Page 2 of The Night
“Maybe.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “Mrs. Boudreaux only lets us watch kid shows at her house.”
Mrs. Boudreaux, our seventy-year-old neighbor, was the epitome of a kindly grandmother—short and stout, with curly white hair and reading glasses she could never seem to find, though she wore them on a beaded string around her neck. She definitely erred on the side of caution when it came toanythingon television—a fact I appreciated, and Hazel did not.
“Mrs. Boudreaux is a very kind and responsible person, which is why I trust her to take care of you when I have meetings or need to work late,” I informed her. “You can wait to watchWild Natureand your Michio Kaku documentaries when I’m home.”
“But nature isfascinating.”
“I know.”
“And learning about black holes is educational.”
“Uh huh.”
She was quiet for a second, then said, “I just really hate it when you work late. I mightpossiblygetslightlyscared when you’re gone. And everything’s better when you’re there.”
My stomach clenched with the guilt and worry that had basically been my constant companions since Hazel was a toddler.Was I gone too much? Was I taking care of her appropriately? Was I raising her the way Nora would want? Was I enough?
“I hate it too, sweets.” Then, because you were supposed to be honest with your kids or something, I clarified, “I mean, I like photography, but I miss you a lot.”
“You could just take pictures during the day. Mrs. Boudreaux says nothing good happens after dark anyway.”
I gritted my teeth and slightly revised my opinion of Mrs. Boudreaux. “That’s one way of looking at things,” I said, hopefully diplomatically. “But I don’t only take pictures of daytime stuff. When my boss wants pictures of a specific event that’s at night, I have to go.”
Hazel nodded, pondered this silently for a minute, then grinned. “It’ll be fine, Daddy. I’m gonna ask Santa to fix it for Christmas. I’m asking for a cat, a big house, a baby sister or brother, a real Christmas tree, and to become a princess.”
“Are you?” Figured it wouldn’t be anything, you know,attainable. I pressed my lips together again, this time for a different reason. “Hazel…” I began, then faltered.
Dear Gossip Girl: How old was too old for your daughter to believe in Santa Claus? At what age did the letters written in tipsy capitals and the ceremonial walk to drop the envelope in the mailbox becomelying? At what age did you have to kill her innocence if you ever wanted your daughter to trust you as an adult?
These were some of the many, many parenting questions I had, and it was times like this when I wished I had a partner, or a local parent group, or hell, parents in this time zone to consult. Turned out, when you suddenly inherited your best friend’s toddler kidlet, she didn’t come with an instruction manual. See also: no safety net. For either of us. I was learning shit as I went along, in real time, and sometimes I was absolutely certain I was fucking it all up.
Laughing brown eyes—eyesso exactlylike Nora’s that I sometimes did a double-take—watched me in the mirror, and Hazel’s dark curls bounced against her red jacket as she shook her head. “You’re wondering when to tell me Santa’s fake, aren’t you?”
I don’t know why the things that came out of her mouth still surprised me sometimes. Hazel was seven going on thirty-five, which made her just slightly older than me, and she called me on my shit—another trait she shared with her mother—with remarkable frequency. Sometimes, looking at Hazel, I missed Nora so badly I could cry, even five years after the car accident that had left Hazel an orphan.
It was a little bit of a reprieve when the GPS interrupted to inform us it was time to turn off the twisty road and onto a residential street with a hopeful little sign that read “Welcome to O’Leary, Population: 1074.”
“See, the thing is, Bug…” I cleared my throat, opened my mouth to say… I didn’t even know what… when Hazel interrupted.
“It’s cool, Daddy. Don’t stress. I already decided Santa’s real.”
I shut my mouth with a clack. “You decided it.”
“Sure,” said my pint-sized philosopher with another of her shrugs. “He’s real because I believe he’s real.”
And…damn. That was some next-level ish right there. The kind of shit that made you wonder if maybe you were born knowing things that life made you forget.
“Well.” I cleared my throat again. “Just in case, I think I won’t quit my day job yet. But hopefully things will change in the future. Maybe…” I hesitated. “Maybe you won’t have to stay with Mrs. Boudreaux when I’m gone for much longer.”
I’d been savingfanaticallyto fund a sabbatical from my usual contract jobs and work on my photography book full time. It was a crazy dream, and I knew it. Everyone I’d confided in about it said so. And I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to make it happenimmediately.But someday, maybe I’d be able to work fewer hours and spend more time with Hazel. Maybe I’d be able to do work I actually enjoyed and found fulfilling again. Maybe I’d be able to resuscitate my practically non-existent love life too.
Just as soon as I took care of one teeny, tiny little piece of unfinished business in O’Leary, I thought, with another glance at the bag on the passenger’s seat.
“This isn’t about Scott, is it?” Hazel asked, suspicious as a cat.
“What? No.” My smile faded. “But what’s wrong with Scott? He’s a friend of mine. And he likes you very much.”
She shook her head sadly at my naïveté. “He likesyouvery much.”