“I don’t care what you do outside. But inside my house, around Mere, you need to follow these rules,” I reply in a hoarse voice before turning around toward the door. “Come on. I’ll bring one of your bags up.”
Back in the mud room, Clementine looks at her luggage in confusion.
“Just pick one which has things you need for tonight. The rest I’ll bring up tomorrow,” I tell her again.
God, why is she so confused?
She approaches the pink bag with black wheels, lays it flat on the ground with great difficulty and then looks at us hesitantly before opening the zipper. As soon as the bag opens, it stretches of its own accord and shoes haphazardly fall on the floor.
Jesus! There are more than thirty pairs. How did she even manage to pack them all in that small bag?
“Wow!” Mere squats down, her eyes glazing with amazement. “They are all so…nice.” She collects the fallen shoes, looking at them appreciatively before helping Clementine repack the colorful monstrosity.
“Can you move a little faster?” I’ve already wasted my afternoon on this girl. I’ve got more important things, like work, waiting for me.
“Yes, yes, sorry,” Clementine mutters, looking up at me from the floor in embarrassment.
With Mere’s help, she opens another suitcase, which again has nothing of use, but fucking lots of handbags.
This continues until she picks a small overnight bag and peeks inside. Releasing a deep sigh, she says, “I can manage this one.”
Then why the hell did you waste my time? I want to scream, but don’t say it out loud and leave the room.
It’s already seven. I need to fix some dinner before going back to my laptop for work. Standing by the kitchen, I glance at the calendar stuck on the fridge door that Mere prepared for this week’s dinner. From the drawer that holds our take-out menus, I grab the one from a Chinese restaurant.
“Mere, I’m ordering dinner. What do you want?” I holler from the kitchen and turn on the coffeepot.
The two girls walk into the living room and Mere asks Clementine, “What will you eat tonight?”
“My gram packed something for me, but now…” My new tenant looks sadly toward the garbage can at the corner of the kitchen, which is overflowing with her ruined cake bags.
I won’t be able to tolerate it if she cries again.
“We’re having Chinese,” my daughter chirps, pointing to the menu on the dining table. “Would you like to join us?”
I clear my throat. “I think Clementine would like to have some privacy, Mere. She needs to settle in.”
“She also needs to eat,” Mere retorts.
Why does it feel like my daughter has taken it upon herself to take care of Miss Hawthorne? She is not our guest, she’s a tenant for fuck’s sake.
“It’s her first day, Dad.” Mere takes a step closer to me and whispers, “She’s already missing her family. Shouldn’t we be nice?”
I look down at my daughter and realize she’s right. Clementine is my friend’s sister after all, and whether I like it or not, she is going to live in our home.
“Sorry,” I whisper only for my daughter’s ears before clearing my throat loudly. “Mere is right, you should join us for dinner tonight. You guys place the order and add number thirty-two for me. I have some work to catch up on. Call me when the food’s here.” I hand the menu back to Merida and leave them in the kitchen.
When I enter my bedroom, like every other time, my gaze lands on the giant picture of Melanie facing my bed and as always, I smile at her. But then Merida’s words come back to me.
Is this how she sees me? Chasing a ghost? Is this how everyone sees me?
I sit back at my worktable and glance at the multi-photo frame on the wall before me. Melanie and me holding hands on our first day of high school, giving a middle finger to the university building on our last day, me in my army uniform with Melanie in my arms pointing at the name tag, me proposing to her on a broken, deserted yacht, trying to cheaply replicate her dream of a Venice proposal, her wedding dress clutched in her hands with her sneakers on display, us in front of the old shabby house we’d renovated for two years to make it our own, her holding the first sonogram of Mere, and us bringing Mere home for the first time.
“Dad!” Mere knocks and I wait for her to open the door.
After Melanie’s passing, we used to spend all our time in this room. I got the big portrait of my wife so that when Mere talked to her, she would feel more connected. I’d tell her stories of her mother, until she eventually stopped asking about Mel and coming to my room.
“Food’s here,” she hollers, and I hear her retreating steps. She didn’t come in today either.