking utensils filling the sink and counter. Never mind that the entire apartment smells like heaven. When I reach for the oven handle, Miranda swats my hand away in a protective gesture that would put a riled up tomcat to shame. “It’s not done yet. Leave it alone.”

“What is it?” I ask.

No answer.

The kids all walk in behind me. “Hi, Hope,” Kira says.

“Hi, Kira,” Hope says.

“Hi, Hope,” Kai says.

“Hi, Kai,” Hope says.

The kids and Hope only met each other once and that was months ago, I’m surprised they remember each other’s names. It’s like a sitcom where everyone is oblivious to, or is choosing to ignore the weirdness.

Until Rory enters and keeps it real. “What smells so good? And why do you have that crap all over your faces? You look like freaks.”

I’m about to tone him down when Hope answers, “It’s a mask. It’s gonna make me look pretty. Me and my skin are gonna be friends.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “O-kay.” And he leaves.

Just then, the timer sounds on the oven and Miranda jumps out of her chair like she’s been stung on the ass and she shoos us away. “Everyone out.”

Ten minutes later Miranda and Hope enter the living room with clean faces and a plate piled with something sticky and doughy and sweet. Miranda is beaming. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile so wide. A toothy grin happens when joy can’t be contained.

And the monkey bread is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.





You used to be nice





present





You know those stories of demonic possession? The movies or books that depict a human taken over by an evil spirit?

Can they happen the other way around? An evil person gets possessed by a good spirit?

Because what’s happening with Miranda lately defies logic.

She gets up early and makes breakfast for the kids. She packs their lunches. She takes them to school. She cleans the apartment. She tries to cook dinner, which she usually fails at but I give her credit for trying. She’s friends with Hope and even gets her out of her apartment during the day. She talks to the kids and listens to their answers.

And even though I know I should just be thankful for the effort she’s making, it all makes me suspicious instead. I lived with my head in the sand for years overlooking. They say love is blind—it sure as hell is, either that or I had embarrassingly low expectations, because I loved her through the worst.

Being a good person is partially subjective, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. It’s whatever we deem acceptable, whatever we find ourselves worthy of. I always held myself to one set of criteria—being kind and supportive was the man I always wanted to be. Because my father wasn’t. He was in my life, in our home, but never present, and always, without fail, oppressive. His sentences, when he chose to speak to me, usually began with you can’t, you don’t, or you won’t. I know human beings are made up of cells, but I’m convinced my father was made up of negativity. It festered within him like a poison and made him incapable of love.

I vowed to never be like him. I married someone like him, instead. Granted, Miranda was more refined than my father. She played games with lies and manipulation, while he favored spewing blunt hatred. And the difference between the two is stark; I blindly loved one and with eyes open resented the other.

The root deep maliciousness is what keeps me from believing Miranda. It’s that little wounded voice in the back of my head warning me that people don’t change. Which is strange, because I’m a counselor, I’ve always had faith that people can change for the better. That sometimes all they need is someone who cares and some resources to aid them. I thought my father was the only person who would ever dodge that feeling of optimism in me. It seems Miranda is the second. My heart can only endure so much brutality before it shuts off and starts to hold a grudge. A lifelong grudge.

I think that’s why I’m so pissed. She’s stifled optimism in me. I have to work at it harder than ever.

Never was that more apparent than today when she walked into my office at lunch. She’s never, in all the years I’ve worked here, stepped foot inside this school. So, hearing the knock on my open office door accompanied by Miranda, momentarily puts me into self-preservation mode.

Instead of saying hello, I say, “What are you doing here?” God, I ask that question of her a lot lately.

My desk phone rings before she can answer. I lift the receiver, and Janet is whispering in my ear, “Seamus, your ex-wife is headed your way. Do I need to call someone to remove her from the premises?”